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ARTHUR'S 


LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZmE: 


EDITED  B7 

T.    S.    ARTHUR 

AND 

MISS    VIKGINIA    P.    TOWNSBND. 


VOL.  XXXVII. 


f  MttEV(  t0  f  nne* 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T.   S.   ARTHUR   &   SONS. 
1871. 

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INDEX    TO    ARTHUR'S    HOME    MAGAZINE. 

VOLUME  XXXVIL— JANUARY  TO  JUNE,  1871. 


PAOK 

A    Cliaptar   from  Experience.    By  a  Toung 

Hoasekeeper. 309 

A  Dollar  a  Day.    By  Virginia  F.  Townsend..    37 
103,  160,  224,  273,  316 

A  Hawk  Fighting  with  Crows 222 

A  Momiog  Song.    By  Flora  L.  Best 229 

Annie's  Angela.    By  Rosella  Bioe 85 

Anecdote  of  Lather.  By  Mrs.  M.  0.  Johnson..  109 

Artie.     By  S.  Jennie  Jones 159 

A  Star  in  my  Crown.    By  Sarah  I.  C.  Whir- 

Ueeey 43 

A  Thought  for  Mothers.  By  Mrs.  M.  0.  John- 
eon 264 

A  True  Story 280 

A  Voice.     By  A.  P.  C 96 

Bwmtiful  in  Old  Ago 159 

Boethoven  as  a  Boy 25 

Bora'  AKD  GiRLa'  Treasury  : 

Gretchen's  Trouble.    By  Hester  A.  Benedict  232 

Brother  Tom's  Wife 34 

"Bury  the  Hatchet" 33 

Child-Loye 89 

ChriBtmas-Tide.    By  Rev.  H.  Hastings  Weld.  109 
"Cousin    Hannah's    Shopping    Expedition." 

By  Gerald 340 

Cradle  Song.    By  M.  £.  Rockwell 264 

Doing  LitUe  Things 153 

Duet  in  the  Eye 2/9 

EniTOB's  Dkpartxent  : 

The  New  Yeai^Onr  Illustrations— The 
Wreath  of  Immortelles — "A  Dollar  a 
Day" — French  Influence  on  American 
Social  Life — Our  Premium  List  for  1871—* 
The  Craig  Microscope — Our  Sewing  Ma- 
chine Premium — The  Skein-Winders — 
Take  Notice — Lost  Literary  Property — 
Our  Premium  Engrayings — The  Working- 
man— The   Children's  Hour— The  Pick- 

wick  Ladles — Clubhing 66 

The  Galaxy— Every  Saturday— What  the 
Ijadies  think  of  our  Magazine — Miss  Gar- 
rett, M.  D.— Vick's  Illustrated  Catalogue 
and  Floral  Guide— "The  Wreath  of  Im- 
naortelles" — Women  and  Wine — Crust  or 
Crumb — Children  Among  the  Ancient 
Bomans — Home  Mirth — Colored  Fashion 
Plates — The  Workingman — Our  Premium 
fingravings — ^Washing  Days — Early  Mar- 
riages   123 

aail  Hamilton's  Talk  About  Women— The 
Woman's  Journal — Gov.  Claflin,  of  Mass., 
and  the  Woman  Question — "  The  Return 
of  the  Runaway" — Albert  Barnes  and 
Temperance  —  Indiana  Divorces  —  Our 
Fashions — Our  Literary  Magazines — So- 
cial  Influence— Dyspepsia — A  Record  of 
Woman's  Work — Our  Masioal  Exchanges 

— Our  Premium  Engravings 182 

Work  for  Women — Death  of  Alice  Cary — 

Qnr  Illustrations 244 

Temperance    in    Ohio— Extravagance     tw. 

Matrimony-j-Goods  for  Spring  Wear 298 

Philadelphia  House  of  Refuge— The  Hawk 
and  the  Dove — Simplicity  and  Elegance 
— Miss  Vienna  Demorest — Fine  Silver- 
Pitted  Ware 362 

Elisabeth  Arkwright.    By  Mrs.  E.  B.  Duffey..  144 


PAOB 

Esther  Graham's  Life  Work.    By  Mre.  Mary 

C.Bristol 4& 

Evenings  with  the  Poets  : 

Weariness;  by  Longfellow— A  Household 
Dirge;  by  H.  W.  Stoddard— The  Other 
World;  by  Harriet  Beeeher  Stowe— My 
Babes  in  the  Wood;  by  Mrs.  S.  M.  B. 
Piatt— Our  First-Bom— The  Wife's  Be- 
cause; by  Adelaide  Procter 59 

The  Brook;  by  Tennyson — Baca;  by  Rev. 
S.  D.  Robbins— The  Ballad  of  the  Tem- 
pest; by  J.  T.  Fields-^Backward  Glances ; 
by  Hiram  Torrey— Kingdom  Come;  by 
Otway  Curry- Cometh  a  Blessing  Down  ; 
by  Mary  A.  Tyler— Baby  Dearest;  by 
George  Macdonald 114 

At  Twilight;  by  Eben  E.  Rexford— The 
Brook— The  Prayer  Seeker;  by  John  G. 
Whitticr— The  Long  White  Seam;  by 
Jean  Ingelow — Old  Age — Not  Knowing...  175 

The  Mystery  of  Nature ;  by  Theodore  Til- 
ton — The  Unseen  Shore ;  by  Rev.  D.  Wil- 
liams—Snow Flakes;  by  H.  W.  Longfel- 
low— Is  the  Grave  Deep?  by  Richard 
Realf— Why  do  you  Wail,  0  Wind ;  by 
Thomas  Hood 236 

The  Daisy  Seekers ;  by  W.  M.  L.  Jay— Pall- 
ing Asleep  in  his  Chair 293 

A  Doubting  Heart;  by  Adelaide  Annie 
Procter— Sparrows ;  by  Mrs.  A.  D.  T. 
Whitney — Mother's  Darling;  by  Jose- 
phine Pollard— Good  Night;  by  Hester 
A.  Benedict — My  Mother's  Hands — Be 
Always  Giving — My  Little  One ;  by  Ed- 
gar Fawcet 344 

False.     By  Eben  E.  Rexford 211 

Fame.    By  Eben  E.  Rexford 314 

Fashion  Department.  {See  Extension  Sheeta.) 

Fruit  Culture  tor  Ladies  : 

Strawberries — Blackberries — The  Raspber- 
ry—Hints for  the  Month 61 

The  Grape — the  Currant — the  Gooseberry — 
The  Quince — The  Plum — Hints  for  the 
Month 118 

An  Example  for  American  Ladies — The 
Apple— The  Pear— The  Cherry- Plant- 
ing Fruit-Trees—Grafting— Hints  for  the 
Month 17T 

Women's  Horticultural  School — Black-Cap 
Raspberries — A  New  Method  of  Grafting 
— How  to  Graft  Grape- Vines— The  Com- 
mon Method  of  Grafting — Concerning 
Pear-Trees- The  Benefits  of  Shade— The 
Curculio— Hints  for  the  Month 238 

When  to  Prune  Fruit  Trees — Renewing  Old 
Strawberrry  Beds — Root  Propagation  of 
Pear-Trees — Bark  Lice— The  Yellows — 
The  Curculio  Again — Hints  for  the  Month 
Reading  for  Fruit  Culturists — Summer 
Plants  and  Bulbs 295 

Concerning  Strawberries — June  Hints  for 
the  Orclmrd — June  Management  of  Grapes 
—Pear  Blight— General    Hints    for  the 

Month— How.  to  Scare  Moles 348 

"  Grow  not  Old."    By  Mrs.  Lonisa  J.  HaU 91 

Home  Missionaries.    By  Mn.  |B^3i)Pnffey...     29 


INDEX. 


FAOB 

Hon8KKKK>ER8'  Dkpartvrnt  : 

Contributed  Beoeipta , 63 

Too  Many  Kinda — Spirits  of  Amiiionia-i-^ 
Dry  Beds  and  Damp  Beds — Poison — Con- 

tribnted  Reoeipts ^  116 

Hovsehold  Hints—Hard  and  Soft  Water- 
Contributed  Beceipts 179 

Household  Hints — Yeast  Instead  of  Sour 
Milk— The  Housekeeper's  Tragedy— Why 
Pies  and  Puddings  are  Injurious— Re- 
ceipts   241 

Receipts 350 

How  it  Happened.  By  Mary  £.  Comstock...'  92 
John  Armor's  Scare.  By  Kate  Sutherland....  212 
Lay  Skrhons  : 

Not' for  Ourselres  Alene 170 

Madame  De  Stael.     By  C 265 

Making  the  Best  of  It.  By  Mrs.  E.  B.  Duffey  201 
Mothers'  Department  : 

That  Boy's  Temper;  by  Mrs.  M.  0.  John- 
son       55 

Baby  Bloom's  Mamma;  by  Frances  Lee 112 

Baby  Culture.    By  Faith  Rochester. 289 

Musio : 

Pray,  Child,  Then  Pray 18 

ToutaVous  Galop 82 

Winsome  Winnie 138 

Popsy  Wopsy  Polka 198 

Globe  Schottisch 255 

The  Spirit  of  the  Bell 307 

New  Publications 64,  120,  180,  243,  297,  351 

Once.     ByHopeOUis 272 

One  Less  in  a  Cottage  Home 230 

'« On  the  Shore."     By  Adelaide  Stout 336 

Other    People's  Windows.      By  Pipsissiway 

Potts 154,215,281,332, 

Our  New  Congressman.     By  March  Westland  223 

Out  in  the  Storm.    By  Parsons 28 

Psalms  of  >IoTember.  By  Maud  Westland....  149 
Remembered.     By  the  author  of  "  Watching 

and  Waiting" 257 

Ruth  Ray's  Confession.     By  L.  E.  M 323 

Time  and  the  Maiden.     By  Kate  Woodland...  214 

The  Brave  Ones  in  Middle  Life 44 

The  Blackbird's  Song.     By  Louise  V.  Boyd...     54 

The  Childless  Home 315 

The  First  Snow.    By  Hester  A.  Benedict 102 

The  Home  Circle  : 
Homes — Education  of  Children — A  Western 
Woman— The  Rights  of   Children— Lu- 
cian's  Misfortune — The  Pure-Hearted ;  by 

Anna. 

How  to  Amuse  Children — Mrs.  Stowe's  New 
Story — ^A  Poetic  Gem — Self- Conscious- 
ness in  Children— Hints  to  Night- Watch- 
ers— The  LoTe  of  the  Beautiful 

Shams — Our  Grandmothers — The  Young 
Man's  Future  Wife— Hair  of  Golden ;  By 
Katherine  K.  Filer— Not  Good  for  Chil- 
dren to  be  Alone 173 

Writing  a  Letter  to  the  Rats  j  by  Vara — 
Wives — Physical  Degeneracy  of  Woman 
—Putting  the  Children  to  Sleep— Eight 

Hundred  Women  Writers  in  Russia 233 

The  Right  Training  of  our  Daughters— He 

and  I;  by  Hester  A.  Benediot 290 

A  Sweet.Story— Women  at  Work 346 

The  Lesson  I  Learned.    By  A.  M.  Mitchell...    21 
The  Needs  of  Working-Women.    By  the  au- 
thor of  "  Woman's  Work  and  Wages" 52 

The  Passing  Cloud 287 

The  Robin's  Nest  in  the  Elm.     By  RoselJa 
Hice 261 


56 


110 


PAOS 

The  fitndenfs  Dream.    By  Majaea 24 

The  Two  Houses.     By  Mary  E.  Comstoek 141 

The  WaterfaU  of  PnppanMSvm.     By  C 211 

Too  Late.  By  the  author  of  "  Ten  Nights  in  a 

Bar-Room" 150 

S  To  Give  is  to  Live.    By  T.  S.  Arthur... 267 

)   To  Alice.    Bj  Mary  E.  M'Millan 331 

)  TrandleBed  Treasures.  By  Mrs.  H.  F.  Bell  8^^ 
)   Two  Odes  at  Midnight.    By  Katherine  Kings- 

J       ton  Filer 98 

(   Two  Representative  Girls 167 

)  "  Unole  John's"  Plan.     By  "  Gerald" 99 

(Waif.    By  Josephine  Fuller 36 

?  Waiting.    By  Katherine  Kingston  Filer. 165 

{  What's  in  a  Name  ? 97 

^  What  the  Public  Lost     By  Mark  Ella  Ilurtt.  336 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

jANtART.  — 1.    Cartoon  — The    Skein-Winders.     2. 
Frontlspiece^Grandpa's   Darling.     3.   Embroidered 
Bag,  m  Applique  and  Prussian  Embroidery.    4.  Coif- 
('   fUres  ana  Bonnets,    5.  Walking  Dresses.    6.  Letters 
/   for  Marking.     7.  Embroidery  Patterns.     8.  Minetta 
)   Basque— Cravat   Bows.     0.  Slipper   Pattern    in  Silk 
;   Embroidery— Embroidered  Kosette— The  Pearl  Jnck- 
\  et.    10.  The  Charlie  Suitr-Norah  Dceps— The  Weston 
\  Suitr-The  Meta  Dress.    11.  Walking  Costumes— The 
(   Louiaon  Overskirt.    12.  The    Elvira  Dress— Eudora 
;    Sleeve— Edelia   Sleeve.     13.  Going   to   Scliool.     14. 
\   Coming  from  School.    15.  Walking  Dress. 
(       FsBBUAaT.— 1.  Froutispiece- What  shall  it  be,  Cnist 
'    or  Crumb  ?.    2.  Embroidered  Btippor.    3.  High  Bod- 
ice, with  Muslin  and  Laoe  Irimming— Bodioe   for 
House  Wear.    4.  Invalid  Gentleman's  Dressiog-Gown 
—Corner   for   Handkerchief  (Embroidery)— ucntle- 
\   man's  Drossing-Gown-Brnidlng  Patterns.   6.  Skating 
\   Costumes— Skating   Suite  for  Boys— Graoe(\il   Over- 
C   skirts.    6.  Blue  Cashmere  Dress.    7.  1'he  Ride  Down 
(   Hill.    8.  The  Kewton  Ca.saque— The  Pet  Overskirt— 
(    Embroidered  Border.    9  Our  "Frits"  Suit— Minetta 
(    Dress— Scissors  Case— Scwlloped  Border.    10.  Bag  for 
,    Skates— Slipper  with  Point-Lace  Ornament.   11.  Styles 
/   of  Hair  Dressing  for  Little  Girls— Name  for  Marking. 
)       MAacB.— 1.  Cartoon— Return   of  the   Runaway.    2. 
s    Frontispiece— Guess    Who   It  Is.     3.  Walking   Cos- 
5    tumep.    4.  Cover  to  be  Placed  over  Dishes  for  Keop- 
5   ing  Eggs  "Warm  on  the  BreakCast  Table — Corner  of 
(    Handkerchief  with  Monogram— Cravat  End  in  Mus- 
lin and  Guipure    Embroidery— Embroidered  Inser- 
tion—Braiding Pattern— Embroidery  Corner  Border. 
5.  Stylish  Dinner  Dresses— Party  Drosses— The  Edna 
/    Dress— Vienna  Sleeve.     6.  House  Dre.'s.     7.  House 
)    Dresses— Heavy  Cloth  Cloaks.    8.  Visiting  Dress.    9. 
^   The  Ethelind   wrapper— Evening  Dress.    10.  Waved 
)   Braid  Tidy- Insertion  (brald.i 

\  ApaiL.— 1.  Cartoon— A  Hawk  Fighting  with  Crows. 
K  2.  Frontispiece— Waiting  for  Father.  3.  Street  Cos- 
\  tumes  for  Spring,  April,  1871.  4.  Embroidered  TS^ork- 
f  Bag— Embroidered  Design  for  Work-Bag— Mignar- 
^  disc  Braid  Trimming,  for  Children's  Drawers,  or  In- 
l  ftcrtion  for  Petticoats—  Braiding  Pattern — Muslin  Em- 
>  broidery— Name  for  Marking.  5.  Children's  Fash- 
)  ions  for  April,  1871— Tatted  Insertion- Russian  Em- 
)  broidery— Bdffing.  6.  House  Dresj<.  7.  Shall  I  Di- 
\  vide?  8.  Coiffure  "Cecella^-Coiffure  "Eglantine"— 
',  Coiffure  '*  Stella"— Coifftire  "  Lizette."  ».  Visiting 
(    Dress. 

(  Mat.— 1.  Frontispiece— Dust  in  the  Eye.  2.  Colored 
(  Pattern— Embroidery  for  Handkerchiefs.  3.  New 
/  Spring  Styles  In  Bonnets  and  Hats,  May,  1871.  4. 
)  Window  Blind  in  Mosaic— Colored  Silk  Sash  for  White 
)  Dress— ShoDlder  Knot— Trimming  for  Black  Silk 
)  Dress—BIaek  Velvet  Sash— Edging— Insertion,  fl. 
^  Eifrlda  Overskirt— Lucia  Corset-Cover- Eaton  Over- 
\  skirt— EUie  Casaque— Lester  Sleeve— Meta  Dress — 
^  Clemeuza  Casaque — Lotella  Casaque.  6.  Walking 
(    Dress. 

(  Ju»a.— 1.  Frontispiece— The  Hawk  and  the  Dove. 
2.  Children's  Fashions  for  Summer,  1871.  3.  Psletot 
Franoesca— The  Nilsson  Basque— Name  for  Marking 
—Constance  Basque— Agnes  Apron— Beauty  Apron— 
Newbern  Sleeve  —  Esther  Sleeve.  4.  The  Paolina 
Dress— The  Cameron  Overskirt— Lillian  Suit— Cos- 
tume Cora— The  Jessamine  Suit  6.  Evening  Dress 
(pink  silk  and  black  laoe). 

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h  extra  parment.  to  be  made  in  eloth,  with  the  edges  cut  in  mltrei 

iiurrow  .'■ilk  braid,  and  two  rows  of  the  braid  stit^:hod  on  above. 

*4r  Id  the  baclc  than  In  froDt,  and  is  slashed  to  the  waiat  iu  the  back 

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FASHION  DEPARTMENT. 

^     ttfleettre  in  this  way  over  a  skirt  of  blno  or  maroon  aatin,  th«  entire  oMtiime>— bat,  glovec,  eto.- 

earrying  oat  the  idea  of  the  colon  and  other  details. 
th4  here  is  little  fear  of  being  too  lavish  in  the  employment  of  velvet.  It  is  the  favorite  material  of  the 
of  and  it  will  be  used  unsparingly  for  trimming  as  Well  as  in  other  ways  during  the  autumn.  It  formi 
at  spiouoas  part  in  a  lady's  cottume,  literally  from  head  to  foot;  for  hats  are  ornamented  with  bows  and 
elfaonds  of  velvet,  and  shoes  are  almost  oonoealed  under  large  coques  of  the  same  material.     The  most 

iuablc  oeintures  are  those  of  black  velvet,  with  long  ends  flowing  over  the  back  of  the  dress.     These 
uf  jires  are  worn  with  robes  of  any  eolor  or  material. 
tuiTho  extent  to  which  velvet  is  used  as  trimming  has  rather  put  furs  in  the  background;  but  it  is  still 

dered  most  distinguished  as  a  finish  for  cloth  and  velvet  costumes, 
ovdose  marten,  grebe,  and  sable  are  most  used  for  black  and  colored  velvet;  sealskin,  mink,  and  Astra^ 
wafor  cloth — although,  of  course,  rich  furs  are  not  out  of  place  upon  handsome  doth,  and  the  finer  the 

le  better  they  look. 

?he  most  distinguished  costume  a  lady  can  wear  is  a  complete  suit  of  velvet,  trimmed  with  sable,  with 

sable  muff  and  boa.  With  such  a  suit  a  velvet  bonnet  of  the  small  gypsy  form  should  be  worn, 
jl^aented  with  ostrich  feathers.    Fancy  fur-trimmed  hats  and  muffs  are  only  used  by  young  girls,  or  as 

^^ompaniment  to  skating  or  other  somewhat  eccentric  costumes, 
^^^loth  is  the  material  used  fur  skating  dresses  this  winter,  especially  for  the  simple  coitumes,  consist- 

T  upperskirt  and  jacket,  made  for  wear  over  plain  black  silk,  or  any  other  ordinary  walking  skirts. 
^I^rcttiest  are  dark-blue,  wine-color,  or  red  marron,  trimmed  with  grebe,  pocket  muff  and  jaunty  cap 
Q^rl  to  match,  the  former  bordered  with  grebe,  the  latter  edged  with  band  of  grebe,  and  ornamented 
^^jjmall  plume  and  aigrette,  set  erect,  and  held  by  jeweled  horseshoe, 
^{^he  prettiest  skating-costome  we  have  seen  was  made  of  scarlet  cloth  and  trimmed  with  white  fur, 

'orn  with  white  muff  and  boa,  over  a  petticoat  of  white  mohair,  trimmed  with  plaitings  beaded  with 
arn^  velvet.  But  this  was  too  striking  to  be  worn  by  any  but  a  very  fine  skater,  and,  moreover,  requires 
^^  j)erfect  in  its  details. 

^I^Jloth  cloaks  are  uo  longer  displayed,  excepting  in  water-proof,  as  an  independent  article  of  outdoor 
There  are  rich,  ample  velvet  cloaks,  which  form  a  tunic  or  overdress,  to  be  worn  with  satin,  velvet, 
elu^^  poplin  skirts,  and  there  are  Astracban  clonks  at  $25,  and  sealskin  jackets  at  $76  to  $100,  and 
gl^^loth  sacks  and  jackets,  for  breakfast  or  morning  wear;  but  the  plain  or  ribbed  cloth  cloak,  sack,  or 
fj.^Qar,  is  not  to  be  seen, 
j^jclvet  cloaks  are  cut  very  long  and  richly  trimmed  with  crochet  gimp,  which  forms  a  heavy  em- 

>ry  and  knotted  fringe.  The  waist  is  fitted  to  the  figure  at  the  back,  and  is  detached  from  the  skirt, 
edK<  ^^  P"^  ^°  ^^^^  ^"^^'  ^'^  large  gathers.  The  front  is  cut  all  in  one,  and  is  looped  up  from  the  sides, 
ff  J^eeves  are^invariably  wide,  and  a  full  sa!>h,  made  of  gros  grain,  belts  in  the  waist.  Skirts  of  satin  or 
^^)]  arc  geneimHy  worn  with  these  cloaks,  which  are  more  like  ample  tunics. 

*'***  FASHIONS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

-scarho  present  fashions  are  extremely  convenient  in  one  respect:  that  nothing  is  wasted,  or,  at  any  rate, 
longg  1  eeds  to  be.  Old  dresses  can  be  mado  over  into  ovorskirts  and  dresses  for  children,  and  chil- 
ehig  dresses  can  be  lengthened  by  the  addition  of  plaited  flounces  or  scolloped  bands  until  they  seem 

remodeled;  while  the  loose  gored  waist  fits  almost  any  age,  and  is  neatly  held  by  the  sash  or  apron, 
baofever  it  is,  that  completes  tbo  Kttle  girl's  school  and  home  toilet. 

throored  dresses  were  objected  to  for  girls  for  a  long  time,  on  account  of  the  diflScnlty  of  making  over 
seentring  them;  but  this  obstacle  seems  to  have  disappeared  before  a  practical  test.    We  find  that  gored 

8  can  be  made  for  girls  to  last  two  years,  and  then  altered,  by  changing  the  trimming  and  adding 
crim  or  plaited  flounces,  for  two  years  more. 

toge;  is  never  economy  to  try  common  materials  for  children.  A  French  merino,  a  good  Scotch  poplin, 
shoubll-wool  cloth,  will  out-wear  a  half-doscn  flimsy  cotton  mixtures,  which  afford  no  comfort  or  satis- 

1  even  at  their  best, 
pretty  coatnme  for  a  little  girl  consists  of  a  Gabrielle  dress  of  green  French  merino,  with  a  plaited 

B,  laid  flat,  five  inches  deep  round  the  bottom,  and  headed  with  three  mws  of  black  velvet.  Over 
with  ^orn  a  straight  overdress  of  black  cashmere,  with  a  baud  uf  black  velvet  put  on  as  a  border,  and 
Smal  lo<)P^(i  i>^  0D«  broad  fold  at  the  sides.  Across  the  shoulders  a  small  rounded  cape  forms  bretelles, 
the  pwit^h  a  row  of  black  velvet.  A  plaiting  at  the  wrist,  headed  with  two  rows  of  velvety  finishes  the 
j^QQiCeves,  and  a  bow  of  velvet  at  the  throat  the'  entire  costume. 

0  make  it  still  less  expensive,  block  alpaca  braid  can  be  used  instead  of  velvet,  an  old  alpaca  skirt 

^r  the  overdress,  ornamented  with  a  strip  of  the  green  merino  stitched  on  flat  with  black  silk. 

>r  valuable  information  concerning  the  prevailing  modes,  we  are  indebted  to  Madame  Demorest,  of 
'ork,  who  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  fashion  matters  in  America.  We  also  obtain  many  of  our  iUustra^ 
;tom  the  same  source. 

Ik-"!!  cravat  BOWS  FOR  BOYS  AND  YOUNG  GENTLEMEN. 

'***  H,  (See  PrantAU  Page.) 

lese  ean  be  made  at  home  by  any  tasteful  hand  at  half  the  cost  of  the  ready  made  article;  and  at 
'^?h  ^°^'  *^^  constantly  wanted  they  are  acceptable  gifts  from  a  sister's  graceful  lingers. 
^1^  3. 1  is  of  plaid  silk.  No.  2  of  striped  satin,  the  bows  and  loops  both  lined  with  something  moderately 
^'^'^^noline  or  paper  muslin,  and  put  together  as  shown  in  the  illustration,  finishing  with  the  knot  in 
^dle.  The  foundation  (for  pattern  see  No.  7)  is  of  stiff  pasteboard,  which  may  be  made  more  per> 
8mall|  ^y  wiring  round,  but  will  keep  shape  without  long  enough  to  serve  for  several  fresh  lK)W8.  An 
^*^P  loop  for  fastening  to  the  button  of  the  shirt  collar  must  be  firmly  sewed  on  as  shown  in  No.  0,  the 
.  %on  covered  with  the  material,  and  the  bow  sewed  fast,  that  it  may  keep  its  place  well.  Nos.  3 
^^^  ire  of  brown  satin  and  blue  silk,  the  material  doubled  and  lined.    No.  6  is  of  dotted  silk,  fringed. 


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im 


:||5|i||||? 


for.,  (B  ^    E.3  -^  o 
«  o  ^  rr •♦ ji^'o 


3*»  O 


-=■'  i-|o§^ 


f^l^^l  ill! 


!|o3 


TOL.  xxxvn.— 1 


(18) 

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FA.sB[ioi^s  from:  mmx:.  dxsmobssx. 


WALKING   COSTUMES. 

The  oostame  VioU  is  made  in  Emerald-frreen  Irish  poplin,  trimmed  with  Aringed  rachings  of  silk,  two 
■hades  darker,  and  twist  iVinge  of  the  intermeaiafce  shade.  The  trimming  on  the  skirt  is  arranged  in  festoons 
surrounded  bv  a  single  row  of  ruching.  The  Polonaise  is  quite  simple,  the  back  somewhat  longer  than  the 
fronts,  and  slightly  yet  gracefully  looped. 

The  Oeralda  suit,  with  the  dress  and  scarf  of  Macgregor  plaid,  and  the  Polonaise  of  green  cashmere,  is  an 
appropriate  costume  for  a  young  lady.  The  skirt  is  encircled  with  a  flounce  of  green  cashmere,  set  up  from 
the  bottom,  and  the  Polonaise  is  trimmed  to  correspond.  The  scarf  should  be  large  enough  to  be  used  af»  a 
wrap,  if  required,  and  in  some  suits  is  worn  tied  loosely  around  the  waist 


THE  L0UI80N  OVERSEIRT. 
»*  t  ^*  o' *he  latest  and  most  gracoftil  designs  for  orerskirts,  and  one  that  is  destined  to  become  a  fkyorlle> 
It  is  perfectly  plain  m  front,  its  peculiar  style  depending  upon  the  looping  in  the  back.    It  wili  be  noticed  thai 
all  the  orerskirte  are  without  fulness  at  the  waist  In  firont— this  being  the  style  i 
having  topee  underneath  by  which  they  are  Ued  back. 


being  the  style  at  preeent— many  of  tbett 


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THE  ELVIAA  DRESa 

A  dren  made  after  this  style,  in  blue  empress  cloth  Irimmod  with  ruffles  of  the  same  and  blaok  relret 
ribboo.  would  be  verv  handsome  and  appropriate  either  for  a  house  dress  or  walking;  costume.  The  skirt,  of  a 
comfortable  length,  is  encircled  with  two  narrow  flounces,  bound  and  attached  with  Telvet,  the  upper  one  st^t 
on  to  form  its  own  heading.  The  orerskirt  has  a  square  apron,  garnished  with  ruffles  and  Telvet,  and  is  fini.«hed 
on  each  side  bv  a  broad  sash,  trimmed  rountl  with  a  ruffle,  and  ornamented  through  the  centre  by  plulting.^t  of 
T«lTot  finishea  at  the  lower  end  with  a  velret  bow.  Two  detached  sashes  in  the  back,  similarly  trimmed, 
complete  the  arrangement  of  this  unique  oTerskirt.  High  plain  waist,  trimmed  with  ruffles  and  Telyet  in  the 
»hiipeofa  shoulder  cape,  and  close  sleeves  trimmed  with  ruffles  simulating  flowing  ones.  When  used  for  a 
nlking  cootuxae,  a  jacket  of  doth,  or  of  the  material  of  the  dreBS».lined  and  similarly  trimmed,  should  be  added. 


No.  L— EUDORA  SLEEVE. 


No.  2.— EDELIA  SLEEVE. 


^**:.L""^  "*?■*  comfortable  of  aU  jleeyes,  for  winter  wear,  is  the  coat  sleeve,  and  being  susceptible  of  so 
many  dlflferent  styles  of  jupirniture,  it  is  a  uniyersal  favorite,  and  always  fashionable.  The  "  Eudora  '•  makes  ud 
hmnrlsomely  in  Irish  poplin,  tr  mmed  with  bands  of  veivet,  the  puff  at  the  top  and  ruffle  at  the  elbow  renderinic 
It  especially  becoming  to  slender  figures.  ^ 

So.  i-An  •ntirely  new  design,  combining  the  close  with  the  flowing  sleeve  in  a  most  graoeftil  manner. 


The  coat  sleeve  is  left  open  at  the  back  seam,  and  a  side  piece  inserted,  did  in  a  deep  box-pl5t  at  the  ton. 
bottoned  in  at  the  siden  nearly  to  the  wrist.  Th«»  close  sleeve  is  csught  together,  Justl>elow  by  a  band  fasto 
oa  the  uadmr  aide  by  a  button,  and  on  the  outside  by  a  buckle  which  confines  a  Ibop.  '  ^ 


.   and 
fastened 


(16) 


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(16) 


GOma  TO  SCHOOL. 


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COMING  FROM  SCHOOL. 


(17) 


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Music  seleotea  by  J.  A.  OKTZli^. 


SONG  FOR  MEZZO  SOPMNO  OR  BARITONE. 
BT   M.   H.   GROSS. 

Ai^anuupre^vo.  ^  -  J^  J^  w^      ^ 


d 


PI.\NO. 


I 


^EB3: 


^^gi^^M^^^ 


5pE; 


-i- 


i 


a; 


H=^5i^^ 


=1* 


-TT-*^ 


m 


T- 


m 


is±z 


*=-?4u, 


i 


Bow  down  at  Ihy'nmhor's 
Beneath  the  pillow  in  tiie 


Fold  thy  little  hands  In   prayer, 
Now  thy  mother's  arm  is  spread 


i 


3^ 


iX=3t±fej* 


3^ 


knee, 
night, 


Now    ihv  Bonny  face  Is     fair, 
And  loring  foet  creep  round  thy  bed. 


Shining  through  thv  auburn 
And  o'er  thy  quiet  utce  is 


hair; 
shed 


Thine     eyes  are  passion  fVeo, 
The     ta    -    •   -    pers  aarkoned  light. 


And pleanant  thoughts  like  garlnndn  i 

But  that  fond  arm  wil I  paa.«  u-        '  \ 


{ 


m 


E 


[Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  a.  n.  1870,  by  W.  H.  Boveh  A  Co.,  in  the  Offlce  of  the  Librarian  of  Con- 
gress, at  Washington,  D.  C] 
(18) 

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FBAY,    CHILD,    THEN   PEAT. 


19 


S-3^£ 


±:i5zif5its: 


i^ijt 


-0-0- 


# 


W^- 


-^- — 


bind  thee  I 
way, 


bind  thee! 
pass  away, 


Unto  thy  home,  yet  grief  may  find  tliee. 
By  thee  no  more  those  feet  will  sray. 


IeE 


5E 


l?*ii 


f=*=F 


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Walking-dress  of  dark  grten  aam,  inad«  wUh  two  skirls ;  the  lower  one  trimmed  with  mfBes ; 
the  upper  ooe  long,  trimmed  with  fnnge.  looped  in  the  back  and  sides.  Plain  corsage,  with  opea 
sleeves ;  rati^sasfa.    Hat  of  ffra«o  Mi,  trimimd  with  TelTet  aod  flowers. 

(20) 


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sv 


0 


ARTHUR'S  Home  Magazine. 


JANUARY,    1871. 


THE  LESSON  I  LEARNED. 


BY  A.  M.  MITCHELIta 


•  VpBD,"  said  T,  "I  am  going  to  Newport." 

xN  Mjr  brother  raised  himself  suddenly  in 
hia  chair  and  dropped  his  newspaper. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  going  to  New- 
port for?  Isn*t  the  old  farm  good  enough  for 
yoo?"  he  asked,  amazed  at  my  sudden  de- 
termination. 

"No,"  I  replied  warmly,  "Tm  tired  of  milk 
and  black  berrying,  hay  and  suubonncts;  be- 
tides, I've  some  new  dresses  wliich  would  be 
wasted  out  there,  so  Pm  going  to  take  Lily  and 
be  fashionable." 

"Well,"  replied  Ned,  "try  it  if  you  like; 
bnt  I  imagine  my  matter-of-fact  sister  will 
soon  tire  of  the  world  of  fashion." 

"Tliat  is  as  much  as  you  know  about  it,"  I 
replied,  and  then  hurried  away  to  find  my  lit- 
tle Sister  Lily  and  acquaint  her  with  my  plans. 
She  was  delighted,  of  course,  and  I  set  about 
touching  up  oar  wardrobes  immediately,  turn- 
ing dresses  upsidedown  and  wrong  side  out, 
and  adding  a  few  new  ones,  until  it  seemed  to 
me  that  we  had  as  pretty  an  outfit  as  any  one 
eenld  wish.  Ned  laughed  when  I  told  him  so^ 
and  hoped  I  would  think  the  same  when  I  re- 
turned. 

I  arranged  my  plans  so  that  we  might  spend 
two  weeks  at  the  best  hotel,  for  we  had  two 
Tery  ifeaportant  things — time  and  money.  I 
sent  to  secure  my  rooms,  and  fortunately  suo- 
eeeded,  so  that  in  about  three  weeks  after  the 
idea  first  fixed  itself  in  my  brain,  Lily  and  I 
were  on  the  way  to  Newport. 

We  had  a  beautiful  moonlight  night  for  our 
joomcy  through  Long  Island  Sound.  Lily 
was  bewitched  with  the  beauty  of  the  boat,  the 
rich  dressing  of  the  passengers,  and  the  sweet 
music.  I  sat  in  the  upper  saloon  watching  the 
throng  and  wondering  if  I  should  see  a  prettier 
tight  in  Newport.    The  boat  was  crowded  with 

TOL,  XXXVII,— a 


elegantly  dressed  people,  who  promenaded  op 
and  down  the  glittering  saloon  to  the  music  of 
the  string  band.  It  seemed  pleasanter  to  me 
to  sit  still  in  a  corner  and  see  all  this  than  to 
walk  about ;  besides,  my  brown  travelling  suity 
pretty  and  new  though  it  was,  could  not  but 
contrast  disagreeably  with  the  heavy  black  silk 
suits  rustling  to  and  fro.  Lily  wished  to  run 
about  the  saloon,  and  I  permitted  it  two  or 
three  times ;  but  presently,  as  she  stood  some 
distance  from  me  talking  to  a  little  flounced 
and  ruffled  creature  about  her  own  age,  a  lady 
beside  me  remarked  to  her  companion — **  Ho^ 
queer  that  child  in  brown  linen  appears  beside 
Madame  Fontaine's  little  daughter." 

I  called  Lily  instantly,  and  we  went  away  to 
the  other  side  of  the  boat,  but  I  felt  uneasy  and 
out  of  place  all  the  remainder  of  the  time,  until 
we  were  safely  deposited  in  the  grand  hotel  at 
Newport. 

"Btere,"  I  thought  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  ''  I  am  on  an  equal  with  these  people^ 
at  any  rate,  for  I  pay  as  good  prices  and  come 
of  as  good  family." 

So  I  curled  Lily's  bair  and  tied  her  sash 
straight,  and,  putting  on  my  new  cambric 
wrapper  with  its  delicate  white  trimming,  I 
surveyed  myself  in  the  glass  with  great  com- 
placency. Feeling  very  well  satisfied,  I  took 
Lily's  hand,  and  we  went  down  and  out  upon 
the  piazza  to  listen  to  the  roar  of  the  surf  upon 
the  beach  for  a  few  moments  before  breakfast. 
Lily  stood  beside  me  in  her  new  bronze  slip- 
pers, feeling  proud  of  them,  and  a  little  afraid 
to  stir  for  fear  that  the  dampness,  which  a 
heavy  fog  had  left  upon  the  boards,  might  soil 
them.  I  drew  my  dress  up  slightly,  and  bade 
Lily  stand  upon  a  settee  near  me.  Thlg 
done,  I  forgot  everything  ibr  a  few  minntei 
but  tJie  grand  loU  of  the  wayes,  the  npheafing 

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ABTHUB'a   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


and  the  dashing  which  is  so  constant  and  so 
wonderful.  I  know  not  how  long  I  had  been 
lost  to  everything  around  me  when  voices 
from  a  room  above,  the  windows  of  which  faced 
the  piazza,  attracted  my  attention.  I  will  do 
the  young  ladies  justice  and  say  that  I  do  not 
think  they  had  a  suspicion  that  they  were 
overheard. 

"If  we  do  not  take  good  care  of  our  new 
calico  wrapper  it  will  be  quite  spoiled.  Do  you 
see,  Kate?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  another  voice,  "  and  the  little 
one's  shoes  have  landed  her  high  and  dry. 
Who  are  they  ?    Do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  ?  Of  course  I  don't.  From  the  appear- 
ance I  should  say  the  young  lady  knows  all 
about  pig^  and  eootcs.  The  child  is  afraid  to 
breathe  for  fear  her  sash  will  untie.    See  her  I" 

A  general  laugh  followed  this,  which  was 
interrnpted  by  the  breakfast  bell.  I  looked 
around  at  Lily  during  the  general  confusion 
which  the  bell  caused  among  the  group,  and 
found  her,  as  the  young  lady  had  said,  afraid 
to  stir ;  not  on  account  of  her  dress,  however, 
but  because  her  soul  had  gone  out  to  the  melo- 
diotis  beat  of  the  surf,  and  she  had  forgotten 
her  position  and  was  drinking  in  the  music, 
and  listening  to  the  voices  which  talked  to  little 
Paul.  Her  face  was  wrapt  and  motionless,  and 
I  was  sorry,  when  I  spoke,  to  see  the  old  con- 
flciousness  of  her  dress  and  herself  come  back  \ 
into  her  face  and  the  lifted  look  fade  away. 

I  did   not  so  much  wonder  at  the  young 
ladies'  amusement  when  I  saw  the  .rich  morn-  i 
ing  dresses  sweep  into  the  breakfast-room,  and 
only  looked  and  wondered  in  sheer  amazement  , 
at  what  it  all  cost. 

By  and  by,  at  the  bathing  time,  we  went  down 
to  the  beach  to  have  a  dash  in  the  surf.  As 
we  ran  down  on  to  the  sand,  in  our  home-made 
red-flannel  bathing-dresses,  not  handsome  but 
useful,  we  saw  the  younj  ladies,  whose  voices 
we  had  heard  in  the  morning,  standing  in  a 
group  watching  us  and  everybody.  There  was 
a  suppressed  laugh  as  we  passed  them,  running, 
and  one  of  them  said  something  about '^  our 
rural  friends."  I  looked  at  Lily,  who  must 
have  heard,  but  she  did  not  appear  to  see  or 
hear  them,  and  then  we  plunged  into  the  surf 

The  young  ladies  did  not  bathe,  either  then 
or  afterward.  Bathing  is  trying  to  the  com- 
plexion, and  nnfits  one  for  white  dresses,  etc.; 
fSo  the  young  damsels  contented  themselves 
^ith  a  stroll  njwn  the  beach,  in  kid  gloves  and 
'lace  hats,  carrying  dainty  parasoln,  thereby 
iosing  the  sole  benefit  of  watering-places. 

We  enjoyed  our  bath  very  much,  and  I  felt 


more  charitable  toward  every  one  when  it  was 
over.  After  dinner  I  dozed  and  read,  lulled 
into  sleep  by  the  ceaseless  roll  of  the  anrC 
Toward  night  I  roused  myself,  and  after  dress- 
ing Lily  we  went  down  stairs.  I  aat  with 
Lily  under  the  parlor  windows,  wondering 
with  Glory  McWhirck  why  the  good  times  all 
went  by  me,  as  the  young  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, laughing  and  talking,  sauntered  up  and 
down  outside. 

Presently  a  young  man  strolled  slowly  by 
alone,  and  seeing  some  one  looking  out,  glanced 
toward  me  and  then  stopped,  raised  his  hat, 
and  spoke. 

I  recognized  him  as  one  of  Ked's  acquaint- 
ances, and  greeted  him  joyfully,  glad  to  meet 
any  one  whom  I  knew.  He  stayed  some  time 
talking,  and  finally  took  me  to  supper,  offering 
to  come  and  take  me  into  the  music-hall  in  the 
evening.  He  was  not  very  interesting,  but  I 
wanted  to  go  into  the  hall,  so  I  accepted,  say- 
ing to  myself,  persuasively — "Now,  my  dear, 
this  is  a  *good  time,'  why  don't  you  feel  so?" 

I  took  Lily  up  stairs  after  supper,  and 
taking  off  her  pretty  dress,  put  her  to  bed  and 
sat  near  her  until  she  fell  asleep.  It  was  near 
nine  when  I  went  down,  but  Mr.  Rood  did  not 
make  his  appearance  until  half  past.  He 
offered  me  his  arm  and  took  me  into  the  hall, 
where  the  dress  and  light  nearly  dazzled  me. 
He  stood  near  me  a  few  minutes,  pointing  out 
this  and  that  one,  all  elegantly  dressed  and 
beautiful,  and  then,  when  the  music  struck  up, 
said  he  could  not  resist  it,  and  bowed  himself 
away,  and  I  did  not  sec  him  again  except  once 
when  he  swept  by  my  comer,  waltzing  with — 
a  pile  of  Swiss  muslin,  I  thought  at  first — but 
afterward  I  found  it  was  a  lady.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  it  strange  that  he  did  not  intro- 
duce me  to  any  one — in  fact  I  felt  hurt— but  I 
tried  to  reason  with  myself,  and  remember  that 
I  was  enjoying  an  evening  at  one  of  the  finest 
watering  places  in  the  country.  It  was  no  use. 
The  gayety  swept  by  me,  and  I  stood  unnoticed 
and  alone,  too  plain  and  simple  to^  attract 
attention. 

I  turned  away,  at  length,  wondering  whether 
the  chief  end  of  man — or  woman — was  dress, 
took  my  way  slowly  up  stairs,  and  folded  away 
my  prettiest  dress.  I  looked  at  my  little  one,, 
sleeping  quietly,  and  wished  with  an  aching 
heart  that  all  the  furbelowed  children  whose 
feet  were  pattering  down  stairs,  and  wboM 
brains  were  being  filled  with  vanity  ajid  folly, 
were  as  sweetly  resting  as  she. 

The  days  were  jnst  alike.  I  thought  as  the 
sun  rose  each  morning,  '^  There  will  be  some- 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


TEE   LE8B0N   I   LEARNED, 


thing  new  to-daj,  something  to  break  the  ever 
lasting  moDotony  of  dresB,  dreas,  dress/'  But 
Uiej  all  seemed  to  like  it,  and  the  days  never 
diflered.  I  wasted  a  quantity  of  time  dressing, 
became  I  should  be  stared  at  if  I  did  not,  and 
Lily  learned  to  come  to  me  unbidden  to  be 
ttahed  and  prinked  before  going  down  upon 
the  piazza  to  play  with  the  children.  Only 
two  things  were  comfortable.  Lily  and  I 
ilwajs  strolled  out  upon  the  beach  in  the  after- 
noon when  there  was  no  one  there,  and  we 
both  took  a  daily  plunge  in  the  surf.  We  had 
not  ceased  to  be  the  oljects  of  a  smile  by  our 
ample  dress,  and  I  grew  shy  and  kept  away. 

1  was  sitting  on  the  beach  one  afternoon, 
watching  the  billows  rise  and  fall,  and  asking 
iDTself  over  and  over  whether  it  was  all  right, 
and  this  the  best  way  fo  ppend  God's  time, 
when  the  unusual  sound  of  a  step  upon  the 
beach  roused  me  and  made  me  look  up.  A 
foice  apologized  for  disturbing  me,  and  I  found 
a  tall,  pale  lady  standing  near  me,  very  stately 
in  her  bearing,  with  a  beautiful,  lofty-minded 
£ice,  which,  although  it  must  have  seen  fiily 
rammers,  had  never  parted  with  its  beauty. 
She  wore  a  long,  heavy,  black  silk,  with  a 
ooBtir,  black  lace  shnwl  thrown  over  it.  It  was 
an  instant's  glance  which  showed  me  this,  for 
she  spoke  directly. 

**What  were  you  Uiinking  of  so  earnestly 
when  I  came  up  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile. 

Ifj  e^es  sought  the  waves  again.  ''  I  was 
vondering  whether  it  was  all  worth  while,"  I 
laid,  oDt  of  my  thought. 

**An?    What?"  she  asked. 

"This  vanity,  and  show,  and  dress.  There 
it  no  summer  rest  about  it." 

"I  know  that,"  she  replied,  gravely.  "I 
otme  to  find  it^  but  I'm  going  back  to-morrow. 
It  isn't  here.  How  happy  the  shore  must  be 
when  they  are  all  gone." 

I  smiled  at  the  quaint  idea,  but  I  liked  it 
too.    "How  does  it  all  seem  to  you  ?"  I  asked. 

'*It  seems  as  if  there  was  no  God  anywhere 
W  in  those  billoWfi^"  she  said,  reaching  out 
ber  long,  white  hand,  with  a  dreamy  look  in 
ber  heavy  eyes,  and  pointing  into  the  heaving 
ocean. 

"That  is  the  way  it  seems  to  me,"  I  replied, 
czcitedly,  "  and  I  come  out  here  in  the  afler- 
noon,  when  it  is  still,  to  look  for  Him." 

Bhe  set  the  little  camp-stool  she  carried 
beside  me  on  the  beach,  and  we  had  a  long, 
ttmest  talk  there,  which  lifted  me  out  of 
nyaelf  and  left  me  better  than  I  had  been  in  a 
long  time.  She  did  not  ask  my  name,  nor  I 
ben^  but  we  walked  ap  to  the  hotel  .together 


and  parted  at  the  parlor  door.  She  entered 
and  I  remained  standing,'  looking  in.  The 
room  was  crowded,  but,  to  my  amazement,  the 
throng  parted  right  and  left  as  she  approached, 
and  gazed  after  her,  as,  with  a  slight  bow,  she 
swept  through  the  opening  thvts  made  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  * 

"Who  is  she?"  I  asked  breathlessly  of  a 
young  girl  near  me. 

"Mrs.  W .     Has  she  not  a  beautiful 

face?" 

I  said  "  yes,"  and  ceased  to  wonder  that  I 
had  been  so  charmed,  or  that  the  crowd  parted, 
when  the  sweet,  soothing  words  of  her  pen  had 
stilled  so  many  restless  minds  and  satisfied  so 
many  achinghearts.  Nowonder the  gay,  young 
girls  looked  after  her  with  a  new  light  in  their 
eyes.  She  had  taught  them  better  things  than 
they  could  learn  here,  higher  modes  of  living, 
greater  aims,  and  they  remembered  them  all 
when  they  saw  her  face.  They  danced  again, 
and  flirted,  and  dressed,  but  her  coming  in 
among  them  was  like  a  fresh  breeze  upon  a 
burning  desert ;  it  may  be  soon  gone,  but  the 
refreshed  traveller  never  forgets  it,  and  breathes 
more  freely  in  a  purer  air. 

Late  the  next  afternoon,  as  I  sat  at  my  win- 
dow reading,  Lily  came  in  and  sat  down 
opposite  to  me.  She  looked  at  me  so  steadily 
that  I  lifted  my  eyes  and  asked:  "  What  is  it, 
Lily?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  grandfather's  pears," 
she  replied,  mournfully. 

"  What  made  you  think  of  them  ?"  I  asked, 
laughing. 

"Oh,  I've  been  out  on  the  piazza,  and  the 
little  girls  are  all  there,  sitting  up  stiff  for  fear 
of  soiling  their  dresses,  and  talking  about  what 
they  arc  to  wear  to  the  '  hop.'  I  was  so  tired 
listening  to  them,  and  standing  up  for  fear  I 
should  rumple  my  new  over-skirt,  that  I 
couldn't  help  wishing  I  was  at  the  farm." 

"  Lily,  suppose  we  go,"  I  said,  suddenly. 

"I  wish  you  would,  Fanny,"  she  replied, 
dolefully. 

"Very  well,"  I. said,  springing  up,  "go  and 
fold  your  dresses ;  we'll  go  home." 

So  home  we  went,  and  poor,  tired  Ned  found 
us  there  one  night  when  he  came  in,  sitting  in 
the  cool  parlor  of  the  city  house. 

"  Ah,  here  are  the  highflyers  at  fashion,"  he 
said,  kissing  us  both  gayly. 

"Ned,  that  I  shall  never  be,"  I  said, 
sternly. 

He  laughed  heartily  and  asked,  "  Are  you 
ready  for  the  old  homestead,  with  the  'summer 
resort '  fever  a|l  over?" 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


24 


ABTEVR'a    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


"  Yes</'  I  replied,  "quite  readjr.  Come  and 
go  with  us." 

In  the  dear  old  hoofle,  under  the  elma,  far 
aivTiy  from  the  turmoil  and  rush  of  people,  we 
spent  what  was  left  of  the  summer,  waked  in 
the  morning  bf  the  bird-carols,  and  sung  to 
sleep  by  the  swaying  branches  of  the  trees, 
cnrelef«  alike  of  fashion  and  its  attendant 
vanity,  roaming  in  the  fields,  fishing  in  the 
pond,  riding  home  on  the  hay,  and  playing 
croquet  in  the  twilight.  With  hearts  pure  and 
simple,  free  from  envy  and  strife,  we  saw  Grod 
in  each  springing  blade,  and  felt  Him  in  every 
ireshening  breeze. 


THE  STUDENT'S  DREAM, 

BT  ITAJASA. 

IN  a  Bimplo,  rostio  cottage. 
When  had  closed  the  sultry  day, 
A  few  guests  in  quiet  convene. 

Thus  to  while  the  time  away. 
Had  in  turn  a  thrilling  story, 

Each  narrated  one  by  one. 
Of  his  part  in  life's  groat  drama, 

8avo  the  youngest,  who  alone 
Sat  in  silence  as  if  fearing 

That  his  words  would  break  the  spell, 
Hovering  o'er  them  in  the  moonlight, 

With  the  socles  described  so  well. 
But  at  length  to  the  entreaty 

That  refused  to  bo  denied, 
Drawing  nearer  to  the  circle, 

Unto  them  be  thus  replied  : 
Friends  revered  and  much  beloved, 

I  am  young  nor  yet  can  speak 
Of  brave  deeds  and  "  glad  success," 

And  my  story,  faint  and  weak, 
Would  appear  in  oontrast  bare. 
Should  I  thus  your  converse  share. 

But  instead  I  will  repeat, 
xi  to  you  it  secmeth  meet, 
A  bright  dream  of  years  ago. 
That  thrilled  my  inmost  spirit  so. 
That  from  the  chambers  of  my  heart 
It  can  nevermore  depart. 

Me  thought  my  home  of  ohildhood 

Again  uprose  to  view. 
Just  the  same  appearing 

As  when  life  was  new. 
And  the  murmuring  brooklet 

Where  my  childish  feet, 
Often  danced  in  gladness. 

And  the  mossy  seat, 
Where  was  twined  the  garlands 

Of  sweet  forest  flowers. 
Gathered  from  the  treasures 

Of  the  wild-wood  bowera. 


As  amid  these  scenes  I  strayed, 

O'er  her  harp-strings  swept  the 
A  sweet  vision  to  my  spirit. 

Bringing  with  her  melodies. 
Life  before  me  outstretched  lay. 

Disclosing  nought  of  toil  or  duty. 
And  in  loveliness  untold, 

Life  to  me  was  only  beauty. 

But  the  vision  thus  nnrolled 
Faded  soon  as  sunset's  gold. 


Then  I  wandered  with  delight^ 

As  in  precious  days  of  yore. 
In  the  much  beloved  balls, 

Sacred  unto  classic  lore. 
Classmates  dear  around  mo  thronged. 

Teachers — in  those  accents  sweet, 
Ne'er  forgotten— now  again 

Seemed  their  teachings  to  repeat. 
A  bright  halo  life  o'erspread, 

Beaming  from  fair  learning's  star. 
That  with  radiance  seemed  to  light 

All  the  coming  years  afar. 
Like  the  rainbow's  transient  hue, 
So  the  radiance  passed  from  view. 

Then  both  weary  and  desponding. 

O'er  my  soul  thick  darkness  fell, 
And  a  sadness,  and  a  longing, 

That  no  words  can  fully  telL 
For  instead  of  joy  and  beauty, 
Life  now  seemed  but  toil  and  duty; 
And  the  knowledge  that  I  sought. 

With  an  eager,  anxious  heart. 
Never  full  fruition  brought. 

For  I  only  found  "  in  part" 

As  the  crimson  tints  of  dawn 

Slowly  spread  o'er  clouds  of  gray. 

Till  both  earth  and  sky  rejoice. 
In  the  glorious  king  of  day — 

So  this  darkness  from  me  fled. 

As  new  light  my  soul  o'erspread. 

And  my  childhood's  dream  of  beauty. 

And  fair  learning's  radiant  star, 
Both  grew  dim  before  the  glory 

Streaming  from  the  gates  ajar — 
Of  the  ci»y  where  forever 

Ptrfeet  bcauttf  finds  her  home. 
And  the  wisdom  songbt  for  ages 

JDwellt  complete  with  Qod  alone. 

Ever  since  this  glorious  light 
Has  illumed  both  toil  and  duty, 

Making  e'en  this  trial-life 
Bright  with  gleams  of  truth  and  beaatj. 

The  speaker  ceased— i-with  molsten'd  eye 
Another  guest  did  then  reply — 
May  the  light  to  thee  thus  given, 
Upward  gaide  our  steps  to  Heaven. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


BEETHOVEN  AS  A  BOY. 


IT  WM  a  mild  October  afternoon,  in  the  year 
1784.  A  boat  was  coming  down  the  Rhine, 
ckne  to  that  point  where  the  fair  city  of  Bonn 
nts  on  its  left  shore.  The  company  on  board 
eouuted  of  old  and  young  persons  of  both 
wzesy  returning  from  an  excursion  of  pleasure. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  West,  and  touched 
the  mountain  summits,  castle-crowned,  with 
gold  and  purple,  as  the  boat  came  to  the  shore 
aot  far  from  the  city.  The  company  landed, 
foil  of  gayety  and  mirth,  the  yoang  people 
walking  on  before,  while  their  seniors  followed, 
as  happy  as  they,  though  more  thoughtful  and 
leas  noisy.  They  adjourned  to  a  public  garden, 
doiie  on  the  river  side,  to  finish  the  day  of 
Bocial  enjoyment,  by  partaking  of  a  collation. 
Old  and  young  were  seated,  ere  long,  around 
the  stone  table  set  under  the  large  trees.  The 
crimson  faded  in  the  West ;  the  moon  poured 
her  soil  light,  glimmering  through  the  leafy 
canopy  above  them,  and  was  reflected  in  full 
beauty  in  the  waters  of  the  Rhine. 

"Yonr  boys  are  right  merry  fellows,"  said 
a  benevoient-iooking  old  gentleman,  addressing 
Herr  von  Beethoven,  a  tenor  singer  in  the 
Electoral  chapel;  pointing,  at  the  same  time, 
to  hii«  two  sons — lads  of  ten  and  fourteen  years 
of  age.  "They  will  certainly  turn  out  some- 
thing clever,''  he  continued,  laughing,  as  he 
watched  their  pranks ;  "  but  tell  uie,  Beethoven, 
why  do  you  not  take  Louis  with  you  when 
yon  indulge  the  children  with  a  party  of 
pleasure?*' 

"  Because,''  answered  the  person  he  addressed, 
"Louis  is  a  stubborn,  dogged,  stupid  boy, 
whose  troublesome  behavior  would  only  spoil 
our  mirth." 

"  Ah !"  returned  the  old  gentleman,  "  yon 
are  alwavR  flnding  fault  with  the  poor  lad,  and 
perhaps  impose  too  hard  tasks  upon  him  I  I 
see  you  are  more  indulgent  to  the  others.  It 
18  no  wonder  he  becomes  dull  and  obstinate ; 
nay,  I  am  only  surprised  tliat  he  has  not,  ere 
this,  broken  loose  from  your  sharp  control." 

"My  dear  Simrock,"  replied  Beethoven, 
laughing,  "  I  have  a  remedy  at  hand  for  such 
humors — my  good  Spanish  cane,  which,  you 
aee,  is  of  the  toughest  I  Louis  is  well  acquainted 
with  its  excellent  properties,  and  stands  in 
wholesome  awe  thereof!  And  trust  me,  neigh- 
bor, I  know  best  what  is  for  the  boy's  good. 
He  has  talent,  and  must  be  taught  to  cultivate 


it;  but  he  will  never  go  to  work  properly, 
unless  I  drive  out  some  of  his  capricious 
notions,  and  set  his  head  right." 

"  Ah,  Johann  1"  interposed  Madame  von 
Beethoven,  "  you  do  not  know  the  boy !  He 
has  the  best  and  most  docile  of  dispOKitions,  if 
you  only  manage  him  in  the  proper  way." 

"The  proper  wayl"  repeated  the  father; 
"  and  so  I  must  coax  and  cajole  him,  and  ask 
his  leave  humbly  to  give  him  a  word  of 
instruction  I" 

"No,  certainly;  only  grant  him  the  same 
indulgences  you  allow  to  his  brothers." 

"  He  is  not  like  Carl  and  Johann,"  was  the 
muttered  answer ;  "  they  ought  not  to  be  treated 
alike." 

"Nay,  my  neighbor," said  Simrock,  earnestly. 

"Let  us  talk  no  more  about  it,"  interrnptud 
Beethoven.  "  I  know  well  what  I  am  doing, 
and  my  reasons  are  satisfactory  to  myself. 
T/^ese  boys  are  a  comfort  to  me;  a  couple  of 
fine  lads.  I  need  hardly  ever  speak  to  them, 
for  they  are  ready  to  spring  at  a  glance.  Tliey 
always  obey  me  with  alacrity  and  aflection. 
Louis,  on  the  other  hand,  has  been  bearish 
from  h»  infancy.  I  have  never  sought  to  rule 
him  by  fear,  but  only  to  drive  out  a  little  of 
his  sulkiness  now  and  then,  yet  nothing  avails. 
When  his  brothers  joke  with  him,  as  all  boys 
will  sometimes,  he  usually  quits  the  ro(im  mnr- 
muring,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  he  would  fain  beat 
them  if  he  were  not  afraid  of  me.  As  to  hia 
studies,  music  is  the  only  thing  he  will  Jeiirn — 
I  mean  with  good  will ;  or  if  he  consents  to 
apply  himself  to  anything  else,  I  must  first 
knock  it  into  him  that  it  has  somethini;  to  do 
with  music.  Then  he  will  go  to  work,  but  it  is 
his  humor  not  to  do  it  otherwise  I  If  I  give 
him  a  commission  to  execute  for  me,  the  most 
arrant  clodpole  could  not  be  more  stupid  about 
it. 

"Let  him  alone,  then,  to  live  for  his  favorite 
art,"  said  Herr  Simrock.  "It  is  often  the 
case  that  the  true  artist  is  a  fool  in  matters  of 
everyday  life." 

"  Those  are  silly  fancies,"  answered  Beetho- 
ven, again  laughing.  "  Helen  is  always  talking 
so.  The  true  artist  is  as  much  a  man  ns  others, 
and  proves  himself  so;  will  thrive  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  take  care  of  his  family. 
I  know  all  about  it;  money — money's  the 
thing  I  ^  I  mean  Louis  to  do  well ;  nnd  that  he 

(25) 

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26 


ARTHUR'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


may  learn  to  do  well  I  spare  not  trouble— nor 
the  rod  either,  when  it  is  necessary  I  The  boy 
will  live  to  thank  me  for  my  pains." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted,  and 
the  subject  was  not  resumed.  The  hou»  flew 
lightly  by ;  it  struck  nine,  and  the  festive 
company  separated  to  return  to  their  homes. 

Carl  and  Johann  were  in  high  glee  as  they 
went  home ;  they  sprang  up  the  steps  before 
their  father,  and  pulled  the  door  bell.  The 
door  waR  opened,  and  a  boy  about  twelve  years 
old  stood  in  the  entry,  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand. 
He  was  short  and  stout  for  his  age ;  but  a  sickly 
paleness,  more  strongly  marked  by  the  contrast 
of  his  thick  black  hair,  was  observable  on  his 
iace.  His  small  gray  eyes  were  quick  and 
restless  in  their  movement,  very  piercing  when 
he  fixed  them  on  any  object,  but  softened  by 
the  shade  of  his  long,  dark  lashes ;  his  mouth 
was  delicately  formed,  and  the  compression  of  i 
his  lips  betrayed  both  pride  and  sorrow.  It 
was  Louis  Beethoven. 

'*  Where  are  my  &ther  and  mother  7"  asked 
he. 

"Hallo,  nightcap !"  cried  Carl  laughing,  "is 
it  you !  Cannot  you  open  your  eyes  ?  They 
are  just  behind  us  I" 

Without  answering  his  brother,  Louis  came 
to  meet  his  parents,  and  bade  them  "good- 
evening." 

His  mother  greeted  him  affectionately ;  his 
father  said,  while  the  boy  busied  himself  fast- 
ening the  door — "Well,  Louis,  I  hope  you 
have  finished  your  task  ?" 

"I  have,  father." 

"  Very  good  ;  to-morrow  I  will  look  and  see 
whether  you  have  earned  your  breakfast."  So 
saying,  the  elder  Beethoven  went  into  his 
chamber ;  his  wife  followed  him,  after  bidding 
her  sons  good-night,  Louis  more  tenderly  than 
any  of  them.  Carl  and  Johann  withdrew  with 
their  brother  to  their  common  sleeping  apart- 
ment, entertaining  him  with  a  description  of 
their  day  of  festivity.  "Now,  Louis,"  said 
little  Johann,  as  they  finished  their  account, 
"  if  you  had  not  been  such  a  dunce,  our  father 
would  have  taken  yon  along ;  but  he  says  he 
thinks^at  you  will  be  little  belter  than  a 
dunce  all  the  days  of  your  life — and  self-willed 
and  stubborn  besides. 

"  Don't  talk  about  that  any  more  I"  answered 
Louis,  "  but  come  to  bed  I" 

"  Yes,  you  are  always  a  sleepy  head  I"  cried 
they  both  laughing ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  after 
getting  into  bed  both  were  asleep  and  snoring 
heartily. 

Louis  took  the  lamp  from  the  table^lefl  the 


apartment  softly,  and  went  up-stairs  to  an  attic 
chamber,  where  he  was  wont  to  retire  when  he 
wished  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  his  teasing 
brothers.  He  had  fitted  up  the  little  room  for 
himself  as  well  as  his  means  permitted.  A 
table  with  three  legs,  a  leathern  chair,  the 
bottom  partly  out,  and  an  old  piano,  which  he 
had  rescued  from  the  possession  of  rats  and 
mice,  raadenp  the  furniture;  and  here, in  com- 
pany with  his  beloved  violin,  he  was  accustomed 
to  pass  his  happiest  hours.  He  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  solitude,  and  nothing  would  have 
better  pleased  him  than  permii>sion  to  take 
long  walks  in  the  country,  where  he  could  hear 
the  murmur  of  streams  and  the  rustling  of 
foliage,  and  the  surging  of  the  winds  on  the 
mountains.  But  he  had  not  that  liberty.  His 
only  recreation  was  to  pass  a  few  hours  here  in 
his  favorite  pursuit,  indulging  his  fantasies  and 
reveries,  undisturbed  by  his  noisy  brothers,  or 
his  strict  father's  reproof. 

The  boy  felt,  young  as  he  was,  that  he  was 
not  understood  by  one  of  his  family,  not  even 
excepting  his  mother.  She  loved  him  tenderly, 
and  always  took  his  part  when  his  father  found 
fault  with  him  ,*  but  she  never  knew  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind,  because  he  never  uttered 
it.  How  could  he,  shy  and  inexperienced, 
clothe  in  words  what  was  burning  in  his 
bosom — what  was  perpetually  striving  aAer 
language  more  intense  and  expressive  than 
human  speech  ?  But  his  genius  was  not  long 
to  be  unappreciated. 

The  next  morning  a  messenger  cnmefrom 
the  elector  to  Beethoven's  house,  bringing  an 
order  for  him  to  repair  immediately  to  the 
palace,  and  fetch  with  him  his  son  Louis.  The 
father  was  surprised  ;  not  more  so  than  the  boy, 
whose  heart  beat  with  undefined  apprehension 
as  they  entered  the  princely  mansion.  A  ser- 
vant was  in  wailing,  and  conducted  them  with- 
out delay,  or  further  aunouncement,  to  the 
presence  of  the  elector,  who  was  attended  by 
two  gentlemen. 

The  elector  received  old  Beethoven  with 
great  kindness,  and  said — "We  have  heard 
much  recently  of  the  extraordinary  musical 
talents  of  your  son  Louis.  Have  you  brought 
him  along  with  you  ?"  Beethoven  replied  in 
the  affirmative,  stepped  back  to  the  door,  and 
bade  the  boy  come  in. 

"  Come  nearer,  my  little  lad  I"  cried  the 
elector  graciously ;  "  do  not  be  shy.  This  gen- 
tleman here  is  our  new  court  organist— Herr 
Kneefe;  the  other  is  the  famous  composer, 
Herr  Yunker,  from  Cologne.  We  promised 
them  both  they  should  hear  you  play  some- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BEETHOVEN   A8   A    BOY. 


27 


thiDg;  and  think  joa  may  venture  npon  a  tune 
before  them.  The  late  Master  yon  Eden  always 
qwke  well  of  you." 

"  Yes^  he  waa  pleased  with  me  V*  murmured 
the  boy  softly.  The  prince  smiled  and  bade 
him  take  his  seat  and  begin.  He  sat  down 
himself  in  a  large  easy  chair.  Louis  went  to 
the  piano,  and  without  examining  the  pile  of 
•notes  that  lay  awaiting  his  selection,  played  a 
short  piece;  then  a  light  and  graceful  melody, 
which  he  executed  with  such  ease  and  spirit — 
nay,  io  so  admirable  a  manner  that  his  dis- 
tinguiahed  auditors  could  not  forbear  express- 
ing their  surprise;  and  even  his  father  was 
struck. 

When  he  left  off  playing,  the  elector  arose, 
eame  up  to  him,  laid  his  hand  on  his  head,  and 
said  encouragingly — "Well  done,  my  boy  I  we 
are  pleased  with  you  I  Now,  Master  Yunker,'' 
turning  to  the  gentleman  on  his  right  hand, 
"what  say  your 

"Your  highness  I"  answered  the  composer, 
"I  will  venture  to  say  the  lad  has  had  con- 
siderable practice  with  that  air,  to  execute  it  so 
well." 

Loots  burst  into  a  laugh  at  this  remark;  the 
others  looked  surprised  and  grave;  his  father 
darted  an  angry  glance  at  him,  and  the  boy, 
conacions  that  he  had  done  something  wrong, 
became  instantly  silent. 

The  elector  himself  laughed  at  the  comical 
scene.  "  And  pray  what  are  you  laughing  at, 
my  little  fellow  T  asked  he. 

The  boy  colored  and  looked  down  as  he  re- 
plied— ''  Because  Herr  Yunker  thinks  I  have 
learned  the  air  by  heart,  when  it  occurred  to 
me  just  now  while  I  was  playing." 

"Then,"  returned  the  composer,  "if  you 
really  improvised  that  piece,  you  ought  to  go 
through  at  sight  a  motiv  I  will  give  you  pres- 
•entlv."  . 

**  Let  me  try,"  answered  Louis. 

"  If- his  gracious  highness  will  permit  me," 
said  the  composer. 

Permission  was  granted.  Yunker  wrote  down 
on  a  paper  a  difficult  motiv  and  handed  it  to  the 
boy.  Louis  read  it  over  carefully,  and  imme- 
diately began  to  play  it  according  to  the  rules 
of  counterpoint  The  composer  listened  atten- 
tively— bis  astonishment  increasing  at  every 
tarn  in  the  music;  and  when  at  last  it  was 
finished  in  a  manner  so  spirited  as  to  surpass 
his  expectations,  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  he 
looked  on  the  lad  with  keen  interest,  as  the 
poasemor  of  a  genius  rarely  to  be  found. 

"  If  he  goes  on  in  this  way,"  said  he  in  a  low 
tone  to  the  elector, "  I  can  assure  your  highness 


that  a  very  great  counterpointest  may  be  made 
of  him." 

Kneefe  observed  with  a  smile — "  I  agree  with 
the  master ;  but  it  seems  to  me  the  boy's  style 
inclines  rather  too  much  to  the  gloomy  and 
melancholy." 

"It  is  well,"  replied  his  highness,  smiling, 
"  be  it  your  care  that  it  does  not  become  too 
much  so.  Herr  von  Beethoven,"  he  continued, 
addressing  the  father,  "we  take  an  interest  in 
your  son  ;  and  it  is  our  pleasure  that  he  com- 
plete the  studies  commenced  under  your  tui- 
tion, under  that  of  Herr  Knetffe.  He  may  come 
to  live  with  him  after  to-day.  We  will  take 
care  that  he  wants  for  nothing;  and  his  further 
advancement,  also,  shall  be  cared  for.  You 
are  willing,  Louis,  to  come  and  live  with  this 
gentleman  ?" 

The  boy's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground ;  he 
raised  them,  and  glanced  first  at  Kneefe  and 
then  at  his  father.  The  offer  was  a  tempting 
one;  he  would  fare  better  and  have  more 
liberty  in  his  new  abode.  But  there  was  his 
I  father  I  whom  he  had  alwnys  loved ;  who,  spite 
of  his  severity,  had  doubtless  loved  him,  and 
now  stood  looking  upon  him  earnestly  and 
sadly.  He  hesitated  no  longer,  but  seizing 
Beethoven's  hand  and  pressing  it  to  his  heart, 
he  cried — "  No  I  no  1 1  cannot  leave  my  father." 

"You  are  a  good  and  dutiful  lad,"  said  his 
highness.  "Well,  I  will  not  ask  yon  to  leave 
your  father,  who  must  be  very  fond  of  you. 
You  shall  live  with  him  and  come  and  take 
your  lessons  of  Herr  Kneefe;  that  is  our  will. 
Adieu,  Herr  von  Beethoven." 

From  this  time  Louis  lived  a  new  life.  His 
father  treated  him  no  longer  with  harshness, 
and  even  reproved  his  brothers  when  they  tried 
to  tease  him.  Carl  and  Johann  <grew  shy  of 
him,  however,  when  they  saw  what  a  favorite 
he  had  become.  Louis  found  himself  no  longer 
restrained,  but  came  and  went  as  he  pleased ; 
he  took  frequent  excursions  in  the  country, 
which  he  enjoyed  with  more  than  youthful 
pleasure  when  the  lessons  were  over. 

His  worthy  master  wss  astonished  at  the 
rapid  progress  of  his  pupil  in  his  beloved  art. 
"  But,  Louis,"  said  he  one  day,  "if  you  would 
become  a  great  musician,  you  must  not  neglect 
everything  besides  muHic.  You  must  acquire 
foreign  languages— particularly  Latin,  Italian, 
and  French.  These  are  all  necessary,  that  you 
may  know  what  learned  men  have  said  and 
written  upon  the  art.  You  must  not  fancy  all 
this  knowledge  is  to  come  to  you  of  itself;  you 
must  be  diligent  and  devote  yourself  to  study, 
and  be  sure  of  being  well  repaid  in  the  end. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ARTHUR'S  EOME   MAGAZINE. 


For,  without  euch  cultivation,  you  can  never 
excel  in  muRic ;  nay,  even  genius,  left  to  itself, 
is  but  little  better  than  blind  impulse.  Would 
you  leave  your  name  to  poflterity  as  a  true 
artist,  make  your  own  all  that  bears  relation  to 
your  art." 

Louis  promised,  and  kept  his  word.  In  the 
midst  of  his  playing  he  would  leave  off,  how- 
eyer  much  it  cost  him,  if  the  hour  struck  for 
his  lessons  in  the  languages.  So  closely  he 
applied  himself,  that  in  a  year's  time  he  was 
tolerably  well  acquainted,  not  only  with  Latin, 
French,  and  Italian,  but  also  with  the  English. 
His  father  marvelled  at  his  progress  not  a  lit- 
tle; for  years  he  had  labored  in  vain,  with 
starvation  and  blows,  to  make  the  boy  learn 
the  first  principles  of  those  languages.  He  had 
never,  indeed,  taken  the  trouble  to  explain  to 
him  their  use  in  the  acquisition  of  the  science 
of  music. 

In  1785  appeared  Louis's  first  sonatas.  They 
displayed  uncommon  talent,  and  gave  promise 
that  the  youthful  artist  would  in  future  accom- 
plish something  great,  though  scarcely  yet  could 
be  found  in  them  a  trace  of  that  gigantic  genius, 
whose  death  forty  years  afterward  filled  all 
Europe  with  sorrow. 

The  best  understanding  was  now  established 
between  father  and  son ;  and  the  lad's  natural 
generosity  and  warmth  of  heart  being  un- 
checked by  undue  severity,  his  kiudly  feelings 
overflowed  upou  all  around  him.  This  dis- 
position to  love  his  friends  and  to  enjoy  life 
remained  with  the  artist  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
The  benevolent  Master  Simrock  was  much 
pleased  at  his  good  fortune,  and  withal  some- 
what surprised,  for,  spite  of  his  compassionate 
espousal  of  the  boy's  cause,  he  looked  upon 
Louis  rather  as  a  dull  fellow.  Now  his  opinion 
was  .quite  changed;  and  to  show  his  good  will, 
he  sent  him  several  presents,  and  insisted  on 
his  coming  frequently  to  his  lodgings. 

**  We  were  both  mistaken  in  the  lad,"  he 
would  say  to  old  Beethoven ;  "  he  abounds  in 
wit  and  odd  fancies,  but  I  do  not  altogether 
like  his  mixing  up  in  his  music  all  sorts  of 
strange  conceits ;  the  best  way,  to  my  notion,  is 
a  plain  one.  Let  him  follow  the  great  Mozart 
step  by  step;  after  all,  he  is  the  only  one,  and 
there  is  none  to  come  up  to  him — none  I"  And 
Louis's  father,  who  also  idolized  Mozart,  always 
agreed  with  his  neighbof  in  his  judgment,  and 
echoed — "None  I" 

An  hour's  industry  will  do  more  to  produce 
cheerfulness,  suppress  evil  humors,  and  retrieve 
your  affairs  than  a  month's  moaning. 


OUT  IN  THE  8T0RM. 

BT  PAB80ir8« 

OUT  in  the  storm. 
Out  from  this  shelter,  all  lighted  and  wamiy 
Oot  from  the  radiance,  out  from  the  glow. 
Into  the  darkness  and  into  the  enow. 
Into  the  power  of  the  merciless  sleet, 
Into  the  gloom  of  the  wild  winter  night, 
Leaving  all  comfort,  all  beauty,  and  light. 
Out  where  the  wind  and  the  tempest  will  beat 
Savage  and  pitiless — how  can  I  go 
Out  in  the  storm  ? 

Out  in  the  storm — 
Out  from  your  presence — your  radiant  faoe 
Lighting  with  beauty  and  glory  the  place, 
Lifted  to  mine  with  a  shy,  tender  grace; 
Out  from  the  touch  of  your  small,  dainty  hand. 
Clinging  to  mine  as  if  pleading  my  stay, 
Pleading  my  heart  can  but  poorly  withstand. 
How  can  I  leave  you  to  wander  away 
Out  from  this  dream  of  bliss,  wretched,  forlorn, 

Out  in  the  storm  I 

Out  in  the  storm — 
Out  In  the  starless  night — many  a  ghost 
Rises  to  beckon  me  into  the  gloom ; 
Shades  of  sad  memories,  roused  from  the  tomb, 
Forms  of  the  dead,  and  the  faithless,  and  lost. 
Hold  their  pale  arms  to  me,  whisper  and  shriek. 
Even  while  you  cling  to  me,  even  as  I  speak. 
Dragging  mo  out  from  the  glow  of  your  room. 
Out  from  the  light  of  your  face  and  your  form. 

Out  in  the  storm. 

Out  in  the  storm ! 
Lingering,  shrinking,  still  dreading  to  go — 
Dreading  to  face  the  wild  tempest  and  snow, 
Fearing  to  meet  the  fierce  battle  of  life, 
Cowering  back  from  its  turmoil  and  strife-^ 
Bitterest,  hardest  of  all  in  this  hour. 
Is  it  to  know  that  forever  we  part. 
Never  to  bold  you  again  to  my  heart, 
Only  to  dream  of  my  sweet,  dainty  flower 

Out  in  the  storm. 

Out  in  the  storm ! 
So,  love,  God  keep  you  safe,  happy,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  with  comfort  and  love  to  remain, 
Never  to  struggle  with  sorrow  and  pain ; 
Give  me  the  battle — ^the  fight  with  the  blast— 
Little  it  matters,  for  sorrow  like  this 
Brings  all  death's  bitterness.    Give  me  the  last 
Clasp  of  your  hand — the  last  passionate  kiss. 
So  God  be  with  you  and  keep  you  His  own ; 
Pity  me,  wandering  and  straggling  alone^ 

Out  in  the  storm. 

"They  pass  best  over  the  world,"  said  Qneen 
Elizabeth,  *'  who  trip  over  it  quickly ;  for  it  is 
but  a  bog~if  we  stop  we  sink." 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


HOME   MISSIONARIES. 


BT  MBS.  £.  B.  DUFFEY. 


MRa  DRAPER  waa  in  her  best— silk  dress, 
velvet  cloak  and  bonnet,  daintj  gloves 
and  boots,  and  she  carried  a  well-filled  satchel 
or  travelling-bag  in  her  hand.  She  found  Mrs. 
Cameron  at  home,  dressed  in  a  prettjr  cashmere 
impper  and  neat  gingham  apron,  busy  with 
her  mending  basket  Any  other  lady  than 
Mrs.  Cameron  would  have  had  her  caller  seated 
in  the  cold  parlor,  and  kept  her  waiting  for 
tventy  minutes  or  so  while  she  made  a  **  pre- 
Knfable"  if  not  an  elaborate  toilet.  ''Bui 
then  yoa  know  Mrs.  Cameron  is  peculiar." 
And  one  of  her  peculiarities  was  that  you  had 
always  to  take  her  as  you  found  her.  If  she 
was  busy  in  her  kitchen  when  you  called,  she 
would  come  in  direct  from  the  kitchen,  ju»t  as 
she  was,  with  perhaps  a  word  of  explanation, 
which  you  might  take  for  an  apology  if  you 
chose,  and  that  was  all  there  was  about  it.  For 
the  rest,  she  was  just  as  much  at  ease  as  though 
•he  was  dressed  for  the  occasion,  and  nevei 
leemed  to  give  farther  thought  to  her  appear- 
ance. 

So  Mrs.  Draper  was  shown  at  once  into  the 
mug,  cosey,  light  sitting-room,  with  its  open 
piano,  its  hanging-baskets  of  trailing  money- 
wort, its  stand  of  geraniums  and  roses,  its  cor- 
nice of  glossy-green  ivy,  and  its  walls  hung 
with  engravings  and  chromos,  and  its  mistress 
titling  at  her  work,  the  cheerfulest  sight  of  all. 
There  is  no  picture  so  home-like  as  a  woman 
sewing.  Those  dainty  ladies  who  scarcely 
know  the  use  of  a  needle  do  not  realize  how 
much  more  cliarming  they  might  become. 

"  I  have  not  come  calling  to-day,"  said  Mrs. 
Draper.  "  I  am  out  on  a  matter  of  duty,  and 
I  have  come  to  see  if  you  will  not  go  with  me." 

Mrs.  Cameron  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  You  know  that  block  of  houses  in  the  next 
street— Rotten-Row,  they  call  it — such  dreadful 
houses,  and  such  dreadful  people  live  in  them  I 
I  do  think  it  is  our  duty  as  Christian  women 
to  try  what  can  be  done  to  improve  them. 
Poor,  ignorant  people !  I  dare  say  ihey  have 
never  had  any  one  to  show  them  any  better, 
and  with  our  privileges  and  opportunities  we 
•hall  be  really  culpable  if  we  do  not  try  to  do 
what  we  can  to  reform  them." 

"But  what  do  you  propose  doing?" 

"Visiting  them,  of  course,  and  talking  with 
them,  and  showing  them  how  they  can  improve. 


The  way  is  all  very  plain.    Come,  get  yourself 
ready." 

''  I  do  not  think  I  see  my  way  clearly.  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  shall  know  what  to  say." 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  that.  If  you 
will  go  with  me  to  keep  me  company,  I  will  do 
all  the  necessary  talking,  and  you  need  not  say 
a  word  unless  tlie  spirit  moves  you." 

After  some  litile  further  hesitation,  Mrs. 
Cameron  rather  reluctantly  laid  aside  her 
mending  basket. 

"  Dress  in  your  best,"  remarked  Mrs.  Draper 
as  Mrs.  Cameron  was  about  to  leave  the  room. 
*'It  is  necessary,  in  dealing  with  such  people, 
to  make  an  impression  on  them,  and  put  them 
in  awe  of  you  if  possible." 

Mrs.  Cameron  came  down  arrayed  very 
plainly,  in  spite  of  her  friend's  injunction. 

"It  is  a  shame,"  resumed  Mrs.  Draper,  as 
they  were  walking  briskly  over  the  crisp  snow 
on  the  pavement,  "  that  we  should  spend  so 
much  money,  and  labor  so  hard  to  spread  the 
gospel  among  the  heathens,  when  here  we  have 
heathens  at  our  very  elbows  that  we  scarcely 
give  a  thought  to.  I  have  been  studying  over 
the  subject  of  home  missions  lately,  and  am^ 
fully  convinced  that  there  is  a  work  for  us  to 
do  here  in  our  very  midst.  If  we  women  of 
the  church  were  to  take  hold  of  the  matter 
earnestly  and  in  a  proper  spirit,  we  might 
accomplish  much  good.  I  for  one  am  deter- 
mined to  be  more  observant  of  these  duties  in 
future." 

"  I  do  not  think  T  Was  born  for  a  missionary," 
was  Mrs.  Cameron's  rejoinder.  *'  I  cannot 
imagine  myself  preaching  to  these  people,  and 
telling  them  what  they  ought  to  do  and  what 
they  ought  not  to  do,  especially  when  I  am  so 
faulty  myself— so  often  remiss  in  my  duties." 

There  was  some  little  hesitation  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Draper  when  they  reached  the  first 
door,  and  as  for  Mrs.  Cameron,  her  courage 
fairly  forsook  her.  When  they  had  gained 
entrance,  Mrs.  Draper  at  first  seemed  scarcely 
/  to  know  what  to  say. 

(  The  floor  was  carpetless,  the  windows  curtain- 
^  leJ»R,  and  the  whole  abode  wore  an  air  of  dis- 
^  comfort  and  neglect.  A  pale,  thin  woman  sat 
s  nursing  a  fretful  child,  and  three  or  four  other 
;  children  were  playing  about  the  floor.  Tli« 
f  woman  began  an  apology  about  the  disorder 

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of  the  apartment ;  but  before  well  hearing  her 
through  Mre.  Draper  got  her  text  and  had  her 
aermon  prepared. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Stephens,"  said  she,  "  do  yon 
think  it  is  Tlg}\i  to  keep  such  a  disorderly 
house?  It  only  requires  a  little  care  to  make 
things  cheerful  and  comfortable.  You  may 
not  be  able  to  buy  fine  clothes  and  furniture, 
but  you  can  at  least  keep  your  children  and 
your  house  clean.  Water  costs  nothing,  soap 
next  to  nothing,  and  a  little  elbow  grease  is 
all  else  that  is  needed.  You  can't  expect  your 
husband  fo  stay  at  homo  contented  in  such  a 
dismal  place.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  drive  him 
to  the  grog-shop,  you  should  try  to  make  home 
pleasant  for  htm.  That  Is  a  woman's  special 
business ;  and  the  woman  who  does  not  do  that 
is  not  good  for  much,  whatever  else  she  may 
do." 

I  do  not  know  how  long  Mrs.  Draper  would 
have  continued  if  Mrs.  Stephens,  recovered 
from  the  astonishment  which  at  first  struck  her 
dumb,  had  not  oi)ened  her  mouth,  and  "given 
her  as  goml  as  she  sent" — as  she  told  her  next 
door  neighbor  over  the  palings  of  the  back 
fence  some  half  hour  afterward,  when  the  two 
compared  notes— in  fact  a  good  deal  better;  for 
the  tenants  of  "  Rotten  Row  "  were  not  at  all 
fastidious  in  regard  to  language,  and  generally 
conveyed  what  they  intended  to  be  forcible 
ideas  in  the  most  forcible  words. 

Mrs.  Cameron  did  not  know  whether  to  be 
amused  or  frightened.  She  finally  tried  to 
Bay  a  few  words  to  soothe  the  irritated  Mrs. 
Stephens,  but  with  only  partial  effect;  and  it 
was  not  until  she  had  praised  the  baby,  and 
kissed  his  ruddy  cheek  and  patted  his  fat  legs, 
that  the  mother  seemed  in  any  degree  mollified. 
The  two  ladies  might  have  got  out  under  a  flag 
of  truce  if  Mr.  Stephens  had  not  chanced  to 
come  in,  something  the  worse  for  liquor. 

Mrs.  Draper  found  the  opportunity  too  good 
to  be  lost,  and  so  proceeded  to  lecture  the  half- 
tlpsy  man  on  his  duty  to  his  family,  and  the 
sin  of  spending  his  time  and  money  at  the 
tavern ;  producing  an  effect  that  can  be  better 
imagined  than  described.  Every  one  knows 
that  a  drunken  man  is  not  particularly  amena- 
ble to  reason ;  and  the  result  was  that  the  two 
ladies  had  it  intimated  to  them  that  their  room 
would  be  more  desirable  than  their  company. 
So  Mrs.  Draper  arose  with  a  sigh,  and  signed 
to  Mrs.  Cameron  to  take  their  leave. 

The  scene  in  this  house  was  repeated  with 
rariations  through  the  entire  row.  All  were 
more  or  lefw  angry  and  indignant;  all  more  or 
leas   demonstrative.     "Such   impertiuencer 


"  Did  you  ever  see  the  like?  Setting  up  to  be 
so  much  better  than  other  folks!"  were  the 
comments  that  met  their  ears  as  they  cloeed 
the  doors  behind  them.  Nevertheless,  Mrs. 
Draper  went  resolutely  through  her  self-ap- 
pointed mission,  giving  at  every  place  her 
advice  and  reproof  in  the  manner  and  degree 
she  deemed  necessary.  She  urged  on  one 
mother  to  be  more  attentive  to  her  household 
or  to  her  children ;  another  was  reproved  for 
not  sending  her  children  to  school  instead  of 
letting  them  run  the  streets ;  from  another  she 
tried  to  exact  a  promise  that  her  children 
should  attend  Sunday-school.  On  all  she 
urged  the  duty  of  attending  church ;  and  at 
every  house  she  drew  from  her  dainty  satchel 
a  tract  or  two,  and  left  them  with  the  ex- 
pressed hope  that  their  reading  might  prove 
beneficial. 

Mrs.  Cameron  accompanied  her  faithfully 
until  the  last  visit  was  paid,  though  she  re- 
solved she  would  never  attempt  a  like  "duty  " 
again. 

"There  I  I  am  glad  that  is  over !"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Draper,  in  a  tone  of  relief;  "we  cannot 
always  expect  the  path  of  duty  to  be  thornless; 
and  we  ought  not  to  shrink  from  it  when  we 
do  not  find  it  so." 

"  But  do  you  think  this  is  quite  the  way  to 
do  good  to  these  poor  people?"  asked  Mrs. 
Cameron  hesitatingly.  "  Now  I  do  not  believe 
I  should  quite  like  any  one  to  talk  to  me  in 
that  manner,  showing  me  my  faults  and  telling 
me  how  to  correct  them," 

"  No,  of  course  you  would  not,"  was  the  re- 
joinder ;  "  but  then  these  people  are  not  like 
you  and  me.  If  they  were,  they  would  oot 
need  missionaries." 

Mrs.  Cameron  quietly  but  firmly  declined 
to  do  any  further  missionary  duty  in  company 
with  Mrs.  Draper,  and  so  that  lady  heroically 
and  perseveringly  paid  her  visits  week  after 
week.  Heroically,  I  said,  for  it  undoubtedly 
required  real  moral  heroism  to  go  where  she 
was  liable  to  have  the  door  slammed  in  her 
face,  and  when  the  very  boys  soon  got  to  jeer 
and  hoot  after  her  in  the  streets.  But  she  be- 
lieved in  her  "  duty,"  and  so  she  went  through 
with  it  feeling  like  a  martyr  and  really  acting 
like  one. 

Mrs.  Cameron's  experience  of  that  afternoon 
produced  one  good  result.  She  had  her  in- 
terest aroused  about  these  people  who  were  so 
near  to  her  and  yet  so  far  removed  from  her ; 
and  felt  anxious  to  see  more  of  them,  if  it  were 
only  to  prove  to  them  that  she  look  an  un- 
willing share  in  that  day's  proceedings.    So 


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SI 


wbererer  she  met  them  she  took  pains  to  speak 
to  them,  and  more  than  once  she  stopped  in  front 
of  Mrs.  Stephens's  door  to  say  a  smiling  word  to 
the  faebj.  Once,  when  Mr.  Stephens  happened 
to  be  sober,  she  lingered  to  talk  to  him,  and 
was  sarpriaed  to  find  an  intelligent  and  toler- 
ably well-informed  man. 

She  was  telling  her  hushand  ahoat  him  that 
evening,  and  expressed  her  interest  in  him. 

"I  think,"  said  she,  ''that  if  you  would  talk 
to  him  you  might  do  him  some  good.  Not 
tiler  Mrs.  Draper*s  style,"  she  added  with  a 
nile;  *'but  abont  things  that  interest  you 
both.  Let  him  see  that  yon  think  he  is  worth 
tdking  to,  and  perhaps  he  will  take  pride  in 
■bowing  hiniKclf  worlh  it.  He  says  he  likes  to 
road — 'peruse,'  he  calls  it.  Why  is  it  that 
these  people  when  they  talk  to  me  seem  to 
think  it  necessary  to  use  the  biggest  words 
they  kBOw  the  meaning  of?  They  do  not  read, 
they  '  peruse  f  they  do  not  think,  they  'reflect,' 
or  *  meditate ;'  they  do  not  live  at  any  place, 
they  •reside.'" 

"Can  you  not  understand  this ?"  asked  Mr. 
Cameron.  "  It  is  only  a  proof  of  what  you  say. 
Tour  presence  has  an  effect  upon  them  for 
good.  They  feel  that  they  must  rise  out  of  their 
common  selves  somehow,  and  that  feeling  is 
most  naturally  indicated  by  the  use  of  high- 
KMinding  words." 

A  few  evenings  after  this  conversation,  Mrs. 
Ouuei-on  saw  Mr.  Stephens  passing  her  door, 
aie  knew  whither  he  was  bound.  There  was 
a  tavern  at  the  next  comer.  A  sudden  impulse 
loxed  her.  Why  should  she  not  cheat  the  bar- 
keeper out  of  one  customer  for  one  night?  So, 
without  pausing  to  consult  with  her  husband, 
who  was  busy  reading  the  evening  newspaper, 
she  hurriedly  stepped  to  the  front  door  and 
called  to  the  passing  man. 

"  Mr.  Stephens,  1  think  you  said  you  were 
fond  of  reading.  If  you  are  not  in  too  great  a 
hurry,  and  will  come  in,  I  think  I  can  spare 
yon  a  few  newspapers." 

The  man  hesitated.  He  cast  one  glance  in 
the  direction  of  the  tavern,  then  lifted  the  latch 
and  came  up  the  walk.  When  he  had  entered 
the  house  he  did  not  seem  to  feel  exactly  at 
home  in  the  pretty  carpeted  room.  He  sat 
^ngerly  on  one  edge  of  his  chair,  and  held  on 
to  his  hat  with  both  hands.  Mrs.  Cameron 
gathered  a  tempting  collection  of  reading,  not  •{ 
forgetting  to  put  in  a  magazine  or  two  for  Mrs. 
Stephens  and  some  pretty  picture  papers  for 
the  little  ones. 

Mr.  Cameron  laid  aside  his  paper  and  began 
talung  to  the  man,  who  gradually  became  more 


at  ease.  During  the  hour  that  passed,  Mrs. 
■Cameron  sang  and  played  to  him,  showed  him 
the  pictures  on  the  wall,  adding  such  explana- 
tions as  seemed  necessary,  and  when  be  was 
about  to  go  pressed  him  to  call  again  and  bring 
his  wife  with  him. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  him  she  watched 
anxiously  from  the  window  to  see  which  way 
he  would  turn,  and  her  heart  was  filled  with 
joy  when  she  saw  him  set  his  face  homeward. 

Then  an  evening  not  long  after  that,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stephens  both  stopped  hesitatingly  at  the 
gate — it  was  spring  now — and  watched  Mrs, 
Cameron  at  work  in  her  garden.  They  needed 
but  little  urging  to  come  in.  Mrs.  Cameron 
did  not  take  them  directly  into  the  house.  She 
took  them  over  her  garden  and  showed  them 
the  hyacinths  and  narcissuses  in  bloom,  and 
interested  them  in  the  plan  of  her  flower  gar- 
den, and  told  them  the  names  of  her  seeds. 

"  I  say,  Susan,  it's  nice  to  have  a  garden  like 
this,  isn't  it?"  said  Mr.  Stephens  to  his  wife. 
"  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  be  rich !" 

"Money  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Mr. 
Stephens.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  have  as  nice  a  garden  as  this  if  you  would 
take  a  little  trouble.  Your  yard  is  the  same 
size." 

Mr.  Stephens  shook  his  head  in  donbt.  "  I 
can't  see  it,  ma'am.  Our  place  is  nothing  but 
a  pig-sty,  while  this  is  a  sort  of  paradise." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Stephens,  there  is  not  a  single 
reason  why  you  should  not  have  just  such  a 
'paradise'  if  you  wish.  I  will  draw  you  the 
plans,  and  give  yon  roots  and  seeds  enough  to 
stock  your  garden,  if  you  will  only  take  the 
time  and  trouble  to  dig  it  and  keep  it  in  order." 

Mrs.  Stephens  looked  at  her  husband  wist- 
fully, but  he  muttered  something  about  having 
no  time,  and  there  the  matter  dropped.  Then 
they  went  into  the  house^  and  there  was  more 
music  and  more  looking  at  pictures.  And  the 
two  men  talked  politics,  while  the  two  women 
compared  babies  and  discussed  household  af- 
fairs. 

"  I  wish  I  had  as  pleasant  a  home  as  you," 
Mrs.  Stephens  said  as  she  gazed  admiringly 
around  the  pretty  room. 

'*Now — pardon  me,  Mrs.  Stephens,  I  don't 
want  to  talk  to  you  as  Mrs.  Draper  does— but 
don't  you  think  you  could  make  the  home  you 
have  pleasanter?  I  know  where  there  are  lit- 
tle children  it  is  impossible  to  keep  things  in 
order.  But  you  might  have  flowers  and  pic- 
tures. Do  you  see  what  I  am  doing?"  Mrs. 
Cameron  added  after  a  pause,  as  she  pointed 
to  a  well-filled  basket  in  one  comer.    I  am 


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ARTHUR'S   HOME    MAQAZINEr 


making  a  rag  carpet.    J  had  no  idea  how  little 
time  and  trouble  it  took  to  make  one  until  I. 
tried  It.     I  thought  cartloads  of  ragn  were 
secePRarVy  and  behold  it  takes  only  a  basketful 
or  8«>." 

"I  never  made  a  rag  carpet  I  always 
thou)>lit  it  was  a  dreadful  job.  I  wonder  if  I 
couldn't  make  one/'  said  Mrs.  Stephens  mus- 
ingly. "  Somehow  it  would  seem  more  pleas- 
ant and  homelike  to  have  a  carpet  on  the 
floor." 

"  Of  connte  you  can,  and  if  I  were  you  I 
wooUi  set  right  about  it." 

'*  I  j n8t  will.  There  are  stacks  of  old  clothes 
■towed  away  up  stairsy  not  fit  for  anything  but 
carpet-rngs  I  will  go  right  at  it  to-morrow 
and  not  stop  until  I  get  it  done." 

'' J  nhall  have  to  hurry  then  or  yours  will  be 
done  fiiRt.  I  think  you  will  find  a  carpet  on 
your  floor  a  great  improvement — it  will  save 
you  so  much  scrubbing." 

Now  Mrs.  Cameron  knew  very  well  that 
Mrs.  Stephens  did  very  little  if  any  scrubbing, 
but  she  had  read  somewhere  about  the  good 
effects  of  prai»ing  a  man  for  what  he  is  not. 

''l*^'ow  I  think  of  it,"  Mrs.  Cameron  said,  as 
her  guents  were  about  to  depart,  '*  I  have  a  pair 
of  pretty  pictures  that  I  have  no  use  for,  and  if 
yon  would  like  them  I  will  give  them  to 
you  and  show  you  how  to  frame  them  in  passe 

The  pictures  were  gratefully  accepted,  and  a 
bundle  of  newspapers  and  magazines  were 
added. 

A  few  days  after  a  flower  catalogue  and  a 
choice  collection  of  seeds  were  sent  to  the 
Stephensos.  Mr.  Stephens  became  interested  in 
the  catalogue,  and  was  easily  persuaded  to  im- 
dertake  the  garden,  and  Mrs.  Cameron  came 
around  with  a  plan  drawn  for  the  fiower-beds, 
and  gave  further  assistance  by  hints  concerning 
trellises  and  arbors.  Mr.  Stephens  always  met 
every  new  suggestion  by  the  objection  of 
expense,  but  he  was  always  overruled  when  it 
was  proved  to  him  that  beyond  a  few  nails  no 
expense  was  required.  The  result  was,  the 
more  he  worked  in  his  garden  the  less  time  he 
had  for  the  tavern.  He  found  money  plentier 
with  him,  and  he  was  presently  induced  to 
take  a  newspaper  for  himself  and  family. 

The  rag-carpet  was  made,  woven  and  put 
down.  The  pictures  were  hung  up,  and  Mrs. 
Stephens  was  aroused  to  find  other  ways  of 
making  her  home  more  presentable. 

''  J  can't  always  keep  things  clean  as  a  new 
pin,"  said  she,  apologetically,  to  Mrs.  Cameron. 
_  "  Of  course  you  can  t,  with  so  many  young 


children,  and  yourself  in  such  poor  health.  I 
often  wonder  how  poor  women  who  have  no 
one  to  help  them,  and  with  half  a  dosen  chil- 
dren clinging  to  their  skirts,  and  themselves 
never  well,  do  as  well  as  they  do ;  and  when  I 
hear  any  one,  man  or  woman,  blaming  Uiem, 
and  telling  them  it  costs  nothing  to  be  neat 
and  clean,  I  always  feel  like  telling  him  or  her 
that  it  costs  nothing  if  they  have  the  time  and 
strength  ;  but  if  tliey  have  not,  it  might  just  as 
well  cost  millions.  Still  I  think  every  woman 
should  try  to  have  everything  in  order  at  least 
one  hour  in  the  day,  to  serve  as  a  starling  pointy 
even  if  everything  resolves  itself  into  its  origi- 
nal state  of  chaos  the  next. 

Things  were  manifestly  improving  at  the 
Stephenses,  though  Mr.  Stephens  had  not  yet 
become  a  practical  temperance  roan  by  any 
means,  and  Mrs.  Stephens  could  yet  be  loud- 
voiced  and  foul-mouthed  upon  occasion.  But 
then  she  was  certainly  developing  more 
womanly  traits.  It  is^  you  know,  "  first  the 
blade,  then  the  ear,  then  the  full  corn  in^the 
ear."    And  there  were  (K>ssibilitiefl  in  her  case. 

Mrs.  Draper  called  again  on  Mrs.  Cameron 
one  day  in  midsummer.  This  time  her  000- 
tume  was  diaphanous,  her  bonnet  a  trifle  of 
black  laoe,  and  her  parasol  white,  lined  with 
pink. 

Mrs.  Cameron  inquired  bfter  her  missionary 
labors.    "  Do  you  still  visit  *  RoUen-Kow  ?' " 

**  Oh,  yes.  I  have  been  once  a  month  ever 
since  last  winter.  Yon  know  we  are  told  never 
to  weary  in  well  doing." 

**  What  success  have  you  had  ?" 

"Oh,  it  is  very  discouraging.  It  is  only  the 
last  time  that  at  one  house  they  called  me  to 
come  and  take  my  tracts  away  again,  saying 
they  '  wouldn't  touch  them  with  a  pair  of  tongs.' 
However,  I  am  sure  I  see  some  good  results 
from  my  visits.  They  treat  me  just  as  bud  as 
ever,  but  there  are  signs  of  improvement  in  the 
neighborhood." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hoar  it.    In  what  way  ?" 

*'  Well,  there  is  Stephens;  they  say  he  don't 
get  drunk  nearly  as  often  as  he  used  to,  and 
spends  his  spare  time  at  home,  making  things 
look  pleasant.  You  ought  to  see  his  flower- 
garden  i  It  is  quite  a  show.  And  some  of  the 
neighbors,  seeing  him  looking  so  nice^  have 
begun  to  fix  themselves  up  a  little.  So  the 
row  does  not  look  so  forlorn  as  it  did.  To  be 
sure,  he  is  just  as  surly  to  me  as  ever.  But  I 
don't  mind  that,  so  long  as  my  visits  have  such 
a  good  eflTect  I  believe  such  people  may  feel 
gratitude,  but  they  are  at  a  loss  how  to  mani- 
fest it.    I  never  lose  an  opportunity  of  giving 


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BURY    THE    HATCHET, 


Stephens  a  word  of  adyioe  about  his  duties  to 
himwlf  and  family.  He  takes  it  in  very  poor 
part,  and  not  long  ago  he  actually  said  if  I 
vere  not  a  lady  he  would  set  the  dog  on  me. 
But  i  forgave  him  all  the  more  readily  because 
I  believe  be  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  the 
good  1  had  done  him. 

''And  then  there  is  bis  wife.  You  cannot 
believe  the  change  there  is  in  her  and  her 
home  since  that  first  visit  we  paid  together. 
It  is  just  as  I  said  then :  *  These  people,  some 
of  them,  only  want  to  be  told  when  and  how 
they  are  wrong.'  I  really  felt  it  my  duty  the  • 
last  time  I  was  there  to  praise  her  for  the  way 
in  which  she  had  carried  ont  my  suggestions. 
We  shoald  do  all  we  can  to  encourage  such 
people." 

"  So  we  ought,  if  we  only  knew  how." 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.  I  am  so  sorry  for  yon  that 
700  do  not  see  yoar  way  clearly  to  work  with 
me.  I  think  we  ought  never  to  shrink  from  a 
duty,  however  disagreeable.  I  wish  that  you 
had  shared  the  trouble  yfith  me  so  that  you 
mi^ht  now  share  the  satisfaction." 

Mrs.  Draper  took  her  way  alone  to  Botten-Bow. 

If  we  would  be  missionaries  to  our  fellow 
being!)  we  must  try  to  diminish  the  distance 
between  them  and  us.  There  must  be  no  gulf 
to  be  spanned  by  condej^cenRion  or  assumption. 
But  we  must  approach  them  from  the  same 
plane  of  humanity — not  by  ourselves  descend- 
ing to  their  level,  but  by  our  superior  strength 
and  virtue  bringing  them  up  to  ours. 

■  a  !■ 

"BUEY  THE  HATCgET." 

**  T  VEAB  Walter,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  "  New  Year 
-L^  is  coming,  with  its  warm- hearted  greetings 
and  festal  gatherings,  to  dig  the  grave  for  old  ani- 
mosities, polish  brighter  the  chain  of  friendship, 
and  draw  closer  about  the  heart  the  cords  of  love 
forborne  and  kindred.  It  is  very  sad  to  think  of 
the  separation  between  you  and  your  only 
brother.  '  Forget  and  forgive,' "  said  the  sweet 
peacemaker,  as  she  }>assed  her  arm  caressingly 
about  her  husband's  neck. 

** Pshaw  I  Emma,"  said  her  husband,  "women 
never  go  to  the  foundation  of  anything.  You 
Kern  to  forget  the  cause  of  this  alienation.  You 
overlook  the  provocation  received.  Yon  forget 
the  benefits  he  has  never  acknowledged  by  one 
word  of  gratitude,  of  which  he  has  been  the 
i^pient  for  long  years.  And  then  this  last 
tfiront  I  will  not  bear  it,"  said  Mr.  Qrey, 
rising  and  pacing  the  floor  in  his  impatience. 
"No,  not  from  my  own  mother's  son." 


"  No,  I  do  not  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Grey  mildly. 
"  I  know  you^re  the  injured  party.  I  know  he 
has  abused  your  generous  kindness.  So  much 
the  more  magnanimous  in  you  to  forgive.  If 
there  remain  in  him  a  spark  of  the  nobleness 
you  possess  it  will  be  fanned  into  a  flame  by  your 
generosity.  Bemember,  you  were  rocked  in  the 
samoKsradle,  nursed  at  the  same  breast,  lulled 
to  sleep  by  the  same  nursery  song,  repeated 
your  infant  prayer  at  the  same  knee.  Any  one 
can  resent  an  injury,  dear  Walter,  it  were 
Christ-like  to  *  turn  the  other  cheek.'  " 

Tears  filled  the  eyes  of  the  loving  husband. 
Pressing  his  lips  to  her  forehead  he  murmured : 
**  You  are  an  angel,  Mary ;  it  shall  be  as  you  say." 

In  an  elegant  house  at  the  upper  end  of 

street,  a  fine  looking  man,  in  the  prime  of  life, 
was  receiving  with  his  wife  the  customary  New 
Year's  calls.  The  warm  temperature  of  the 
apartments,  the  fragrance  of  hot-house  flowers^ 
cheated  winter  of  its  leafless  gloom.  Softly  fell 
the  skilfully  arranged  light  on  the  delicate 
work  of  the  artist  and  sculptor,  lending  a  richer 
glow  to  the  cheek  of  beauty.  The  gay  laugh, 
the  merry  jest,  the  bright,  flashing  eye,  told  of 
the  enjoyment  of  the  hour.  Through  the  day 
the  rooms  had  been  crowded  with  visitors,  for 
the  rich  have  many  friends.  Now,  at  a  late 
hour  in  the  evening,  they  sat  alone,  with  the 
same  thought  busy  at  their  hearts,  each  aware^ 
by  a  sort  of  magnetism,  of  what  was  passing  in 
the  mind  of  the  other,  and  yet  both  were  silent. 
It  was  late  to  expect  other  visitors,  and  they 
were  about  to  retire,  when  steps  in  the  hall 
arrested  their  attention,  and  in  an  instant 
Walter  Grey  stood  before  his  brother. 

Extending  his  hand,  and  in  a  voice  trembling 
with  emotion,  he  said:  ''I  shall  sleep  better 
to-night,  my  brother,  to  say  'a  Happy  New 
Year'  to  you." 

Harry  tightly  grasped  the  profiered  hand 
and  said  in  a  husky  voice:  "May  God  bless 
yon,  Walter,  I  did  not  expect  this ;  nay,  more,  I 
did  not  deserve  it" 

"  Say  no  more,"  said  Mr.  Grey,  wiping  away 
the  tears  he  had  tried  to  conceal.  "  Let  by- 
gones be  by-gones.  God  forbid  our  children 
should  grow  up  as  strangers  to  each  other." 

Dear  reader,  let  not  the  coming  New  Year 
find  you  with  a  bitter  hatred  rankling  and  fes- 
teri  ng  at  you r  heart.  Al  1  are  imperfect ;  oflences 
will  come;  but  life  is  short,  and  the  meek 
suflerer  on  Calvary  has  said :  *  Father,  forgive 
them,  they  know  not  what  they  do;'  and  hath 
not  the  same  Heavenly  voice  spoken  theM 
words?  'Blessed  are  the  peace-makers.' " 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


BROTHER  TOM'S  WIFE. 


••TP  you  do  many  that  girl,  Brother  Tom, 

X  V\[  have  nothing  to  do  with  her.  I  won't 
visit  her,  nor  call  her  sister,  nor  speak  to  her  I" 

And  Lizzie  Lawton  pat  on  as  outraged  and 
indignant  an  air  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
assume. 

"  What's  the  objection?"  asked  Brother  Tom 
in  his  cool  way,  fixing  his  large,  calm  eyes 
upon  the  pretty  face  of  his  sister,  as  she  sat 
uneasily  swaying  half  around  and  back  again 
on  the  piano-stool. 

"  Objection  \"  The  young  lady's  cherry  lip 
curled.    "Who  is  she?    What  is  she?" 

"A  sweet-tempered,  right-thoughted,  true- 
hearted  young  woman,  who  will  make  me  a 
good  little  wife.  Are  you  answered,  sister 
mine  ?" 

"A  sewing-girl  I"  said  Lizzie  contemptu- 
ously. 

''What  our  mother  was,  as  I  have  been  told, 
before  her  marriage,"  answered  Brother  Tom. 
"And,  if  my  eyes  have  not  deceived  me,  she 
has  been  a  sewing- woman  ever  since,  or,  at 
least,  ever  since  my  recollection  of  her." 

"That's  another  thing,"  said  the  sister. 
"Mother  was  superior  to  her  class,  and  has 
risen  above  it." 

**  Suppose  I  answer  your  objection  to  Har- 
riet, and  say  that  she  is  superior  to  her  class, 
and  will  rise  above  it?  What  then?  My 
fitther  made  a  good  matrimonial  venture,  and 
I  may  do  the  same." 

"  But  why,  Brother  Tom,"  urged  the  sister, 
"don't, you  choose  a  wife  from  among  those  on 
your  own  level  7" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  those  on  our  own 
level  ?    Let  us  understand  each  other." 

"  From  among  those  who  move  in  our  own 
oircles.  From  the  educated,  refined,  and  ac- 
eomplifthed." 

"Such  as  the  Misses  Walton,  for  instance?" 

"  Yes;  or  the  Misses  Eden." 

"Whose  father  supports  them  in  idleness, 
and  expect  the  young  men  who  marry  them 
to  do  the  same.  Now,  Lizzie,  the  fact  of  the 
business  is,  I  like  Mary  Eden  very  well,  and 
once  came  so  near  falling  in  love  with  her 
that  I  was  really  frightened.  I  did  not  go 
near  her  pretty  face  for  six  months  after  I  felt 
the  first  movement  of  the  tender  passion." 

"Dear  Mary  I  O  Tom!  Why  not  marry 
her?    I  could  love  her  as  my  own  sister." 

"Can't  afibrd  it,  petty.    I'm  but  a   poor 
(34) 


young  man,  and  have  only  my  talents  and  in- 
dustry to  help  me  forward  in  the  world. 
Mary  can't  do  anything  herself,  and  would 
expect  me  to  put  her  in  an  establishment 
but  little  less  costly  than  the  one  her  father 
owns." 

"  Oh  I  but,  Tom,  there'll  be  no  necessity  for 
going  to  housekeeping  at  first.  And  then,  y  oa 
know,  her  father  is  well  off  in  the  world,  and 
he'll  give  her  a  house  and  furnish  it,  no  doubt, 
when  she  is  married." 

But  Tom  shook  his  head. 

"  Mary  Eden's  father,"  he  replied,  "  may  or 
may  not  be  rich.  My  own  private  opinion  is 
that  he  is  living  up  to,  if  not  a  little  beyond 
his  income.  And  as  to  the  house  and  furni- 
ture which  Mary's  husband  is  going  to  f^t, 
that  is  something  very  fine  to  feed  a  fancy 
upon.  The  real  bricks  and  mortar  is  another 
affair." 

"  Oh  I  but  Mr.  Eden  is  rich,  To^" 

"  The  rich  men  of  to-day  are  our  poor  men 
of  to-morrow,  Lizzie.  I  wouldn't  give  the 
snap  of  a  finger  for  a  rich  father-in-law  aa  a 
dependence.  I  mean  to  tru5it  in  myself,  an 
honest  purpose,  and  a  clear  conscience.  And 
as  for  a  wife,  I  want  a  woman  with  life,  pur- 
pose, industry,  and  independence  in  her,  not  a 
great  bundle  of  silks,  laces,  bonneU,  and  curl 
papers,  with  a  pretty  little  helpless  do-noth- 
ing— and  I  had  almost  said  know-nothing — 
doll  hidden  somewhere  inside,  three  or  four 
feet  from  the  crinoline  circumvallation.  And 
then,  again,  Lizzie,  I  am  something  of  an  in- 
dependent young  man,  wonderfully  given  to 
the  work  of  taking  care  of  myself.  I  happen 
to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  and  if  I  ever 
get  to  the  top  of  it,  my  own  strength  will  carry 
me  there.  Now,  a  wife  on  my  hack,  instead  of 
on  the  rounds  of  the  ladder,  keeping  step  with 
me  upward,  would  be  a  dead  weight,  and  keep 
me  at  or  near  the  foot  forever.  Ko,  no,  petty, 
I  cannot  afford  one  of  your  finished  boarding- 
school  misses  for  a  wife — the  luxury  is  too  ex- 
pensive for  me.  So,  I  am  going  to  marry  a 
girl  who  knows  something  of  real  life — a  true, 
good,  patient,  enduring,  self-denying,  sweet, 
darling  little  body,  who  is  not  ashamed  to  earn 
her  living  with  her  needle.  And  I  can  tell 
you  what,  Dolly,  I  only  wish  you  were  more 
like  Harriet  Parker;  there  would  be  forty 
chances  in  favor  of  your  marrying  a  man  of 
sense  where  you  have  one  now.    Don't  you 


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*BAVE    THE   LITTLE   ONES. 


85 


know  tbat  a  new  society  has  been  formed 
among  the  young  men,  ind  that  some  of  the 
Tery  best  'catches'  among  them  have  signed 
a  pledge  not  to  marry  any  girl  who  is  not  will- 
ing to  commence  matrimonial  life  with  two 
fooms  and  a  kitchen,  and  who  doesn't  know 
how  to  bake,  cook,  and  sew,  and  to  wash  and 
ifOD  into  the  bargain  ?    I  am  the  president." 

''Pteposteronsl"  exclaimed  liuie. 

''You'll  cry  some  other  word  when  yoo  get 

00  the  old  maids'  list,  aodlsee  your  place  filled 
in  the  home  of  some  man  that  is  a  man  by  a 
woman  who  was  not  ashamed  of  nseful  employ- 
Bent  when  she  was  a  girl.  I  can  tell  you 
what^  my  dainty  little  sister,  there^s  a  reform 
at  work,  and  men  worth  haying  are  beginning 
to  choose  between  no  marriage  or  marriage 
with  gi/ls  of  plainer  notions  and  more  useful 
aeeomplishments  than  are  possessed  by  the 
botterflies  who  lounge  on  sofas  all  day,  knitting 
aephyr  or  reading  novels.  Bo  make  up  your 
mind  to  a  reform  or  old-maidism.  And  now, 
as  in  all  probability  you  understand  that  I  am 
qnitein  earnest  about  marrying  Harriet  Parker, 

1  hope  you  will  reconsider  your  hasty  resolu- 
tion about  not  speaking  to  your  sister-in-law. 
The  loss,  let  me  tell  yoo,  will  be  all  on  your 
own  side." 

Brother  Tom  understood  his  own  position 
entirely.  He  was  not  a  man  to  stoop  below 
himself  in  marrying.  He  could  not  unite  him- 
self with  one  who  was  ignorant  and  unrefined — 
against  that  his  generously  cultivated  soul 
would  haye  revolted.  But  he  wanted  n  real, 
not  an  artificial  woman — one  who  could  take 
her  place  beside  him,  as  he  had  said,  on  the 
lowest  round  of  fortune's  ladder,  and  keep  step 
with  her  upward.  Such  a  one  he  had  found 
in  Harriet  Parker,  and  he  was  independent 
enough  to  make  her  his  wife. 

Lizzie  was  not  long  in  discovering  after 
Brother  Tom  actually  got  married  and  com- 
menced housekeeping  in  two  rooms  with  his 
modest,  cheerful,  earnest-minded  wife,  that  her 
new  sister  had  about  her  something  that  in- 
sensibly won  the  love,  commanded  the  respect, 
tnd  almost  extorted  the  admiration  of  all 
who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  make  her  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  Marriage,  they  say,  makes  or  mars  a  man," 
the  brother  overheard  Lizzie  once  saying,  in 
in  undertone,  to  a  lady  friend.  '*Butit  will 
not  mar  the  fortunes  of  Brother  Tom.  He's 
got  just  the  wife  to  keep  hiro  along  in  the 
world ;  and  one  that  will  grace  any  position  to 
which  they  may  rise.'' 

**  Hy  own  sentiments  exactly,  petty,"  spoke 


out  Brother  Tom.  "  She's  a  jewel,  and  worth 
a  thousand  of  your  paste  and  tinsel  women. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  But  you  couldn't  be- 
lieye  me.  Kow,  if  you'll  go  and  apprentice 
yonrself  to  a  dressmaker,  or  a  milliner,  or  learn 
to  do  any  useful  work — ^useful,  not  simply  or- 
namental, I  mean — I  will  recommend  you  to 
the  new  president  of  the  society  I  told  you 
about  I  had  to  resign  when  I  got  married. 
He's  a  splendid  specimen,  and  will  make  a 
husband  worthy  of  a  queen." 


SAVE  THE  LITTLE  ONE& 

A  FEW  years  ago  a  steamer  was  coming 
from  California.  The  cry  of  "  Fire  I  fire  I" 
suddenly  thrilled  every  heart.  Every  efibrt 
was  made  to  stay  the  raging  flames.  But  in 
yain.  It  soon  became  evident  that  the  ship 
must  be  lost.  The  only  thought  now  was  self- 
preservation.  The  burning  ship  was  headed 
for  the  shore,  which  was  not  far  off.  A  pas- 
senger was  seen  buckling  his  belt  of  gold 
around  his  waist,  ready  to  plunge  into  the 
waye.  Just  then  a  pleading  voice  arrested 
him— 

" Please,  sir,  can  you  swim  ?"  A  child's  blue 
eyes  were  piercing  iuto  his  deepest  soul,  as  he 
looked  down  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  child,  I  can  swim." 

"  Well,  sir,  won't  you  please  to  saye  me  ?" 

"I  cannot  do  both,"  he  thought.  *' I  must 
save  the  child  or  lose  the  gold.  But  a  moment 
ago  I  was  anxious  for  all  this  ship's  company. 
Now  I  am  doubting  whether  I  shall  exchange 
a  human  life  for  paltry  gold."  Unbuckling 
the  belt  he  quickly  cast  it  from  him,  and  said : 
**  Yes,  little  girl,  I  will  try  to  save  you." 

Stooping  down,  he  bade  her  clasp  her  arms 
around  his  neck  :  ''Hold  tight  now,  and  I 
will  try  to  make  the  land."  The  child  bowed 
herself  on  his  broad  slioulders  and  clung  to 
her  deliverer.  With  a  heart  thrice  strength- 
ened and  an  arm  thrice  nerved,  he  struck  out 
for  the  shore.  Wave  after  wave  washed  over 
them,  but  still  the  brave  man  held  out,  and 
the  dear  child  held  on,  until  the  mighty  moun- 
tain billow  swept  the  sweet  treasure  from  his 
embrace,  and  cast  him  senseless  on  the  bleak 
rocks.  But  ready  hands  were  there  to  grasp 
him,  and  kind  hearts  ministered  to  him.  Be- 
covering  his  consciousness,  the  form  of  the 
dear  child  met  his  earliest  eager  gaze,  bending 
over  him  and  blessing  with  mute  but  eloquent 
benedictions. 


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WAIF. 


BT  JOSEPHINE  FULLEB. 


THERE  was  a  crimson  glow  in  the  East,  and 
the  fresh  morning  air  was  loaded  with  the 
perfumes  of  all  aromatic  things.  There  was  a 
glad  murmur  among  the  dew  gemmed  branches 
of  the  stately  trees.  The  wind  gayly  sported, 
as  if  its  wings  had  never  been  laden  with  sigh8» 
and  the  birds  carolled  their  joyousness,  unmind- 
ful of  the  chilling  winds  that  would  overtake 
them  in  the  future.  All  nature  appeared  jubi- 
lant  after  her  night's  repose. 

But  I  was  weary,  and  my  head  throbbed 
with  pain  whenever  I  raised  it  from  my  downy 
pillow.  Still  the  day's  duties  were  before  me — 
children  to  be  dressed,  husband's  meal  to  be 
prepared  before  he  could  commence  his  round 
of  toil,  and  my  weak  little  hands  were  my  only 
servants. 

How  they  trembled,  and  what  mistakes  they 
made  in  iheir  work,  notwithstanding  all  my 
efibrts  to  keep  them  firm  and  steady.  1  dropped 
some  grease  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  Baby 
Fred  spilled  coffee  on  my  pretty  calico  wrapper. 

I  was  too  ill  to  taste  the  breakfast,  but  1  felt 
sure  that  it  was  unsavory,  for  husband  ate  little 
and  scarcely  spoke  a  word.  I  noticed,  too,  that 
his  eyes  were  full  of  wistful  sadness  when  he 
touched  his  lips  to  mine  just  before  starting  to 
his  employment. 

I  wept  when  he  was  gone,  for  I  knew  that  I 
was  plain  and  he  was  handsome,  and  when  I 
thought  of  his  glorious  dark  eyes,  I  said,  per- 
chance some  careless  beauty  may  win  his  love 
from  faded,  insignificant  me. 

Although  my  heart  was  heavy  with  its 
fancied  burdens,  I  sang  softly  to  my  two  fiiir 
children,  until  th^  shut  their  eyes  like  morn- 
ing-glories,  and  were  soon  as  regardless  of  time 
as  they.  Tjien  I  walked  to  the  little  flower-gar- 
den that  my  husband  had  planted  for  me,  and 
lightly  caressed  each  dewy  bloom.  I  did  not 
linger  long  by  the  vestal  white  roees,  for  they 
seemed  cold  and  unsympathizing.  2?or  did  I 
delight  to  stay  by  the  side  of  their  deep  scarlet 
sisters,  who  had  stolen  their  hoes  from  passion's 
fiery  pain ;  bnt  I  liked  better  the  pretty  ones 
over  whose  virgin  innocence  had  come  a  faint, 
sweet  flush,  who,  as  they  tenderly  responded  to 
the  wooing  wind's  amorona  sighs,  could  not 
keep  back  a  crimson  tinge  of  maidenly  shame. 
I  love  these  modest  ones,  for  their  fragrance  is 
like  the  memory  of  good  actionS|  soothing  and 
healing  to  the  wounded  spirit. 
(36) 


So  I  pressed  one  of  my  favorites  to  my  lipi^ 
gemmed  it  with  my  tears,  and  said— ''Sweet,  I 
am  lonely,  and  I  fear  that  I  will  sink  under 
future  sorrows.  Give  me  sympathy,,  whisper 
to  me  wise  counsel." 

Gently  the  fair  blossom  moved  its  head  in 
the  cheerful  sunlight,  and  speech  appeared  to 
float  from  it  in  enchanting,  mystical  influences 
My  soul  was  calmed  aa  i  listened  to  what  it 
seemed  to  say — 

"  The  good  Father  loves  yon,  and  has  given 
you  many  blessings  with  pleasing  duties,  but 
you  overlook  all  the  bright  shining  of  the  skies^ 
and  strain  your  apprehensive  eyes  to  see  if  yoa 
can  discover  a  dark  spot  in  the  clear  expanse^ 
foretelling  dismal  weather.  Enjoy  the  present 
Make  not  a  single  moment  wearisome  by  think- 
ing what  must  be  done  the  next,  and  learn  from 
the  flowers  to  always  apparel  yourself  in  neat 
and  cleanly  garments." 

I  again  kissed  my  pretty  Mentor,  and 
breathed  my  thanks  for  its  kind  admonitions 
as  I  inhaled  its  perfumed  breath. 

It  did  not  seem  so  hard  after  this  to  do  my 
work,  for  my  fingers  were  not  unskilled  in 
household  handicraft  when  I  was  unoppreaaed 
by  disheartening  imaginings. 

Occasionally  I  stole  a  glance  at  my  fair  ad- 
viser and  smiled  at  its  serene  head  gracefuUj 
nodding  at  me.  To  be  sure  I  had  often  before 
heard  the  same  maxims,  but  never  at  such  aa 
opportune  moment,  never  in  so  gracious  n 
manner. 

When  my  tasks  were  completed,  I  arrayed 
myself  in  a  fresh  and  inexpensive  dress,  ar- 
ranged my  hair  in  smooth  bands  around  my 
head,  then  reclined  on  a  sofa,  which  was  so 
placed  that  I  could  look  through  the  open  win- 
dow at  my  charming  friend.  I  became  droway 
at  last  under  the  spell  of  its  beauty,  and  slept 
so  soundly  that  in  a  short  time  the  pain  quite 
vanished  from  my  head.  I  awoke  smiling  and 
happy,  and  beheld  the  dark  eyes  of  my  husband 
beaming  fondly  and  tenderly  into  my  face. 

*^  You  have  had  a  pleasant  dream,  have  yoa 
not?"  he  inquired  in  kind,  gentle  tones. 

Then  I  related  to  him  what  my  favorite  flowa 
had  told  me,  and  when  I  finished  my  recital  he 
caught  me  in  his  arms,  kissed  me  over  and  over 
again,  and  said — "  Yon  are  my  own  pure,  sweet 
rose,  with  the  innocent  fiush  of  love  on  your 
hearL" 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


BY  YIBODTIA  F.  TOWNSEKD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OH  I  Joe  DmTton— Joe  Dayton  I  All  day  long 
JQBt  that  name  has  been  ringing  in  my  head, 
back  and  forth,  up  and  down,  round  and  round, 
like  one  of  Prudy's  old,  sweet,  sorrowful  songs. 

Tbat  isn't  the  worst  of  it,  either.  If  I  could 
keep  that  name  just  in  my  head,  and  catch  me 
minding,  but  when  words  get  down  into  a  fel- 
low's heart  they  kind  of  sUy  there  and  make 
him  "scrimmage,"  as  Cherry  would  say.  I 
wonder  now  if  that  is  just  a  girl's  word. 
Tbey  always  contrive  to  get  hold  of  such  funny 
OQe&  If  I  am  ever  rich  enough  to  buy  a  "  Web- 
ster's Unabridged,"  PU  find  out.  Such  acoliinin 
of  big  words  as  Pve  put  down  against  the  day 
when  I  shall  find  I  am  rich  enough  to  own  a 
dictionary !  But  that  time  must  be  h  long  way 
off— such  an  awful  long  way  that  it  seems  a 
good  deal  like  "  forever  and  ever.  Amen  !" 

It  seems  as  though  somebody  was  dead,  and 
yet  I  know  it's  all  because  Joe  Dayton  has  gone 
to  sea.  To  think  he  and  I  won't  cry  any 
more  •*  The  Morning  News  "  or  "  The  Evening 
Standard"  on  Thornley  Common,  or  round 
Merchants'  Block ! 

We've  been  in  business  together,  Joe  and  I, 
newsboys,  for  more  than  two  years,  and  I  tell 
jou  it  comes  tough  on  a  fellow  to  break  up 
partnership. 

We've  had  softie  good  times  together,  and 
plenty  of  rough  ones,  too.  Joe  out  there  at 
tea,  with  the  great  blue  lonely  waves  crawling 
aad  crawling  forever  around  the  ship's  side,  and 
looking  up  at  him  with  their  cold,  hungry,  sul- 
len laces,  will  think  about  the  hurricanes  we've 
iboght  through  and  the  sting  of  the  sleet  in  our 
fiu»i,  and  the  cold  nights  when  we've  had  to 
knock  oar  feet  on  the  stones  to  keep  them  from 
freexing,  and  the  sidewalks,  with  the  hard, 
bright  icci  where  we've  had  many  a  tumble, 
and  the  portico  of  the  old  South  Church,  where 
we  used  to  huddle  to  keep  the  papers  dry  in 
many  a  soaking  shower.  I  know  Joe  Dayton 
through  and  throngh ;  he'll  think  of  it  all,  in 
the  daytimes  and  lying  awake  in  his  bunk  at 
nights. 

He'll  think,  too,  how  the  lights  come  out, 
one  l>y  one,  in  the  store  windows,  and  make 
the  old  streets  look  so  warm  and  pleasant  and 
full  of  life,  and  how  the  people  hurry  by  to 
their  homes,  and  he'll  think  of  me,  shouting 

TOt.  ZZXTU.— 8 


the  **New8  "  and  "J^ndard  "  round  the  comera, 
and  he'll  know  what  dreary  work  it  is,  and 
what  a  poor  little  pipe  and  squeak  I  make  of 
it  all  alone. 

Such  a  good  fellow,  too,  as  Joe  Dayton  was  I 
There  never  was  a  bigger  heart  than  his,  if  it 
was  under  an  old  brown  rag  and  tatter  of  a 
coat  that  wasn't  fit  to  go  on  an  honest  boy's 
shoulders.  Mine  wasn't  much  to  boast  of,  but 
when  it  comes  to  rags,  Prudy  has  an  eye  for 
those  sharper  than  a  cat  for  a  mouse,  and  Joe 
Dayton  hadn't  a  sister,  with  little  chapped,  red 
fingers,  at  home  among  darns  and  patches- 
poor  old  Joe  I 

No  more  rolls  of  smoking  gingerbread  and 
apple  turnovers,  that  would  just  make  a  fel- 
low's mouth  water,  to  share  with  Joe,  when  we'd 
had  good  luck,  on  the  steps  of  the  Town  Hall ; 
no  more  of  the  rough  old  times,  and  the  good 
ones,  for  Joe  Dayton  has  gone  to  sea  I 

Three  years  on  a  merchant  vessel,  bound  for 
the  East  Indies  I  It  was  a  good  berth,  they 
said,  for  a  boy  who  must  begin  before  the  mast, 
and  the  crew  were  a  rough,  jolly  set,  with  a 
kindly  old  tar  for  captain  at  the  head  of  them. 

"  There's  a  chance  for  me  there,  Darley,"  Joe 
said,  "which  there  never  would  be  selling 
papers  around  Thornley.  If  [  take  to  the  life, 
maybe  in  time  I  shall  get  to  be  a  mate,  and 
what  if  I  should  slip  into  a  captain's  shoes  some 
day !  A  fellow  wants  to  make  sometlaing  of 
himself  if  he's  got  it  in  him,  you  know." 

"  I  know,  Joe,"  and  then  I  looked  up  at  the 
big,  round  face,  with  the  two  straggling  lines 
of  freckles  across  the  large  nose,  and  at  the 
bright,  honest  eyes,  and  the  pleasant  smile  that 
just  made  you  forget  all  about  the  bigness  and 
homeliness.  "Joe,"  I  said,  "you've  got  it  in 
you." 

He  laughed  at  that,  tossed  two  pennies  in 
the  air,  whistled  a  tune,  then  stopped  short  and 
turned  suddenly  upon  me  in  his  old,  solemn 
way,  with  the  old  man's  look  on  his  face.  "  Dar- 
ley," he  said,  "  the  proof  of  the  pudding's  in 
the  eating." 

But  those  three  years  I  That's  what  sticks 
in  my  crop.  Joe  will  be  sixteen  when  he  geta 
back,  and  I  shall  be  hard  on,  for  I'm  only  six 
months  behind  him.  But  three  yearn  is  an 
awful  big  slice  out  of  a  boy's  life  I 

To  think,  too,  of  the  wonderful  sights  he'U 

(87) 


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38 


ARTHUR'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


see;  the  old,  strange  citien  we  read  aboat  \ 
away  off  there  in  the  East,  and  that  seem  about 
as  real  aa  the  coufitries  in  the  moon ;  with  their 
mosques,  where  the  crescent  sparkles  in  the 
hot  sun,  and  the  dark  faces  of  the  men  under 
their  turbans,  and  the  long  droves  of  camels, 
and  the  wide,  still,  gray  deserts^  and  the  mighty 
forests,  shaken  suddenly  with  the  roar  of  the 
lion.«.  and  thegreaC  palm  trees,  with  the  sudden 
hiss  of  winds  among  their  leaves. 

It  stirs  the  blood  in  me  when  I  think  of 
these  things,  and  Joe  amongst  them  all,  and 
I'd  have  cut  sticks  and  been  off  with  him  before 
the  mast,  but  there  was  Prudy  and  Cherry,  and 
when  it  came  to  leaving  them  here  all  alone  in 
the  old  "lean-to"  at  Thornley,  it  wasnH  to  be 
thought  of— no  sir,  not  for  all  the  wonderful 
sights  in  the  whole  world — not  even  with  a 
free  ticket  to  the  moon  clapped  into  the  bar- 
gain. Yet,  for  all  that,  ii*s  hard  on  a  fellow 
sometimes  to  give  up  his  chances. 

Tra  glad  I  went  with  Joe  over  to  the  next 
town  that  last  morning.  I  fancy  it  must  have 
been  a  pleasant  one,  for  now  I  remember  how 
the  golden  rod  by  th^  stone-walls  shone  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  frosts  glittered  in  the  grass, 
but  somehow  it  seemed  all  the  way  just  like 
going  to  a  funeral. 

Didn't  each  try  to  put  on  a  brave  face  though, 
cracking  jokes  and  laughing  loud — the  wrong 
side  of  one's  mouth  though. 

The  worst  of  it  was  when  we  got  to  Meetings 
House  Bridge,  but  we  made  short  work  of  it 
there.  Joe  and  I  shook  hands,  and  I  had  a 
fight  for  every  word  with  that  lump  in  my 
throat,  which  was  all  ready  to  be  a  greatswelling 
sob.    • 

"Bring  me  back  a  green  and  red  parrot,  or  a 
leopard's  hide,  or  the  biggest  old  crocodile  in 
all  the  rivers,"  I  said. 

"  Hang  me  to  the  mast  if  I  don't  do  some- 
thing better  than  that,  old  fellow,"  said  Joe, 
but  his  voice  was  husky  and  his  lip  was  quiv- 
ering. 

We  weren't  girls,  you  know.  But  one  mo- 
ment more  and  it  would  have  been  out — a  big 
**  boo-hoo "  on  one  side  or  both.  We  griped 
each  other's  hands  and  hurried  off.  We  weren't 
babies,  I  guess.  Boys  in  their  teens  are  far  on 
the  road  to  being  men,  and  that's  Joe  Dayton's 
case  and  mine ! 

Well,  I  must  make  the  best  of  it,  but  it's 
tough.  Prudy  and  Cherry  haven't  mentioned 
the  subject.  They  knew  I  couldn't  bear  to 
talk  about  it,  but  one  can  say  to  smooth,  white 
paper  sometimes  what  one  cannot  to  human 
ears. 


I  think  it's  done  me  good,  writing  this  here. 
My  father's  youngest  brother  was  a  "super- 
cargo," you  see,  and  kept  his  accounts  in  this 
old  book,  and  only  wrote  on  one  side  the  page. 
It's  lucky  for  me  that  he  didn't  have  to  pinch 
for  paper.  I  came  on  it  yesterday  in  the  old 
blue  chest  op  iu  the  attire. 

Prudy  would  say  it  was  a  providence,  but 
I'm  not  good,  like  Prudy.  I  don't  feel  certain 
how  much  providence  has  to  do  with  these 
small  things,  but  anyhow  these  are  the  £scts. 
I  was  so  restless  and  miserable  yesterday  thai 
I  came  up  in  the  attic  to  get  away  from  folks, 
and  somehow  I  got  to  rummaging  in  tlie  old, 
blue  sea-chest,  and  came  at  last  upon  a  streak 
of  good  luck  in  the  shape  of  this  old  account 
book. 

I  wonder  now  if  when  Joe  comes  back,  after 
all  he's  seen  and  been  through,  he'll  find  things 
just  the  same  with  me,  selling  the  "^om"  and 
"  Standard**  round  the  Common  and  corner,  and 
Prudy  going  to  the  armory  to  fold  books,  with 
the  old  troubled  look  in  her  eye»y  and  if  Cherry 
will  be  just  the  same  dear  little  warm  dumpling 
of  a  girl  she  is  now. 

Well,  it  looks  pretty  rough  to  a  boy  who 
longs  to  be  bumping  about  the  world  doing 
something  strong  and  brave  for  himself,  and 
who  envies  the  boys  who  can  go  to  school  every 
day,  with  their  books  strapped  snugly  upon 
their  shoulders,  and  who  never  have  suppers 
and  breakfasts  on  their  minds. 

Well,  I  say  the  plums  fall  into  some  laps  and 
the  dry  branches  and  the  dead  leaves  into 
others,  and  this  last  has  beei^  my  share. 

Well,  this  is  an  old  humbug  of  a  world  any- 
how, and  I  hate  it  like  snakes. 

But  then,  there's  Prudy  and  Gierry,  and  the 
suppers  and  breakfasts. 

It's  about  time  \he'^ Standard**  was  out  and  I 
must  be  off. 

Oh  !  to  go  hawking  the  papers  up  and  down 
the  streets  and  to  think  of  you  tumbling  about 
on  the  great,  wide,  blue  sea,  Joe  Dayton  ! 

Darley  Hawes,  aged  thirteen  and  three-quar- 
ters, wrote  the  above.  I  had  intended,  at  firnt, 
to  commence  his  story  myaolf,  but  when  I  came 
across  this  part  of  it,  in  the  old,  brown-covered, 
yellow-leave<l  supercago's  book,  I  concluded  to 
let  him  begin  for  himself.  He  could  do  that 
so  much  better  than  I. 

And  so,  although  I  by  no  means  intend  to 
renounce  my  original  intention,  and  let  him 
have  all  the  talk  to  himself,  still  I  think  it 
highly  probable  that  during  the  course  of  thJA 
story  I  shall  now  and  then  go  back  to  the  old. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAT. 


ydlow  leaTet  and  let  the  boy  tell  some  passages 
of  his  tale  in  his  own  worde— words  which  have 
at  least  this  one  merit :  they  came  right  out  of 
tome  depth  of  him — some  tronble  or  gladness 
of  the  time— and  he  would  have  been  utterly 
horri6ed  had  the  faintest  suspicion  struck  him 
that  these  words  would  ever  get  inside  any 
other  book  than  the  supercargo's  old,  yellow- 
leaved  one  he  had  found  in  the  sea-chest  under 
the  attic  rafters. 

I  fimcy  that  already  you  must  have  got  some 
kind  of  an  idea  of  this  boy,  as  he  has  spoken 
to  yon  right  out  of  his  inmost  selC 

Make  the  best  of  him,  Darley  Hawes  was 
Toy  far  from  perfect  Indeed,  when  you  came 
to  his  faults  and  failings,  they  would  run  up 
Rich  a  heavy  score  that  I  don't  like  to  set  them 
down  against  him. 

There  are  precious  few  of  us,  however,  of 
whom,  come  down  to  the  honest  truth,  one  could 
ny  much  more  than  that,  and  I  think,  before 
my  story  is  through,  you  will  discover  there 
were  many  good  things — despite  all  the  fail- 
ings— to  be  said  about  this  Darley  Hawe»  I 

He  was  the  second  of  his  family,  nnd  all  told, 
the  household  numbered  but  three.  Prudy 
was  more  than  two  years  her  brother's  senior, 
and  Cherry  had  just  scrambled  out  on  the 
broad  platform  of  her  twelfth  birth-dny. 

They  lived— these  three— just  within  the 
limits  of  the  smart,  bustling  little  town  of 
Thomley,  which  had  ambitions  of  its  own, 
and  had  taken  on  city  airs  in  consequence  of  a 
swimming  prosperity  which  its  manufactures 
had  enjoyed  for  the  last  ten  years — ^a  prosperity 
which  developed  itself  in  certain  tall  brick 
aquares,  with  handsome  stone  fronts  and  on 
the  principal  thoroughfare  in  stately  blocks, 
with  granite  trimmings  or  marble  facades. 

Bat  with  all  these  things  the  family  in  the 
old,  brown  "lean-to,"  on  the  outskirts  of 
Thomley,  had  little  to  do.  Its  present  occu- 
pants had  given  their  dwelling  that  name,  and 
I  think  it  had  somehow  obtained  more  or  less 
among  the  surrounding  inhabitants. 

There  was  a  kind  of  fitness,  a  certain  quaint 
sense  of  humor  in  this  cognomen,  which  one 
felt  at  first  sight  of  the  old  house— and  drcad- 
faWy  old  it  was,  rafters  and  timber  hoary  with 
at  least  a  century — the  roof  sloping  sharply 
down  on  the  back  side  to  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  groandp 

The  front,  with  its  small,  old-fashioned  rows 
of  windows,  laced  the  south,  and  the  sunshine 
of  a  hundred  years  had  lingered  late  and  lov- 
ingly upon  the  ancient  house,  whose  old  age 
was  ahelteriDg  the  yoiing  lives  making  such  a 


hard  fight  for  breath  and  footing  in  thd  world. 
And  a  struggle  and  a  fight  it  was.  Think  of 
it  now.  There  were  but  three  of  them— the 
oldest  a  girl  just  across  the  frontier  of  her  six- 
teenth birth-day,  with  a  strange  shadow  of  old 
age  on  the  youth  of  her  face. 

No  wonder,  when  you  come  to  think  how 
the  great  problem  of  Prudy  Hawes's  life  was 
a  practical  solution  of  the  science  of  economy, 
her  constant  efibrt  to  reduce  this  latter  to  the 
greatest  attenuation  of  which  the  thing  was 
susceptible ;  to  make,  in  short,  one  dollar  do  the 
work  of  two,  or  rather  of  half-a-dozen. 

She  was  never  idle.  Four  hours  of  every 
day  she  went  to  fold  books  in  the  armory,  the 
name  the  old  building  which  had  been  recently 
converted  into  a  printing-house  still  went  by. 

Prudy 's  small  wages  had  to  be  strained  to 
oover  dinner  and  fire  and  rent.  Darley,  who, 
as  we  have  seen,  sold  newspapers,  had  to  supply 
the  breakfasts  and  suppers,  and  as  his  revenues, 
from  the  nature  of  his  business,  were  necessarily 
of  a  somewhat  uncertain  character,  the  morning 
and  evening  board  were  not  infrequently  very 
meagrely  supplied. 

As  for  all  outlying  expenses  of  the  house- 
I  .hold,  to  say  nothing  of  clothes,  Prudy's  man- 
agement was  a  marvel.  She  certainly  was  no 
worker  of  miracles,  and  yet  it  seemed  as  though 
being  anything  short  of  that  she  could  not 
.make  both  ends  meet,  which  she  actually  did, 
year  in  and  year  out. 

For  the  rest,  who  these  Haweses  were,  and 
how  they  came  to  inhabit  the  yellow-brown 
*'lean-to,"  will  develop  itself  in  due  course  of  my 
story.  Just  now  I  have  a  fancy  to  let  them 
speak  for  themselves. 

It  is  close  on  nightfall  of  the  November  day. 
For  the  last  three  weeks  the  black  frosts  have 
been  having  their  own  way  about  Thornley, 
and  dreadful  havoc  they  have  made  among 
grasses  and  leaves  and  all  late-flowering  things; 
yet  a  courageous  dahlia  or  two,  and  a  few  white 
asters,  bits  of  fire  and  hubbies  of  sea-foam,  still 
hung  on  the  blackened  stalks  in  the  small  front 
yard  of  the  old  'Mean-to,"  which  has  looked  so 
long  steadily  to  the  south,  garnering  the  sun- 
shine of  a  hundred  summers. 

Inside,  a  couple  of  young  girls  sit  in  the 
low-ceiled  west  room.  Everything  here  is 
faded  and  shabby — carpet,  chairs,  table — telling 
in  varied  wnys  the  same  story  of  straits  and 
makeshiflfs,  yet,  for  all  that,  the  old  room  pots 
the  best  face  on  the  matter,  and  has  a  kind  of 
home-look  which  many,  with  far  better  fn^ 
nishings,  do  not 

Two  girls  iit  here,  and  fbr  onoe  Prady  Hawee 


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40 


ABTHVR'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


\b  doing  nothing.  It  in  poor  eoonomy  to  strun 
one's  eyes  at  twilight,  and  she  never  lights  the 
lamp  until  the  stars  are  out  and  it  is  almost 
time  for  Darley  to  be  home. 

She  BJghA  sometimes  all  alone  to  herself, 
thinking  how  muph  cheaper  summer  is  than 
winter,  and  what  a  blessed  thing  thesim  is,  that 
shines  and  shines,  and  never  charges  a  single 
sixpence  for  light  and  warmth.  She.  does  not 
wonder  that  the  old  Parsees  worshipped  the 
Bun.  If  ^he  had  never  heard  of  the  dear  God 
who  made  it,  she,  too,  would  bring  her  offerings 
and  paj  her  devotions  to  that  glorious  old 
planet. 

Ix>ok  at  her  now.  She  is  a  pretty  girl,  with 
a  certain  delicate  finish  of  face  you  wotild 
hardly  expect  to  find  in  that  century-old  "  leao- 
to.''  It  looks  as  though  it  must  be  an  heir-loom 
from  some  strong  old  ancestry,  no  matter  what 
tragedies  of  debasement  and  sin  may  have  been 
wrought  into  the  family  history. 

She  is  too  thin,  and  the  grave,  old  look  on 
the  young,  soft  profile  tells  its  own  story.  Her 
eyes  are  wonderful  sometimes,  w.hen  the  smile 
which  belongs  to  this  blossoming  of  her  girl- 
hood— such  a  pinched,  wind-shaken  blossom  as 
it  is— can  have  its  way  with  them.  Then  they 
warm  out  of  their  gray  into  a  dark  haiel,  that 
auits  the  rich  brown  lustre  of  her  hair. 

Now  comes  Cherry's  turn.  There  is  not  the 
faintest  hint  of  family  likeness  between  the 
faces  of  the  two  sisters. 

Cherry  is  round  as  a  dumpling,  and  her  face 
makes  yon  think  of  roses  and  sweet  peas  and 
Buch  fragrant,  blossomy  things. 

When  she  opens  into  womanhood  she  will 
just  escape  being  a  blonde ;  her  hair  has  brown 
lustres,  too,  but  a  good  many  shades  lighter  than 
her  sister's ;  and  the  flickers  of  vivid  gold  in  it 
seem  almost  like  the  quivering  of  live  things. 

It  was  meant  to  be  a  happy  face— that  face 
of  Cherry  Hawea's ;  even  now  it  is  not  a  sad  one, 
round  and  plumps  with  sparkles  that  come  and 
go  in  the  bluest  eyes  you  ever  saw,  as  stars 
come  and  go  among  faintest  mists  of  cloud  on  a 
summer  evening;  still,  this  abiding,  perpetbal 
nightmare,  the  dreadful  wolf  with  its  lean, 
fierce,  hungry  face  forever  at  the  door,  has  let 
down  some  shadows  into  all  the  native  bright- 
ness of  the  young  face. 

Both  the  girls  sit  near  the  open  stove,  in 
.  whidh  IS  a  thin  stratum  of  live  coals,  which  look 
as  though  they  would  like  to  bum  up  briskly 
if  they  only  had  the  courage  to.  Notwith- 
ftanding  the  zoom  looks  to  the  south,  the  morn- 
ings and  evenings  haye  grown  dreadfully  chilly 
9f .  lafe^  asMl  Cli«ri7  hut  lud  a  iore  thsoat. 


Prudy  began  to  see  that  it  would  not  do  to  run 
any  more  risks,  putting  off  the  fire  and  trying 
to  make  believe  it  was  summer  still. 

The  two  girls,  sitting  there,  have  fallen  into 
silence.  Somehow  one  fancies  they  are  tii ink- 
ing of  the  same  thing,  with  their  eyes  on  the 
tiny  pile  of  live  coals. 

Cherry  speaks  at  last :   "  Prudy." 

"Well." 

'*  It  must  have  been  dreadful  hard  on  Dar> 
ley." 

"Oh,  dreadful." 

"  Boys  are  so  difierent  from  girls.  I  don't 
think  now  you  or  I  could  ever  have  taken  such 
a  thing  in  this  grim,  plucky  way." 

"  Darley 's  been  a  real  hero,"  says  Prudy> 
with  a  great  deal  of  energy.  "I  like  auch 
plucky  stuff)  anyhow.  He's  had  an  awful  fight 
to  bear  up  under  it,  for  I  knew  all  the  time  it 
was  just  like  tearing  away  a  piece  of  his  heart 
to  have  Joe  Dayton  go  away  and  leave  him 
behind." 

"  What,"  said  Cherry,  with  a  little  sUrt  and 
opening  her  eyes  wide,  "you  don*t  suppose 
Darley  wanted  to  go  too,  do  you  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  do,  you  chicken.  He's 
a  boy,  and  don't  you  suppose  he'd  like  to  see 
the  great  world  and  the  wonderful  sights  and 
strange  lands,  and  the  people  who  dwell  in 
them  ?  I  knew  all  the  time  what  a  dreadful 
longing  and  hunger  and  thirst  he  had  to  go 
with  Joe  Dayton." 

"  But  he  never  once  spoke  of  that  either." 

"No.  There  was  reason  enough  why  he 
should  not|"  answered  Prudy  with  grave  eig- 
nificance. 

Cherry's  round  plump  face,  looking  into  the 
coala^  grew  as  serious  as  a  sage's. 

"  Poor  Darley  I"  she  said  after  a  while.  "  To 
think  it  was  just  you  and  me  which  held  him 
back.  Don't  you  s'pose  he  wished  sometimea 
you  and  me  weren't  anywhere  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Prudy  very  decidedly. 
"  At  the  core  of  him,  I  am  sure  Ihirley  Hawes 
never  wished  such  a  thing  as  that." 

And  again  after  a  while  Cherry  said : "  To  th  ink 
we  haven't  once  spoken  Joe  Dayton's  name 
since  he  went  away  I  It  just  seems  awful, 
Prady,  when  we're  all  thinking  about  him 
so  much." 

"  It  won't  be  bo  always,  Cherry.  You  just  wait 
and  see.  Darley  will  get  over  this  feeling  and 
be  glad  enough  to  talk  about  him  when  the  first 
pain  is  over." 

Just  then  the  door  swung  open  with  a  bang; 
Darley's  own  bang.  Prudy  started  up.  It  had 
grown  quite  4aik  while  the  autacB  had  bMn 


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A    DOLLAR    A    DAT, 


41 


■v^^y-v^'V^- 


talking  hj  the  fLvfi^  and  Parody  had  not  lighted 
tlie  Uimp,  which  she  always  meant  to  do  against 
her  brother's  return. 

**  Hurrah,  girls,"  catching  sight  of  the  figures 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  coals,  **  you're  enough 
to  sesre  a  fellow's  wits  out  of  him,  looking  like 
two  gaunt,  old  witches  boiling  a  cauldron  over 
the  fire  r 

Ik  was  the  old  Barley  come  to  life  again.  He 
had  not  spoken  in  that  tone  since  Joe  Dayton 
went  away. 

CHAPTER  n. 

Sapper  was  oyer  and  the  household  was 
gathered  around  the  fire,  which  now  was  spark- 
ling and  humming  away  briskly. 

Pnidy  had  added  a  fresh  layer  to  the  coals, 
nd  every  lump  of  anthracite  was  expected  to 
do  its  utmost  toward  light  and  warmth  when  it 
west  into  that  grate.  Indeed,  Prndy  Hawes 
bad  a  marvellous  faculty  of  getting  the  most 
oQt  of  all  inanimate  objects,  which,  to  quote 
the  supercargo's  book,  her  *^  little,  red,  chapped 
fingers"  dealt  with. 

■  They  had  had  a  great  supper  to-night,  too. 
The  President's  message  was  out  and  there  had 
been  an  unusual  run  on  the  papers.  Indeed, 
a  murder  or  a  fire,  or  a  rumor  of  a  foreign  war, 
or  a  political  caucus,  always  brought  a  streak 
of  good  luck  to  the  household  in  th6  *' lean-to," 
jost  on  the  edge  of  Thornley.  All  the  extras 
came  out  of  these. 

This  evening  Darley  had  brought  home  a 
dozen  of  fresh  rusk,  and  some  delicious  grapes 
he  had  bought  of  the  old  woman  who  kept  a 
stand  at  the  comer,  and  sold  cheap — besides 
some  other  small  dainties,  which  made  that 
snpper  a  banquet. 

He  had  been  kept  so  busy  he  had  less  time 
than  ttstual  to  think  ab^ut  Joe  Dayton,  and  tlien 
there  must  come  the  natural  reaction  of  the 
^irits  of  youth;  besides,  the  load  had  not  been 
half  so  heavy  since  he  confided  his  trouble  to 
the  supercargo's  old  account  book,  up  stairs. 

He  had  joked  and  told  over  funny  stories  of 
things  he  had  seen  that  day  all  the  time  they 
were  eating  supper. 

Suddenly,  as  the  triumvirate  sat  around  the 
fire,  the  wind  swooped  arouhd  the  corners  with 
a  cry  like  a  flock  of  vultures  swooping  to  their 
prey,  when  Darley  spoke  up,  half  to  himself: 
''Whew  I  what  a  blast  that  must  make  if  it's 
catting  through  his  rigging  out  there  at  sea." 

"Through  whose  rigging?"  asked  Prudy. 
She  knew  well  enough,  but  she  thought  it 
would  be  better  for  Darley  when  he  had  once 


got  over  this  silence  about  his  friend,  which 
silence,  with  her  inborn  delicacy,  she  waited 
for  her  brother  to  break. 

''  Joe  Dayton's,  of  course,"  said  Darley,  and 
then  he  remembered  that  it  was  days  and  days* 
since  he  had  spoken  that  name. 

But  it  was  out  now,  and  that  was  secretly  a 
relief  to  everybody.  They  fell  right  into  talk- 
ing of  Joe,  as  though  this  interregnum  of  silence 
had  never  happened.  They  followed  him  out 
to  sea,  and  went  up  the  masts  with  him  when 
the  stanch  old  vessel  rocked  in  the  storms  and 
the  mighty  billows  growled  like  unchained 
monsters  around  her  and  ih^  ice  grew  thick 
on  the  rigging. 

They  followed  him,  too,  through  the  hot 
stillness  of  nights  among  the  equator,  with  the 
great  stars  swimming  in  the  azure  darkness 
overhead,  and  they  stood  with  him  on  foreign 
coasts  and  saw  the  strange  faces  and  listened' 
to  the  clamor  of  unknown  tongues  going  on 
all  around  him. 

Their  imaginations,  once  cut  loose  from  the' 
pinch  and  strain  of  the  present,  grew  vivid  and 
fervid,  and  soared  and  glowed  into  strange^ 
wonderful  fancies  and  dreams. 

"Oh I  what  good  times  be  will  have  I"  said 
Cherry,  her  cheeks  like  red  pippins,  and  rock- 
ing her  little  dumpling  of  a  figure  back  and 
forth  in  the  chair.  "I  wish  we  could  all  go' 
to  sea  I" 

'*  What  a  little  goose  you  are.  Cherry  T'  ex- 
claimed Darley  with  mingled  amusement  and 
contempt.  "Girls  going  to  sea— before  the 
mast,  too  I" 

Cherry  did  not  relish  the  smack  of  contempt 
in  th6  words.  Darley  was  a  true  boy  and  had 
an  ever-present  consciousness  of  the  superiority 
of  his  own  sex. 

"Girls  are  not  to  be  sneered  at,  Mr.  Darley 
Hawes,  I'd  have  yon  to  know,"  she  said. 
"Women  have  done  as  great  things  as  thilt. 
Only  the  other  day  I  read  about  the  wife  of  a 
sea-captain  who,  when  he  died  on  the  voyage,  . 
just  took  matters  into  her  own  hands,  and  man- 
aged ship  and  crew  and  brought  the  vessel  safe 
and  sound  into  port.  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
now  ?" 

"  I  say  there  may  be  exceptions  to  rules ;  but 
anybody  who  has  half  an  eye  can  see  that  girls 
were  never  made  to  be  sailors — climbing  masts 
and  knocking  about  in  hammocks.  Pretty  work 
they'd  make  at  it  I" 

That  side  did  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  look 
very  alluring  to  the  girls,  so  the  argument 
against  "woman's  rights"  held  the  floor  thla' 
time. 


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42 


ARTHUR'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


*'  Joe  Dayton  was  a  good  fellow/'  said  Prudy, 
not  florry  to  find  a  change  of  topics.  "  I  was 
BO  glad  always  to  feel  that  your  best  friend  was 
so  safe  a  one/' 
-  Half  nnconsciously  to  herself,  Prudy  some* 
times  assumed  a  i^rtain  motherliness  in  her 
talk,  which  nettled  Darley.  It  seemed  always 
to  bring  plump  up  before  his  face  those  extra 
two  years  of  hers  about  which  he  was  so  sensi- 
tive. 

He  did  not  mind  them»  it  is  true,  so  long  as 
Prudy  kept  them  carefully  out  of  sight ;  but  it 
was  an  unpleasant  fiict,  and  there  was  no  get" 
ting  round  it,  that  she  had  so  far  the  advantage 
of  him  in  age.  Under  the  faintest  insinua- 
tion of  tliis,  Darley  was  sure  to  grow  restive, 
like  a  high-mettled  horse. 

He  spoke  up  now,  snapping  his  fingers :  "A 
great  right  yoo  have,  Prudy  Hawes,  to  talk 
about  Joe  Dayton's  goodness.  As  though  you 
knew  anything  about  it  I" 

''Maybe  J  know  a  thing  or  two  more  than 
you  are  willing  to  give  me  credit  for,  Darley 
Hawes/'  said  Prudy,  ruffling  her  feathers  a 
little  in  turn. 

"I'm  ready  to  be  convinced/'  said  Darley, 
witli  that  grim  look  on.  his  face  which  they  all 
knew. 

Cherry  came  in  to  the  rescue  before  the  little, 

'  threatening  cloud  of  ill-humor  had  lowered 

down  upon  the  evening :  "  I  never  supposed, 

Darley,  that  you  had  any  good  reason  for  not 

liking  to  have  your  friend  praised." 

"  Who  judd  I  had  ?"  bristling  up  at  once. 

"Nobody,  ex-act-ly  ;  only  I  thought  you  did 
not  just  like  what  Prudy  said." 

"  That's  just  like  a  girl — springing  to  such 
oonciusions.    It  took  no  very  large  sliare  of  \ 
wit  to  see  that  I  meant  Prudy  had  no  right  to 
praise  Joe  Dayton's  goodness,  because  she  did 
not  know  half  how  much  there  was  in  him." 

Cherry  would  ordinarily  have  bristled  at 
this  unhandsome  reflection  upon  her  wits ;  but 
Darley's  words  roused  her  curiosity,  so  she  let 
his  remark  pass. 

"  Then  you  know  something,  Joe,  that  you 
never  told  us?" 

**  I  should  think  I  did,"  looking  wise  and 
solemn. 

Cherry  leaned  forward.  She  had  a  girl's 
relish  for  a  secret.  "  Dear  old  Darley,  do  tell 
ns  now/'  she  said  in  her  most  coaxing  tones. 

It  was  pleasant,  now  the  ice  was  broken,  to 
talk  about  Joe,  and  what  with  the  fire  and  the 
nice  sapper  and  the  good  luck  of  the  President's 
message,  Darley's  ruffled  plumes  were  on  this 
sight  very  easily  smoothed  into  good  humor. 


He  cleared  his  throat  and  began  :  **  It  was 
at  the  time  Prudy  was  so  sick  with  the  typlioid, 
you  know." 

At  that  name  tlie  young  faces  in  the  fire- 
light grew  grave. 

'*  Oh  I  that  was  the  very  darkest,  hardest  time 
in  our  whole  lives,  I  do  believe,"  said  Cherry. 

"  Yes,  it  was,"  said  Prudy,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  memory  even  of  that  trouble  drew 
the  brother  and  sisters  closer  together. 

"  You  remember  how,  when  Prudy  had 
weathered  the  worst  of  it,  she  hadn't  as  much 
appetite  as  a  humming-bird,  and  the  doctor 
said  it  would  never  do ;  she  must  be  coaxed  up 
with  chicken  broth  and  ripe  fruite  and  all  sorts 
of  dainties. 

**  I  went  down  town  that  morning,''  he  said, 
**  with  the  blues  away  down  to  zero.  I  hadn't  a 
sixpence  in  my  pocket,  and  where  was  the 
money  to  come  from  to  get  dear  old  Prudy 
chicken  broth  and  other  delicacies  to  lift  her 
out  of  the  typhoid  ? 

"  I  kept  asking  myself  thttt  question,  and  it 
was  a  poser,  and  at  last  I  turned  off  into  Cherry 
Lane  and  threw  myself  down  on  the  bank  and 
I  just  cried  at  two-forty. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  it  was,  but  sonie^ 
body  suddenly  said:  'Halloa,  Darley,  what's 
to  pay?'  and  looting  up  there  stood  Joe  Dayton, 
round  ahoalders  and  big  lace,  and  a  dreadful 
concern  in  it. 

'*  The  whole  had  to  come  out  then ;  though 
I  tell  you  it  was  like  pulling  eye-teeth  to  me. 

"Joe  dug  his  ooat-sleeve  more  than  once 
across  his  eyes  while  I  was  talking,  and  when 
I  got  fairly  through  he  gave  me  a  whacking 
slap  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  he'd  see  me 
through  that  trouble,  and  then  he  shouted  and 
turned  a  summersault  or  two  which  made  me 
think,  in  the  midst  jf  mj  trouble,  of  a  big 
floundering  leviathan;  then  he  dragged  me 
straight  along  with  him.  I  didn't  know  what 
he  was  up  to,  but  he  marched  straight  to  the 
market  and  bought  a  couple  of  chickens  an4 
a  box  of  grapes  and  a  dozen  of  oranges  before 
I  could  help  myself." 

"Oh!  was  that  where  they  came  from?* 
cried  both  the  girls  in  breathless  amazement. 

"  Precisely,  right  out  of  Joe's  pocket,  for  he 
paid  for  them  down  on  the  Square,  and  told  me 
to  take  the  things  right  home  and  get  Prudy 
on  her  feet  in  a  jiflT. 

"*  Joe,'"  I  said,  "'where  did  this  money 
come  from  V 

" '  It  came  honestly,  and  it  came  where  there's 
some  more/  he  said  with  a  chuckle  and  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 


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A    STAR    IN   MY   CROWN. 


43 


There  was  no  me  to  ask  questions  then, 
and  I  was  glad  enough  to  bring  the  things 
homeysnd  you  thought  I'd  had  wonderful  luck 
with  the  papers ;  and  Prudy's  appetite  came 
back  and  she  got  well,  although  it  took  more 
than  one  brace  of  chickens  or  box  of  grupes, 
with  the  oranges  thrown  in,  to  get  her,  as  Joe 
aaid,  on  her  feet. 

"Bat  for  a  month  all  the  best  things  I 
hnxight  home  came  out  of  his  pocket." 

"But  where  did  he  get  the  money?"  asked 
Cherry,  for  Prudy  did  not  speak  a  word. 

There's  the  rub.  I  found  it  out  one  day, 
though  Joe  didn't  mean  I  should.  He'd  been 
saving  up  to  get  a  new  pair  of  boots,  and  he 
vore  his  old  ones  a  montli  longer ;  and  such 
boots,  I  can't  describe  them ;  only  the  frost 
moat  have  bad  a  fine  chance  at  his  toes,  for 
they  were  all  out»  and  the  sides  and  the  heels 
vere  no  better." 

Prudy  laid  her  face  right  in  her  hands ;  she 
was  crying:  "To  think,  all  the  time  I  was 
getting  well  on  Joe  Dayton's  boots  1"  she  said. 

Cherry  cried,  too.  I  believe  Barley  would, 
also,  if  he  had  not  happily  remembered  in 
time  that  he  was  not  a  girl. 

''You  used  to  laugh  at  him,  girls,  and  say 
Joe  had  an  awful  homely  face ;  but  I  knew  there 
waa  the  heart  of  a  hero  under  it." 

*^  It  will  always  look  handsome  to  me  now, 
freckles  and  moles  and  all,"  said  Cherry,  swal- 
lowing a  sob. 

Prudy,  with  her  pretty,  thoughtful  face,  sat  by 
the  fire,  saying,  but  not  feeling,  less  than  the 
others. 

They  could  talk  of  nobody  but  Joe  Day- 
ton. And  the  boy  before  the  mast,  far  out  at 
aea,  with  winds  hissing  and  howling  among 
the  rigging,  little  fancied  what  a  hero  he  was 
that  night  in  the  eyes  of  the  three  who  sat 
around  the  fire  in  the  old  house,  with  its  hun- 
dred years,  in  the  outskirts  of  Thornley. 

(To  be  continued.)  y  *    .i 

HoxB  CoTTRTBBiES. — "I  am  one  of  those 
whose  lot  in  life  has  been  to  go  out  into  an  un- 
friendly world  at  an  early  age;  and  of  nearly 
twenty  iamilies  in  which  I  made  my  home  in 
the  coune  of  about  nine  years^  there  were  only 
three  that  oonld  be  designated  as  happy  fami- 
lies ;  and  the  soorce  of  the  trouble  was  not  so 
arach  the  lack  of  love  as  the  lack  of  care  to 
manifest  iL"  The  closing  words  of  this  sen- 
tence gives  OS  the  fruitful  source  of  family 
alienations,  of  heartaches  innumerable,  of  sad 
&oes  and  gloomy  home  circles.  '*  Not  so  much 
the  ladLof  love  aa  the  lack  of  care  to  maaifest  it." 


A  STAR  IN  MY  CROWN. 

BY  SARAH  I.  C.  WHIRTLESSY. 

A  STAR  in  my  Crown  !  bow  it  gladdens 
The  pathway  I'm  treading  awhile; 
When  fond  and  lone  memory  saddens, 

I  think  of  that  Btar,  and  I  smile. 
That  Btar — it  hath  sot  in  the  sombre 

That  gloams  the  blue  edge  of  life's  West — 
Went  down  in  Death's  shivering  Deeembor, 

And  rose  in  the  land  of  the  Blest. 
And  through  the  oold  clouds  it  hath  left  na 

A  clear,  liquid  line  of  gold  light,* 
And  we  know,  although  He  hath  bereft  us. 

It  sparkles  where  there  is  no  night. 
I  look  away  up  through  the  vista. 

And  wonder  how  far  she  hath  gone 
In  the  blue  depths  far  out,  since  wo  missed  her— 

I'll  know,  when  I  waken  at  dawn. 
I  wonder  if  she  will  not  be  there, 

With  the  dearest  and  best  that  IVe  lost. 
When  I  lay  down  the  mantle  of  earth-oarc. 

On  the  banks  of  the  River  I've  crossed? 
Ah  !  yes,  she'll  be  there,  with  her  blue  eyes 

Bright  beaming  with  Heavenly  light. 
And  the  fragrance  of  Love,  that  the  AlUWias 

Sheds  over  her  garments  of  white. 
When  I  saw  her  last  time,  she  was  sleeping. 

With  blossoms  perfuming  her  bed, 
And  loved  ones  and  loving  were  weeping— 

But  I  knew  that  she  waa  not  dead. 
I  knew  it  was  not  for  the  last  time, 

When  I  gave  her  a  kiss— and  another; 
I  thought,  for  the  sake  of  the  past  tlmo^ 

£he'd  carry  one  up  to  my  mother. 
And  say  to  that  loved  one  in  Heaven — 

I  know  how  her  tender  eyes  smiled. 
With  the  joy  to  that  mother-heart  given— 
*'  I'm  a  Star  in  the  Crown  of  your  child." 
Now,  when  I  go  down  to  the  River, 

I  know  it  will  not  be  all  dark, 
Por  that  Star  in  the  radiant  Forever, 

Will  beacon  my  lone  spirit-barque  I 

YOUR  NEIGHBOR. 

Dp  not  harshly  judge  your  neighbor. 
Do  not  deem  his  life  untrue. 
If  he  makes  no  great  pretensions, 

Deeds  are  great,  though  words  are  few; 
Those  who  stand  amid  the  tempest, 

Firm  as  when  the  skies  are  blue, 
Will  be  fViends  while  life  endnreth ; 

Cling  to  those  who  cling  to  yon. 
When  you  see  a  worthy  brother 

Buffetting  the  stormy  main. 
Lend  a  helping  hand  fraternal, 

Till  he  reach  the  shore  again ; 
Don't  desert  the  old  and  tried  friend. 

When  misfortune  comes  in  view, 
For  he  then  needs  friendship's  comfortl^ 

GliBg  to  those  who  cling  to  yoa. 


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THE  BBAVE  ONES  IN  MIDDLE  UFK 


ALTHOUGH  we  had  no  footmen  and  no 
carriages  in  our  parish  (in  the  London 
subarbs),  yet  my  congregation  contained  as 
many  well-educated,  intelligent,  and  pleasant 
ladies  and  gentlemen  as  *any  congregation 
in  England;  men  and  women  fully  capable 
of  holding  tlieir  own  in  any  position  of  \ 
life ;  men  and  women  to  whom  the  practical 
working  of  life  had  imparted  a  greater  keen- 
ness of  mind  than  easier  circumstances  would 
have  done.  Thackeray  speaks  well  in  one  of  J 
his  works  of  the  little-faith  which  dare  not 
marry  till  it  can  drive  to  church  with  a  pair  of  < 
horses ;  and  the  public  press  has  spoken  abun- 
dantly of  late  of  what  is  supposed  to  be  "  abso- 
lutely necessary"  before  a  couple  can  or  ought 
to  marry  ;  but  no  one  knows  better  than  a  sub- 
nrban  clergyman  how  bravely  the  battle  of  life 
is  being  fought  out  by  educated  men  and  women 
who  dared  to  join  themselves  ''  in  holy  matri- 
mony/' though  conscious  they  may  have  to  live 
for  years  in  a  six-roomed  house  in  a  quiet  street 
and  to  work  hard  to  keep  that  house  and  the 
couple  of  simple  maids  that  wait  on  them. 
Life  insurance  is  the  main  stay  of  their  pro- 
Tision  for  the  future,  and  self-denial  for  each 
other  and  the  children's  sake  is  the  rule  of  their 
existence,  and  many  and  many  a  bright,  happy 
home  do  I  know  of,  nnder  such  circumstances. 
Yet  how  hard  many  of  these  men  work  I  From 
half-past  seven  to  nine  in  the  morning  they  are 
streaming  off  to  their  places  of  business ;  and 
from  half-past  six  till  nine  at  night  they  are 
returning  home. 

Sunday  is  their  one  rest  day,  tlie  one  day  on 
which  they  repose  and  dine  at  home ;  for  on  all 
other  days  they  f natch  a  hasty  dinner  at  the 
various  taverns  and  eating-houses  in  town, 
merely  taking  breakfast  and  supper  under  their 
own  roofs;.  Sunday  also  is  often  the  onl;f  day, 
while  the  little  ones  are  young,  on  which  they 
see  much  of  their  children.  "  Through  the 
winter,"  said  one  good  fellow  to  me,  **  I  kiss  my 
children  beFore  they  are  out  of  bed  in  the 
morning,  and  after  they  are  in  bed  at  night ; 
but  from  Monday  morning  to  Saturday  night  I 
never  once  see  them  dressed.  But  on  Sunday 
Ifp  to  church  in  the  rooming ;  and  then  how 
I  enjo^  that  afternoon  stroll  with  the  liuleones, 
if  the  day  is  fine,  or  that  chat  around  the  fire 
if  dbe  day  is  cold  or  stormy  1  It  pays  me  for 
working  allihe  week  to  keep  them.''  Ofeourse 
I  do  not  meao  to  say  that  soch  men  are  free 
from  anxiety  as  to  the  fate  of  these  little  ones, 
jhould  anything  happen  to  them ;  yet  I  do  aa/ 
(44) 


that  their  conduct  is  nobility  itself  to  the  lif^ 
of  those  fashionable,  well-dressed  gentlemen 
who  pervade  town-life — men  whose  nanmum 
bonum  was  expressed  to  me  by  one  of  them- 
selves, a  devout  scorner  of  matrimony,  to  be ''  a 
few  hundreds  a  year, a  good  club,  a  comfortabU 
lodging,  and  a  latch-key."  Of  all  clasnea  in 
our  modern  society,  this  class  is  the  most  un- 
wholesome in  its  own  moral  being,  and  moat 
dangerous  to  the  commonwealth. 

"  Why  do  you  work  so  hard,  my  dear  fel- 
low ?"  said  I  to  a  friend  ;  **  you  are  overdoing 
it ;  look  at  Smith,  he  takes  it  more  easily." 
"Ah,  but  he  has  a  backbone  of  two  or  three 
thousand  in  a  marriage  settlement,  and  I  have 
not,  so  I  must  pull  on." 

If,  however,  these  noble  men  work  hard,  their 
good  ladies  are  not  a  whit  behind.  **  Mamma" 
is  the  mainspring  of  this  establishment ;  house- 
keeper, storekeeper,  head-nurse  In  sickness, 
governess  and  lady  of  the  house;  the  calls  upon 
her  are  multifarious,  and  she  has  little  time  for 
gossip  or  for  visits.  If  you  dine  with  her,  voa 
may  be  sure  she  has  no  need  to  ask  what 
the  dishes  are ;  if  you  sleep  at  her  hous^  jrou 
may  see  in  a  moment  that  the  linen  would  not 
have  been  so  clean,  or  the  room  so  well  ar- 
ranged, had  it  been  superintended  only  hj  a 
housemaid.  Her  children  go  naturally  to  her 
for  help  in  all  predicaments  *  and  her  husband, 
after  he  has  placed  the  housekeeping  money  in 
her  hand,  never  asks  how  it  has  been  spent, 
but  quietly  takes  all  he  receives  and  all  he  sees 
for  granted.  Yet  how  perfectly  the  lady  she  is 
at  the  head  of  her  table  I~how  beautifully  ahe 
often  touches  the  piano  I — how  well  she  talks ! 
as  if  she  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  practice  mu- 
sic and  to  read  the  current  literature  of  the  daj. 

There  is  a  marvellous  top  current  of  astenta- 
tious  show,  of  envious  vieing  with  each  other, 
of  restless,  discontented  extravagance,  in  our 
society  at  the  present  day ;  but,  thank  God,  there 
is  a  noble  under-current  of  self-denial,  of  quiet 
management,  of  bold  grappling  with  the  duties 
of  life,  which  even  among  our  upper  ten  thon*- 
sand,  and  our  next  hundred  of  thousands,  keeps 
the  stream  of  society  from  utter  corruption, 
and  salts  it  with  an  honest  and  invigorating 
power ;  and  no  one  sees  more  of  this  deep,  quiet 
and  refreshing  stream  than  tlie  clergyman  of  a 
suburban  parish.  It  does  one's  heart  good  to 
bear  witness  to  this  truth;  it  warms  one's  heart 
to  think  of  many  of  these  noble  men  and  noble 
women  who  are  thus  living,  and  whom  one 
knows  and  values. 


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ESTHER  GRAHAM'S  LIFE  WORK. 


VX  MRS.  KABT  C.  BBI8T0I> 


■F 


J'O,  Edward,  I  caonot  go  vith  you*  Hard 
as  the  separation  will  be  for  us  both,  we 
must  be  brave  enough  to  bear  it  Do  Dot  urge 
me ;  do  not  add  yoor  entreaties  to  the  prompt- 
ings of  mv  own  heart,  for  it  will  only  make  my 
dotj  the  harder  to  perform." 

"  Oh,  Esther  1  la  it  thus  yoa  send  me  from 
your 

"*  Yes,  for  I  believe  it  best  yoa  should  go. 
My  &ther  will  never  give  hia  consent  to  our 
msrriage  till  he  sees  you  in  a  condition  to  pro* 
vide  a  comfortable  home  for  your  wife.  I  am 
glad  you  have  decided  to  go  West.  That  ia 
the  place  for  young  men  who  have  their  own 
way  to  make  in  the  world." 

''And  when  I  am  established  in  business, 
and  have  made  a  home  for  us,  may  I  come  for 
yoa?    Will  yon  Ihen  be  mine?" 

"Have  I  not  already  given  you  my  promise 
a  score  or  more  of  times?  Would  you  have 
me  again  repeat  it?" 

"But  if  your  &ther  still  withholds  his  con* 
ssDt  to  our  marriage  ?" 

"  He  will  not  do  so.  When  he  sees  how  much 
in  eanieat,  how  devotedly  attached  we  are  to 
each  other,  he  will  give  his  consent.  My  fitther  \ 
is  not  unkind,  only  wordly  wise  and  eminently 
practicaL    He  wishes  to  put  our  affection  for 
each  other  and  your  ability  to  do  something 
for  youreelf  to  the  test" 
"  But,  Esther,  you  have  faith  in  me  ?" 
"  Yes,  Edward,  I  have  all  confidenoe  in  you. 
You  have  talent,  and  if  you  are  only  patient 
and  persevering,  I  believe  in  the  end  you  will 
succeed  in  your  chosen  profession.     We  are 
both  young,  and  can  afibrd  to  wait  a  few  years 
for  oar  happiness." 

"  Thank  you,  my  noble,  true-hearted  Esther, 
for  these  comforting  words.  God  helping  me, 
I  will  not  disappoint  you ;  and  now,  good-night, 
for  it  is  late  and  I  must  go." 

**  Musi  you  go  so  soon,  and  is  thiayoar  good- 
by?" 

"  No,  I  shall  not  leave  for  a  week  yet--will 
see  you  again  to-morrow." 

A  few  more  meetings  and  partings  between 
these  fond  lovers,  and  then  he  lefk  her  to  try 
his  fortunes  in  the  then  far  West. 

Edward  Abbott  and  Esther  Graham  had 
known  each  other  from  childhood.  Their 
parents  lived  on  the  aame  straeti  and  until  Ed- 


ward left  for  college,  scarcely  a  day  passed 
that  they  did  not  meet,  either  at  school  or  at 
the  house  of  one  or  the  other  of  their  parents. 
Just  when  this  childish  friendship,  which  had 
now  ripened  into  a  warmer  feeling,  oommenoed, 
they  could  neither  of  them  tell— it  was  some- 
thing so  for  back  in  the  past 

Esther  Graham  was  the  only  child  of  the 

wealthiest  man  in  N ,  a  flourishing  manu* 

facturing  town  in  one  of  our  New  England 
States.  Young,  good  looking  (we  will  not  ase 
the  word  beautiful,  that  is  such  a  hackneyed 
word),  intelligent,  she  might,  had  she  chosen, 
married  with  the  wealthiest  in  the  land.  In- 
deed, she  had  already  refused  several  advan- 
tageous ofiers,  muoh  to  the  disappointment  of 
her  more  ambitious,  wordly-minded  father. 

Edward,  as  the  reader  already  knows,  was 
poor,  and  had  his  own  way  to  make  in  the 
world.  His  fotb^  died  before  he  reached  hie 
tenth  year,  and  his  mother,  at  her  death,  left 
him  a  few  hundreds,  just  enough  to  carry  him 
through  college  and  enable  him  to  finish  .his 
law  studies.  He  was  Esther^a  senior  by  three 
years ;  a  young  man  of  exodlent  principles  and 
foir  abilities,  but  in  many  respects  she  was  his 
superior.  Had  she  lived  in  our  day  she  would 
have  been  called  strong  minded,  for  from  her 
father  she  had  inherited  much  of  his  clear, 
straightforward  common  sense.  It  was  well 
for  her  that  her  mother,  long  since  gone  to  her 
reward,  was  the  very  soul  of  womanly  sweet- 
ness and  genUeness.  Thus  it  was  the  blending 
of  these  two  opposite  diaracters  that  made 
Esther  such  a  noble,  lovable  woman.  If  Ed- 
ward had  only  been  worthy  of  her ! 

We  do  not  think  it  was  altogether  on  account 
of  Edward's  poverty  that  Mr.  Graham  objected 
to  him  as  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  his  daughter. 
Having  studied  the  character  of  both  almost 
from  their  earliest  childhood,  he  saw,  or  fancied 
he  saw,  their  mutual  unfitness  for  each  other, 
and  secretly  rejoiced  when  Edward  left  for  the 
West,  hoping  time  and  distance  would,  to  use 
his  own  language,  ''  cure  them  of  their  pencli- 
ant  for  each  other." 

But  how  little  he  understood  his  daughter  1 
He  never  dreamed  how  devotedly  attached  she 
was  to  Edward,  nor  bow  every  wish  of  her 
heart  was,  in  some  way,  connected  with  him. 
And  besides,  her  solemn  promise  once  given, 

(45) 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


46 


ARTHUR'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


nothing  would  have  induoed  her,  so  long  as  he 
remained  true,  to  haye  broken  it. 

Edward's  journey  West  was  a  long,  tedious 
one,  but  at  last  it  is  accomplished,  his  destina- 
tion reached  in  safety.  In  a  growing  town, 
some  two  hundred  miles  beyond  the  Missis- 
sippi, he  has  dedded  to  fix  his  residence — has 
taken  an  office,  and  commenced  for  the  first 
time  the  struggle  of  life  for  himself.  The  first 
year  proved  an  unsuccessful  one ;  business  came 
in  slowly ;  as  yet  he  has  found  but  little  to  do. 
His  letters  to  Esther  were  often  desponding, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  cheerful,  hopeful 
one3  she  wrote  him  in  return,  be  would  have 
given  up  the  struggle  and  returned  to  his 
Eastern  home. 

The  second  year  passed  very  much  as  the 
first;  but  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  year  a 
very  fortunate  event  occurred.  One  of  the 
wealthiest  citizens  in  G  ■■,  having  an  im- 
portant law  suit,  had  employed  a  distinguished 
lawyer  from  another  State  to  manage  the  case; 
but  almost  at  the  last  moment,  only  a  few  days 
before  the  court  commenced  its  session,  it  was 
ascertained  he  oonld  not  be  present,  and  Colonel 
Gordon  employed  Edward  to  take  his  place. 
It  was  with  muck  reluctance  he  consented  to 
do  so,  for  he  felt  the  time  was  brief  in  which  to 
,  prepare  himself;  but  during  the  few  days  which 
remained  he  gave  himself  unremittingly  to  his 
work,  scarcely  taking  a  moment's  rest  till  the 
trial  commenced.  His  opening  speech,  pre- 
pared'with,  much  care,  was  a  masterly  one,  and 
astonished  all  who  beard  it.  The  lawyer  on 
the  other  side  was  a  much  older  man  than 
Edward ;  had  grown  gray  in  the  service.  He^ 
too,  did  his  best;  but  all  in  vain.  Edward 
won  the  suit,  and  when  the  trial  was  over  his 
gray-haired  opponent  shook  hands  with  him, 
oongratnlated  him  on  his  success,  and  declared 
the  suit  fairly  won. 

And  this  was  the  commencement  of  his  suo* 
oess  in  the  West  Through  the  influence  of  \ 
Colonel  Gordon  he  was  called  on  to  manage 
several  other  important  cases,  and  soon  he  had 
all  he  could  attend  to.  All  at  once,  too,  it  was 
discovered  he  had  remarkable  oratorial  powers. 
Fortunately  for  him,  an  exciting  Presidential 
canvass  just  then  afibrded  numerous  oppor- 
tunities for  the  development  of  tliose  talents, 
and  at  its  close  he  found  himself  possessed  of  i 
an  enviable  reputation. 

Of  all  this  Esther  was  duly  informed.  Copies 
of  bis  speeches,  too,  were  sent  her,  and  she,  in 
the  pride  of  her  hearty  read  them  aloud  to  her 
&ther. 
.  27ow  it  so  happened  that  the  candidate  in 


which  Edward  was  so  much  interested  was  also 
Mr.  Graham's  favorite. 

"I  congratalate  you,  my  daughter,  on  yonr 
friend's  success,"  he  one  day  said  to  her,  just 
after  she  had  finished  the  closing  paragraph  of 
one  of  his  most  spirited  speeches,  delivered 
only  a  few  days  before  the  election.  ''There  is 
really  more  of  the  boy  than  I  thought  there 


^  You  know  I  always  bad  faith  in  Edward,** 
was  Esther's  quiet  reply. 

The  next  year  pas^  much  more  rapidly 
with  Edward  than  the  two  preceding  onen. 
He  has  now  not  only  all  he  can  do  himself 
but  has  been  obliged  to  employ  a  clerk,  and  is 
thinking  seriously  of  taking  a  partner.  The 
friends  who  gathered  around  him  during  the 
excitement  of  the  Presidential  canvass  still  re- 
mained true,  and  evety  day  he  is  becoming' 
more  and  more  of  a  fiivorite  in  the  growing^ 
enterprising  town  of  G  ■ 

And  to  Esther,  too,  this  has  been  a  year  of 
almost  unalloyed  happiness;  for  now,  after 
years  of  waiting,  the  dream  of  her  girlhood  is 
about  to  be  realised.  Her  &ther  has  given  his 
consent  to  their  marriage,  and  in  a  few  months 
Edward  is  to  return  for  her.  "  Man  proposes^ 
but  God  disposes." 

One  morning  the  break£Ewt-bell  rang  in  the 
Graham  mansion ;  breakiiMt  was  on  the  table 
waiting,  but  Mr.  Graham  had  not  made  his 
appearance.  In  great  alarm  Esther  hastened 
at  once  to  his  room,  found  him  still  in  bed,  and 
very  ill.  At  first  she  thought  him  dying,  for 
he  was  unable  to  speak,  though  he  looked  wiat- 
fully  at  her  as  if  he  understood  all  she  said, 
but  his  tongue  refused  to  do  its  bidding.  A 
physician  was  hastily  summoned,  who  pro- 
nounced it  an  attack  of  paralysis. 

For  weeks  after  his  firet  attack  he  lay  in  a 
state  of  half  unconsciousness,  without  any  ap- 
parent change  from  day  to  day,  recognising  no 
one,  not  able  to  speak,  scarcely  able  to  nH>ve  a 
muscle.  But  at  length  the  power  of  speech  re- 
turned to  him.  In  a  broken,  husky  voice  he 
was  onoe  more  able  to  pronounce  his  child's 
name  and  make  known  his  wants.  But  the 
cloud  was  never  until  the  last  fully  lifted  from 
his  mind ;  he  was  ever  after  but  a  wreck  of  his 
former  self. 

And  all  this  time  Esther  was  his  patient, 
gentle  nurse.  Without  a  murmur  she  gave  up 
society,  saw  no  one  except  the  family  physician 
and  a  few  of  their  most  intimate  friends.  The 
time  set  for  Edward's  return  had  come  and 
gone,  and  now  their  marriage  had  been  post- 
poned to  en  indefinite  period^  for  how  ooald 


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ESTMEB^  QfiASAM'S   IJFE^WOBK. 


47- 


she  leaye  her  father  in-  his  stater  of  helpleeoiees 
■ad  dependence? 

At  first,  it  was.  a  great  diBappointment  to 
Cdward,  and  het  complained  bilterlj  of  the 
crael  fiite  which  kept  them  apart;  Haid  he  shonld 
neTer  be  happy  till  abe  was  all  his  own,  and 
that  he  should  count  the  dajs  and  weeks  with 
the  greatest  impatience  till  her  father  was 
aoffictently  restoied  to  permit  him  to  come  for 
her. 

That  he  was  sincere  we  cannot  doubt,  bat  he 
liaclao  much  to  occupy  his  mind  now  he  found 
littie  time  to  moorn  over  his  disappointment ; 
fer  besides  having  all  he  conid  do  in  his  office, 
he  had,  during  the  last  year,  become  a  great 
&yorite  among  the  young  people  of  G . 

Colonel  Gordon  was  the  first  to  invite  him  to 
his  house;  others  soon  followed  his  example^ 
and  now  no  party  of  pleasure,  or  social  gatlier- 
ing  of  any  description,  was  complete  without 
Soon  bis  letters  to  Esther  assumed  a 
\  cheerless  tone,  and  instead  of  ibnd  regrets 
at  their  continued  separation,  they  were  filled 
with  descriptions  of  the  parties  he  attended 
from  time  to  time^  and  of  the  young  people 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  during  the 
last  year;  oonspicuons  among  them  always 
was  Colonel  Gordon's  beantifnl  daughter  Nora. 

And  Esther,  stiU  confined  to  her  father's  sick 
room,  read  his  letters  with  increased  delight; 
was  ghid  that  he  was  happy,  and  thankful  that 
he  had  become  reconciled  to  the  delay  of  their 
marriage. 

And  so  weeks  and  months  passed  on.  Mr. 
Graham  is  still  Confined  to  his  bed — his  physi- 
ciaiis  give  no  hope  of  his  recovery.  And  still, 
by  his  side,  day  by  day,  sits  his  gentle,  patient 
Done,  anticipating  every  want,  administering 
the  medicine  with  her  own  hand,  bathing  his 
irverish  brow,  chafing  his  palaied  limbs,  and, 
when  his  mind  is  sufficiently  clear,  reading 
aload  to  him  from  that  Book  of  books.  And 
all  this  time  God  is,  in  his  own  way,  fitting 
her  for  her  future  work,  though  then,  she  knew 
it  not 

Bat,  at  last,  her  labor  of  love  is  ended-— the 
soflferer  is  abont  to  be  released.  It  is  a  wild, 
dark  night  outside,  the  wind  and  rain  are 
beating  mercilessly  against  the  carefully  closed 
shotters,  but  within,  all  is  peace.  Esther,  the 
&mi]y  physician,  and  a  few  friends  have  gath- 
ered around  the  bed  of  the  dying  man.  Mr. 
Graham's  mind,  which  for  so  long  a  time  has 
been  wandering,  is  now  perfectly  clear,  the 
dood  is  lilted,  the  mists  have  all  rolled  away. 
"  Esther,  my  child,  are  you  here?" 

^  Yes,  father,  I  ua  here  by  your  side. 


''Come  nearer,  dear  daughter,  and  let  me 
lay  my  hand  on  your  head  as  I  did  when  you 
were  a  child.  I  hear  your  voice,  but  I  cannot 
see  you  very  distinctly.  I  am  about  to  leave 
you ;  let  me  give  you  my  blessing  ere  I  depart. 
You  have  been  the  best  of  daughters,  and  I 
pray  Grod  to  bless  you,  both  here  and  here- 
after, and  make  your  life  a  happy,  useful  one." 

And  he  did  bless  her,  but  in  a  way  so  dififer- 
ent  from  what  she  had  anticipated. 

*'  We  may  not  read  the  future ;  it  is  best 
And  wisest  ttiat  we  csQnot  see  our  fate.^ 

After  taking  leave  of  the  friends  who  stood 
around  his  dying  bed,  Mr.  Graham  sank  into 
an  easy  slumber,  from  which  he  never  awoke 
in  this  world,  and  just  as  the  morning  sun 
began  to  light  the  Eastern  horizon  he  quietly 
passed  away. 

There  was  no  outburst  of  grief,  no  passionate 
sohe,  for  Esther  had  nerved  herself  for  this  last 
great  trial.  When  all  was  over  she  bent  afi*ec- 
tionately  over  the  lifeless  form,  reverently 
closed  the  eyes,  and  then,  after  pressing  one 
fond  kiss  upon  the  pallid  lips,  left  her  father's 
dying  bed  and  retired  to  her  own  room.  Upon 
that  sacred  solitude  we  will  not  intrude. 

Some  three  months  have  passed  since  Esther's 
father  was  borne  to  his  last  resting  place,  be- 
side her  mother ;  and  now,  alone  in  her  elegant 
home^  she  is  daily,  almost  hourly,  awaiting  her 
lover's  return. 

When  her  Other's  will  came  to  be  opened, 
it  was  found  that  his  large  property,  consisting 
of  houses,  lands,  bank  and  railroai  stocks,  was 
given  unreservcMlly  to  her. 

Immediately  after  her  fiithetf^  death,  she 
wrote  Edward  of  her  loss  and  bescyight  him  to 
come  to  her  at  once.  She  has  written  frequently 
since,  but  not  a  line  has  she  received  from  him 
for  more  than  three  months.  But  still,  her 
faith  In  him  never  for  a  moment  wavered. 
Something  must  have  happened  to  him ;  9ome 
great  sorrow  which  he  wa*}  keeping  from  her. 
Perhaps  he  was  ill,  dying,  and  his  friends  Had 
neglected  to  inform  her.  Thus  she  reasoned, 
hoping  against  hope,  until,  almost  beside  her- 
self with  anxiety  and  apprehension,  she  re- 
solved to  go  to  G .    She  must  know  the 

worst  From  her  lover's  own  lips,  if  he  is  still 
in  the  land  of  the  living,  she  must  know  the 
cause  of  his  long  silence. 

It  was  a  long  and  unusual  journey  for  a  lone 
woman  to  take,  for  there  were  not  then  the 
facilities  for  travelling  over  our  Western  prai- 
ries that  Uiere  now  are,  and  her  friends  tried 
to  dissuade  her  from  it.  But  all  in  vain.  What 
to  her  were  the  inconveniences  of  a  journey  of 


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48 


ARTHUR'S   HOltE   ItA&AEtNR. 


a  thousand  miles  compared  with  the  suspense 
in  which  she  had  lived  for  the  last  few  weeks. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  dark,  gloomy 
day  in  November,  when  a  tall,  elegant  young 
lady,  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  stepped  from 
the  cars  to  the  platform  at  G-*-,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  surveying  the  crowd  which  had 
'collected  in  front  of  the  depot.  There  was  an 
anxious  look  on  her  hce,  as  if  expecting  some 
one,  but  after  looking  eagerly  about,  and  care- 
fully scanning  every  face,  she  walked  into  the 
depot  and  remained  quietly  seated  until  the 
cars  moved  off  and  the  crowd  had  dusperaed. 
A  few  persons  still  remained  on  the  platform, 
and  going  up  to  the  one  who  stood  nearest  the 
door,  she  said :  ''Can  you  inform  me  if  there 
is  a  gentleman  in  your  town  by  the  name  of  i 
Edward  Abbott?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  he  is  a  young  lawyer  who  came 
from  New  England  to  this  place  a  few  years 
ago." 

"  Then  he  is  alive  and  well.  Thank  God  for 
that." 

**  Yes,  I  saw  him  on  the  street  with  his  young, 
pretty  wife  just  before  the  train  came  in  this 
afternoon." 

"  His  wife !  You  must  be  mistaken.  It  can- 
not be  the  friend  I  wish  to  see.  He  has  no  wife." 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss,  but  I  think  I  am 
not  mistaken.  I  am  very  well  acquainted  here, 
and  am  sure  there  is  not  another  person  in  our 
town  of  that  name.  He  was  married  some 
three  months  ago  to  Nora  Gordon,  only  child 
of  Colonel  Gordon,  the  richest  man  in  our 
town.  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  Let  me  assist 
you."  And  the  kind-hearted  stranger  threw 
his  arm  around  her  to  prevent  her  from  falling, 
and  leading  her  into  the  house,  laid  her  upon 
the  sofa  and  brought  her  a  cup  of  oold  water 
from  the  tank,  and  with  almost  womanly  ten- 
derness bathed  her  burning  brow,  chafed  her 
oold  hands,  and  kindly  remained  with  her  till 
consciousness  was  again  restored: 

When  she  at  last  opened  her  eyes,  he  said : 
^  Lie  still,  yon  are  not  able  to  get  up  yet.  It 
is  not  jnst  the  place  for  a  lady  like  you,  but  I 
will  see  that  no  harm  comes  to  you." 

"Thank  you,  I  am  better  now.  Will  yon 
be  kind  enough  to  call  a  carriage  and  look  after 
niy  baggage  ?  I  wish  to  be  taken  at  once  to  the 
best  hotel  in  your  place." 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  moments  to 
secure  her  baggage  and  drive  to  the  Phoenix 
House ;  but  not  till  he  had  secured  her  a  room 
and  seen  that  she  was  made  comfortable  for 
the  night,  did  this  kind-hearted  stranger  leave 
her. 


"  I  am  sure.  Miss,  I  am  sorry  for  yon,  what- 
ever your  trouble  is,"  he  said,  looking  kindljr 
and  sympathiiingly  at  her  pale  fiice.  "  You 
look  too  ill  to  be  left;  akme.  If  you  wish  it,  I 
will  send  my  wife  to  you.  And  wonld  yoa 
like  to  see  Mr.  Abbott  to-night?  Shall  I  tell 
him  you  are  here  ?  It  will  be  no  trouble — his 
office  is  on  my  way  home." 

**  No ;  I  thank  yon  for  your  kindness  to  an 
unprotected  stranger,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  nee 
any  one  to-night," 

And  this  then  was  the  end  of  all  Esther  Ghti- 
ham's  bright  dreams  of  wedded  bliss  I  After 
years  of  waiting,  this  her  reward!  It  is  well 
that  He  who  made  the  human  heart,  with  its 
endless  capacity  for  enjoyment  and  suffering, 
knows  just  how  much  of  joy  or  sorrow  it  can 
endure.  That  night  of  agony  !  Only  God  and 
her  own  heart  knew  what  she  suffered.  At 
times  the  burden  seemed  greater  than  she  could 
bear,  and  the  language  of  her  heart  was,  "  Mer- 
ciful Father,  stay  Thine  hand,  try  not  thy  child 
farther ;  let  me  die,  there  is  no  happiness  left 
for  me  in  this  world." 

But  not  for  long  did  this  last.  In  the  mom* 
ing  calmer  thoughts  came.  Like  one  of  old, 
''she  wrestled  with  God  and  prevailed." 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  Edward  Abbott 
the  next  morning  to  find,  among^a  number  of 
business  letters  laid  upon  his  table  before  he 
reached  his  office,  a  note  in  a  familiar  hand, 
which  he  at  once  recognised  as  Esther's.  Yea, 
it  was  hers,  and  she  is  now  in  G and  de- 
mands an  interview  at  ottoe. 

For  the  last  few  weeks  he  had  lived,  as  it 
were,  in  a  perfect  whirl  of  excitement.  Party 
after  party  had  been  given  in  honor  of  his  mar- 
i  riage.  Night  after  niglit  he  and  his  bride  had 
been  out  until  a  late  hour.  The  praise  of  hia 
fair  young  wife  was  upon  every  tongue,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  all  he  had  thought  himself  one 
of  the  happiest  of  men. 

Seldom,  during  all  this  time,  had  he  given  a 
thought  to  his  first  love.  If  he  thought  of  her 
at  all,  it  was  only  to  say  to  himself,  **  She  will 
not  long  grieve  for  one  so  unworthy.  She  will 
soon  forget  me  when  she  knowM  all."  But  why 
did  he  not  write  her  and  inform  her  of  hia 
marriage  ?    Why  not  spare  her  the  humiliation 

of  coming  to  G but  to  find  him  already  the 

husband  of  another  ? 

Every  letter  she  had  written  him  since  her 
father's  death  he  had  received,  and  every  time 
he  thought  of  her  he  would  say  :  ''I  must  write 
Esther  to-morrow."  But  when  to-morrow  came 
he  would  find  some  exouse  for  postponing  it, 
and  so  he  had  ootitlnaed  to  preoTastinate  until 


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49 


tbe  daj  of  her  arrival*  But  noir  that  ehe  was 
h^te  he  must  meet  her — there  was  do  way  of  \ 
aToiding  it.  How  conld  he  do  it?  From  the 
wild  dream  of  fancied  hliss  in  which  his  senses 
had  been  locked  ibr  the  last  few  weeks  he  was 
now  fully  roosedy  and  he  instinctively  shrank 
from  meeting  the  woman  he  had  so  deeply 
vxonged. 

What  passed  between  him  and  Esther  none 
but  God  and  themselves  ever  knew.  When 
Edward  Abbott  came  out  from  the  interview, 
which  lasted  perhaps  an  hour,  he  was  very 
pale,  and  lodced  at  least  ten  years  older  than 
he  really  was.  He  did  not  go  to  his  place  of  | 
boMDeas  that  day,  hue  went  directly  from  the 
hotel  to  his  home,  and  it  was  weeks  before  he 
was  again  able  to  enter  his  office. 

Few  persons  ever  saw    Esther  during  her 

brief  stay  in  G ^  hot  for  a  long  time  after 

she  left  there  were  strange  stories  afloat,  of  a 
(all,  dark  woman,  who  came  to  their  town  in 
pOTsuit  of  her  lover,  found  him  married  to  an- 
other, and  retamed  to  her  ia3>  off  Eastern  home 
broken-hearted.  It  was  vaguely  whispered,  too, 
who  the  recreant  lover  was,  and  some  there 
were  who  said  Edward  Abbott  had  never  been 
the  same  man  sinoe  that  long,  tedious  illness, 
which  was  in  some  way  connected  with  that 
strange  lady's  appearance. 

Bat  these  rumors  did  not  in  the  least  afiect 
his  popularity.  If  he  was  changed,  it  was  for 
the  better.  He  was  more  attentive  to  his  busi- 
ness, was  apparently  fond  of  his  young  wife — 
of  his  pleasant  home ;  and  when  one  year  later 
his  first-born,  a  little  son  which  Nora  insisted 
shoald  be  called  Edward,  was  laid  in  his  arms, 
to  those  who  saw  only  the  outer  surface  of  his 
life,  his  cup  of  joy  seemed  full. 

Esther  Graham  returned  to  her  home  a 
changed  woman.  He  alone,  who  knew  why 
•he  most  pass  through  such  a  severe  discipline, 
supported  her  in  her  time  of  trial.  Like  the 
great  calm  which  comes  after  a  tnmultnous 
storm,  so  peace  came  at  last  to  her  troubled 
mind,  and  she  was  enabled  to  look  calmly  about 
and  decide  her  future  course.  In  losing  Ed* 
ward  Abbott's  love  she  had  lost  much,  but  not 
all,  and  it  was  not  in  her  to  sit  idly  down  and 
moam  over  the  past.  Of  the  great  wealth  left 
her  by  her  fiither  she  was  now  sole  steward. 
How  ooold  she  best  nse  it  for  God's  glory  and 
the  good  of  her  fellow-man  ?  First  she  thought 
of  going  to  some  fitiH)ff  land  and  devoting  her 
life  to  the  work  of  a  missionary.  But  why  go 
lo  any  distant  field  of  labor  while  so  much  re- 
mained to  be  done  at  h<»ne  ?  An  orphan  her. 
m^  ber  thouglita  oatorally  tnxned  to  the  &th* 


erless  and  motherless  ones  in  our  great  cities. 
Much  had  already  been  done  for  that  unfortu- 
nate class^  but  Btiii  there  was  a  demand  for  more. 

Scarce  a  year  has  passed  since  Esther's  re- 
turn from  the  West,  but  in  that  time  she  has 
broken  up  her  elegant  New  England  home,  re- 
moved with  her  faithful  old  housekeeper  to  the 
city  of  New  York,  and  commenced  her  labor 
of  love.  Already,  from  by-lanes  and  alleys, 
from  homes  of  destitution  and  poverty,  she 
has  gathered  in  a  hundred  or  more  of  just  such 
neglected  little  ones  as  are  to  be  found  in  every 
great  city.  And  could  you  have  seen  her  in 
the  midst  of  the  happy  group  which  daily  sur- 
round her  table  and  look  up  to  her  for  guidance 
and  counsel,  you  would  have  said  God  had  in- 
deed given  her  a  noble  work  to  do. 

Five  years  passed  in  this  way,  bringing  few 
changes  to  Esther.  True,  some  of  those  who 
first  came  to  her  had  lefk,  and  were  now  able  to 
provide  for  themselves,  and  others  were  occu- 
pying their  places.  Some,  too,  had  happily 
married  and  were  now  living  in  homes  of  their 
own.  And  her  great  motherly  heart  was  not 
confined  to  the  orphan  alone.  She  went  out 
among  the  haunts  of  vice  &nd  brought  in  those 
worse  than  orphaned  ones,  and  there  beneath 
her  sheltering  roof  they  were  comfortably  cared 
for,  and  by  a  power  which  they  could  not  resist^ 
led  gently  back  to  the  paths  of  virtue  and  peace. 
How  many,  not  only  in  this  world,  but  through 
the  long  ages  of  a  never-ending  eternity,  will 
have  reason  to  bless  the  name  of  Esther 
Graham. 

And  during  all  this  time  she  had  never  heard 
directly  from  Edward  Abbott  In  the  papers 
slie  had  sometimes  seen  his  name — she  knew 
he  had  been  elected  to  G>ngress — that  he  was 
now  Hon.  Edward  Abbott — but,  further  tlian 
that,  she  knew  nothing.  Great,  therefore,  was 
her  surprise  when  one  morning  a  letter  was 
handed  her  with  a  Western  pof^tmark,  which, 
on  examination,  proved  to  be  from  Edward.  It 
ran  thus — 

''  Dear  Esther  :  After  all  that  has  happened 
yon  may  deem  it  the  height  of  presumption  in 
me  to  thus  address  you.  But  pardon  me,  dear 
friend,  my  life  is  very  lonely  now.  I  need  you 
so  much.  For  two  years  my  hearthstone  has 
been  desolate— my  boy  motherless.  Nora  was 
a  fond,  true  wife  to  me^  but  she  never  occupied 
the  first  piece  in  my  affections — she  was  never 
to  me  all  that  you  would  have  been.  Dear  one, 
I  know  that  I  did  you  a  great  wrong,  but  do 
not  think  yon  alone  suffered.  God  knows 
how  deep  has  been  my  contrition,  and  how 


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M 


ARTHUR'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


earnently  I  desire  to  make  amends  for  the  put 
and  be  to  you  all  that  I  once  was.  Do  not,  I 
beseech  you,  Miy  this  is  impoftsible — do  not  re- 
fuse to  be  my  wife — the  mother  of  my  boy.  I 
have  heard  of  you  often  through  the  papers, 
and  of  the  noble  work  you  are  doing.  May 
Qod  forgive  me  for  desiring  to  take  yon  from 
it.  Write  soon  and  let  roe  know  my  fate,  for 
you  know  I  never  could  endure  suspense. 

"  Edward  Abbott." 

Esther  read  this  strange  epistle  carefully 
throngh,  then  laid  it  aside  and  commenced 
her  daily  round  of  duties.  She  was  very  btisy 
all  that  day,  and  not  till  the  last  little  one  had 
■aid  her  prayers  and  Esther  had  given  her  her 
good  night  kiss  and  seated  herself  in  her  own 
room,  did  she  find  time  to  again  refer  to  Ed- 
ward's letter.  Then  she  again  took  it  from 
the  envelope  and  carefully  re-read  it. 

"Poor  Edward!"  she  said  to  herself;  "to 
think  I  would  be  willing  to  leave  this  Home-^ 
these  dear  ones — and  give  up  my  life-work  to 
be  his  wife." 

We  will  not  give  her  reply  in  full,  but  simply 
an  extract — 

"No,  Edward,  it  cannot  be — I  can  never  be 
your  wife.  There  was  a  time  when  I  would 
have  followed  you  to  the  world's  end,  if  need 
be,  for  I  did  love  you  once;  I  will  not  attempt 
to  deny  it.  But  you,  by  your  own  act,  made 
that  love  a  ^in.  I  could  not  cherish  regard  for 
the  husband  of  another ;  so  I  conquered  it ;  and 
I  know  by  the  wild  agony  of  its  death  throes 
that  it  is  dead,  utterly  dead,  and  that  in  this 
world  it  can  have  no  resurrection.  Do  not 
think  I  cherish  enmity  toward  you ;  Grod  knows 
how  freely  I  forgive  you,  and  how  in  your  sor- 
row and  loneliness  I  pity  you.  I  promise  still 
to  be  'your  friend,  and  if  you  need  my  assist- 
ance at  any  time  do  not  hesitate  to  write  me. 
More  than  that  I  can  never  be." 

With  the  greatest  impatience  Edward  awaited 
the  reply  to  his  letter.  It  came  at  last.  Hastily 
he  tore  off  the  envelope,  and  with  almost  boyish 
eagerness  ran  over  the  contents.  But  as  he 
read  on  a  strange  look  of  disappointment  came 
over  his  handsome  face,  and  in  the  agony  of 
his  spirit  he  exclaimed:  "Ix>stl  lost  I  Why 
did  I  write  her?  I  might  have  known  she 
despised  nic  I  Heaven  knows  I  gave  her  rea- 
son to  I  And  still  she  refuses  to  allow  me  to 
make  the  only  reparation  possible  in  this 
world.     O  Esiher  I  fijther !" 

A  few  weeks  after  receiving  Edward's  letter, 
in  looking  over  the  morning  papers,  Esther 
•aw  among  the  names  of  passengers  on  board 


the  Arctic,  bound  for  the  Old  World,  the  name 
of  the  Hon.  Edward  Abbott ;  and  then  years 
passed  before  she  again  heard  from  him ;  and 
I  doubt  if  she  often  thought  of  him.  Her 
mind  was  so  constantly  occupied  she  had  but 
little  time  to  dwell  upon  the  past.  Every 
hour,  every  moment,  had  its  appointed  ivork. 

And  was  she  happy  ?  Yes,  comparatively 
so ;  perfect  happiness  she  had  ceased  to  expect 
in  this  world.  What  Qod  had  given  her  to  do 
she  was  nobly,  patiently  doing,  and  His  peace, 
which  posseth  all  understanding,  dwelt  richly 
in  her  heart  from  day  to  day.  And  love,  too — 
that  great  want  in  woman's  life — was  hers. 
Not  the  wild,  feverish  dream  which  once  occu- 
pied her  sleeping  and  waking  houn,  but  the 
pure,  outgusbing  love  of  happy  childhood. 
How  could  she  ever  feel  desolate,  so  long  as 
^he  had  those  dear  ones  to  love  and  cars 
for? 

Five  years  more  rolled  away.  Ten  yearn 
since  she  came  to  the  city  and  commenced  her 
life-work.  She  is  now  thirty-five.  No  longer 
a  timid,  shrinking  girl,  but  a  matured,  thought- 
ful, self-reliant  woman.  Time,  too,  has  dealt 
gently  with  her,  and  she  is  in  many  respects 
more  beautiful  than  at  twenty.  But  it  is  a 
chastened  beauty.  No  one  could  have  looked 
into  those  deep,  expressive  eyes  without  seeing 
that  she  had  suffered.  Her  sufferings,  though, 
were  all  of  the  past,  and  that  to  her  was  a 
sealed  book.  Seldom  did  she  allow  herself  to 
unclasp  the  volume,  look  over  its  contents,  and 
think  "  what  might  have  been." 

There  were  times,  though,  when  memory 
would  assert  its  sway,  and  the  past  would  all 
come  back  to  her.  One  particular  day  she 
could  never  forget.  It  was  her  birthday ;  and 
instinctively  her  thoughts  went  hack  to  her 
mother,  to  her  happy  childhood's  home,  her 
early  girlhood,  and  to  Edward  Abbott.  For 
how  could  she  go  back  to  those  happy  days 
without  tliinking  of  liim  ?  It  was  years  fdnos 
she  had  heard  from  him.  He  had  never  writ- 
ten her  a  line  since  ho  wrote  her  of  Nora's 
death  and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  That  he 
was  grieved  and  disappointed  at  her  refusal  of 
his  hand  she  could  not  doubt ;  but  then  she  had 
freely  forgiven  him  and  proffered  him  her 
friendship,  for  she  would  still  gladly  have  re- 
tained him  as  her  friend,  notwithstanding  all 
that  had  passed.  That  he  whs  again  happily 
married  she  did  not  doubt;  but  why  had  he 
never  written  to  inform  her  of -the  fact? 

Just  then,  as  if  in  reply  to  her  question,  a 
little  girl  of  some  ten  summers  entered  her 
room,  and,  handing  her  a  letter,  said :  "  If  yoa 


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ESTHER    GRAEAM'8   LIFE-WORK. 


51 


please^  Miss  Graham,  here  is  somethiDg  the 
poetman  told  me  to  give  joQ." 

Again  that  strangely  familiar  hand.  Yes,  it 
vas  from  Edward.  He  was  still  lifing  and 
had  not  forgotten  her.  She  opened  it  and  read 
as  follows — 

**  Ebther  :  Once,  years  ago,  yon  said  to  me, 
*if  ever  you  need  my  assistance  in  any  way,  do 
not  hesitate  to  write  me.'  Dear  friend,  that 
time  has  come.  I  am  dying.  Come  to  me  at 
once  if  you  have  the  faintest  desire  to  meet  one 
■o  unworthy  again  in  this  world. 

"Edward.** 

She  could  not  resist  such  an  appeal  as  this, 
and  notwithstanding  the  loneliness  of  the 
journey  and  the  diflSculty  of  leavi;ig.  her 
cfaar^,  her  preparations  were  soon  made,  and 
the  next  morning  she  started  for  Edward's 
home  in  the  far  West.  She  could  go  the 
greater  |*art  of  the  way  now  by  rail,  but  still  it 
took  several  days  to  make  the  journey.  And 
tkone  dayrt  to  her  seemed  like  weeks,  so  fearful 
was  ahe  that  all  might  be  over  before  she 
leached  her  destination. 

But  thank  Heaven  she  was  noC  too  late.  He 
was  still  living,  and  so  glad  and  thankful  that 
she  had  come. 

••  I  knew  you  would  come,"  he  said,  as  he 
held  her  cold,  trembling  hand  in  a  long,  linger- 
ing clasp,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
pale,  expressive  face  as  if  he  would  read  all 
that  was  passing  within. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  Esther's 
emoiioii  at  this  their  first  meeting  aAer  their 
long  separation.  It  had  been  ten  years  or 
more  since  tiiey  last  met,  and  she  knew  that  in 
all  these  years  time  had  been  doing  its  work ; 
but  she  was  not  prepared  |nr  the  fearful  change. 
And  he  was  dying,  too.  He  had  not  deceived 
her.  She  knew  from  the  first  moment  her  eyes 
fully  rested  upon  him  that  his  days  were  num- 
bered. But  the  death  angel  still  lingered,  and 
a  few  weeks  of  almost  unalloyed  happiness  was 
granted  him  here  ere  the  final  summons  cnroe. 
Let  us  hope  it  was  a  foretaste  of  the  blessedness 
in  reserve  for  him  hereafter. 

It  was  then  he  told  Esther  of  his  disappoint- 
ment upon  receiving  her  letter  ;  of  his  vi«ii  to 
Europe;  of  his 'sorrow  and  remorse;  of  his 
plunging  into  dissipation,  hoping  thereby  to 
ft>iget  the  past;  of  his  loss  of  health  and  return 
to  his  native  land,  and  of  his  sincere  repent- 
ance. 

At  another  time  he  said :  **l  thought  it  very 
hard  when  they  told  me  I  had  consumption, 
and  must  die  before  I  had  scarcely  reached  my 


prime;  but  since  you  have  come,  and  I  have 
heard  you  with  your  own  lips  pronounce  my 
forgiveness,  I  am  more  resigned,  and  can  say 
in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart,  *  Not  my  will  but 
Thine  be  done.'  One  thought  alone  troubles 
me  now— my  boy ;  my  darling  Eddy  I  When 
I  am  gone  he  will  be  alone  in  the  world.  He 
will  have  enough  of  this  world's  goods,  so  that 
he  will  never  have  to  struggle  through  poverty 
as  his  father  had  to ;  but  he  will  need  some  one 
to  love  and  care  for  him.  O  Esther  I  I  know 
it  is  asking  much  of  you— but  you  will  not  re- 
fuse my  dying  request-^you  will  be  both  father 
and  mother  to  my  boy  when  I  am  gone?  I 
know  there  is  room  in  your  great  motherly 
heart  for  one  more  orphan.  Only  give  me  this 
promise  and  I  die  content." 

"  I  give  you  my  solemn  promise,  Edward. 
God  helping  me,  I  will  be  to  him  all  that  you 
desire." 

"What  a  noble  woman  you  are,  Esther  I 
How  much  I  lost  by  depriving  myself  of  your 
blest  companionship  all  these  years!  And  to 
think  it  was  my  own  act  which  separated  us. 
You  say  you  have  forgiven  me,  and  every  mo- 
ment we  are  together  I  realize  how  sweet,  how 
perfect  is  our  reconciliation ;  but  sliall  I  ever 
forgive  myself?" 

"  Do  not,  dear  friend,  speak  thus  of  our  sepa- 
ration, and  cease,  I  prey  you,  to  blame  your- 
self. It  was  not  to  be.  We  had  planned  a 
lifetime  of  happiness  together ;  but  our  Father 
in  Heaven,  who  knew  what  was  best  for  us 
both,  had  willed  it  otherwise. 

A  few  more  days  of  watching  and  waiting, 
and  then  one  bright  morning  in  June  a  few 
weeping  friends  gathered  around  Edward's 
dying  couch,  and  with  his  boy  by  his  side  and 
his  head  fondly  pillowed  upon  Esther's  bosom, 
he  quietly  and  peacefully  passed  away. 

Esther  remained  in  G till  all  was  over, 

folio we^I  his  remains  to  their  last  resting  place 
beside  Nora,  and  tlien  with  her  new  charge, 
Edward's  orphan  boy,  returned  to  the  scene  of 
her  former  labors.  And  there,  nobly  doing 
God's  work,  patiently  laboring  in  His  vineyard 
day  by  day,  we  will  leave  her  till  the  Ma.ster 
whom  she  serves  shall  say, "  It  is  enough,  come 
up  higher." 


A  PKR80N  can  scarcely  he  put  into  a  ropre 
dangerous  position  than  when  external  circum- 
stances have  produced  some  striking  change  in 
his  condition,  without  his  manner  of  feeling 
and  of  thinking  having  andergope  any  prepara- 
tion for  it. 


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THE  NEEDS  OP  WORKING-WOMEN. 

BT  TBS  AITTHOR  OF  '' WOMAN'S  WORK  AND  W01£AN'8  WAGES." 


HOMES  FOR  WORKINGGIRLS. 

TTTHAT  the  writer  of  this  article  says  of 
VV  working-girl8-~of  them  and  for  them — 
is  based  upon  the  certain  knowledge  derived 
from  experience,  and  has  not  for  its  foundation 
that  uncertain  knowledge  derived  from  senti- 
ment and  from  abstract  theories.  She  has  been 
a  working-girl.  She  has  gone  to  her  daily 
labors  at  seven  in  the  morning,  and  returned 
at  six  in  the  evening.  She  knows  their  trials, 
their  diMculties,  their  temptations,  their  hopes, 
their  aspirations,  and  their  needs.  Therefore 
she  feels  that  she  has  a  better  right  than.many 
others  to  demand  attention  when  she  speaks  on 
any  subject  pertaining  to  a  working- woman's 
life. 

The  writing  of  this  article  was  suggested  as 
the  result  of  an  experience  in  trying  to  secure 
an  eligible  boarding-place  for  a  young  woman 
who  was  engaged  as  a  clerk  in  a  store.  Her 
salary  was  as  large  as  the  average  rate  paid  to 
girls  in  such  situations,  but  very  moderate 
compared  to  that  of  young  men ;  and,  of  course, 
a  boarding-place  must  be  found  mthin  her 
means.  The  city  was  scoured,  friends  and 
strangers  alike  appealed  to  for  suitable  ac- 
commodations for  this  girl ;  but  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. "  The  comforts  of  a  home  "  commanded 
a  price  that  would  more  than  swallow  up  her 
modest  wages.  And  board  within  her  means 
meant  a  cold,  cheerless,  scantily  furnished 
fourth  or  fifth  story,  with  three  or  four  room- 
mates—just a  place  to  sleep  in  with  privilege 
of  coming  to  the  table— nothing  more.  And 
this  with  winter  just  setting  in,  and  four  or 
five  cold  months  in  prospect. 

Our  girl  did  not  belong  to  the  strong-minded 
sisterhood.  She  was  not  going  to  earn  her 
living,  impelled  thereto  by  any  heroic  im- 
pulses concerning  the  duties  and  rights  of  her 
sex.  If  she  had  been,  she  might  have  accepted 
the  hard  lot  offered  her  as  part  of  her  martyr- 
dom, and  borne  it  bravely  and  gloried  in  it. 
No ;  she  earned  her  living  simply  because  she 
had  to,  and  because  matrimony,  which  we  are 
so  often  lold  is  the  only  proper,  safe,  and  sure 
harbor  for  unfortunate  women  left  to  bufiet 
with  the  rough  waves  of  life,  had  not  yet  pre- 
sented its  friendly  port  to  her  storm-tossed 
bark.  (Excoso  the  high-flown  style.  I  gen- 
(62) 


erally  prefer  plain  language,  but  on  this  sub- 
ject common  usage  sanctions  me  in  becoming 
sentimental  and  poetical).  No,  she  was  one  of 
the  weakest  of  the  weak  sisterliood,  who  would 
have  flown  quickly  to  matrimony  as  to  a  aure 
refuge  against  the  ills  of  her  life,  if  it  had  pre- 
sented itself  in  such  a  form  as  to  promise  to 
lift  her  out  of  all  necessity  for  self-exertion. 
Though  anxiously  looked  for,  her  "fate"  had 
not  yet  appeared,  and  miglit  never  appear. 
Meantime  she  must  work,  and  as  a  necessary 
sequence  she  must  find  some  place  to  live  out 
of  work-hours.  Yet  it  seemed  as  if  in  all  that 
great  city  of  nearly  a  million  inhabitants  there 
was  not  a  single  spot  where  a  lone  young  wo- 
man could  find  a  comfortable  and  convenient 
abiding-place  on  terms  within  her  means. 

How  and  where  do  working-girls  live  whose 
incomes  are  from  five  to  ten  dollars  per  week? 
Many,  no  doubt,  are  in  the  homes  of  their 
parents.  But  many  more  are  either  away  from 
these  homes,  or  have  none  except  such  as  they 
make  for  themselves. 

A  woman  in  the  city,  herself  a  successful 
working-woman,  told  me  that  she  hired  her 
girls  on  such  terms  that  if  they  were  industri- 
ous they  could  earn  five  dollars  per  week  ;  and, 
she  said,  "  they  could  do  very  well  on  that  sum." 
This  was  in  the  midst  of  our  boarding-place 
hunting  difiSculties,  and  the  question  suggested 
itself  so  forcibly  that  I  almost  gave  it  utterance : 
"How  and  where  do  girls  live  on  five  dollars 
per  week  f*  And  of  all  the  needs  of  working- 
girls,  there  is  none  wore  imperative  than  that 
of  a  goQd  home. 

In  my.  career  as  a  working-girl  I  never  had 
any  experience  of  these  gregarious  boarding- 
houses,  which,  like  streetcars  and  omnibuses, 
have  always  room  for  one  more,  and  which  do 
not  profess  to  look  after  the  comfort  of  their  in- 
mates. But  I  learned  the  misery  and  loneliness 
of  boarding-house  life  when  astrangerand  alone 
in  the  city,  as  an  inmate  of  a  house,  no  matter 
haw  genteel,  whose  only  interest  in  its  boarders 
is  that  they  pay  their  board-bills  regularly  and 
have  not  too  good  appetites.  The  sparsely 
furnished  room  of  the  "genteel"  boarding- 
house,  where  one  lives  in  state,  solitary  and 
alone,  is  of  all  places  the  most  dreary.  Better, 
I  believe,  after  all,  the  crowded  attic^  for  that 
at  least  fbrnisbes  companionship. 


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THE   NEEDS   OF    WOEKItTB-WO MEN. 


58 


I  iMtve.  known,  too^  what  il  is  to  be  an  in- 
of  a  house  where  I  was  received  as  a' 
of  the  Sillily,  was  regarded  and 
i  as  a  daogfater,  where  I  found  pleasant 
eoaspanions  of  mj  own  age,  protectors  and  ad- 
Yiaen  in  those  older  than  myself;  where  oar 
relatioodiip  was  not  one  of  dollars  and  cents^ 
of  ralae  given  and  received,  but  of  earneMt, 
lender  friendship,  friendship  that  thus  found 
will  be  aa  lanting  aa  life  iti^lf. 

finch  are  the  homes  that  onr  working-girls 
want.  Besides  food  and  lodging  they  want 
fttbers  and  mothers,  sisters  and  brothers — or 
friends  that  shall  stand  in  the  stead  of  these. 
They  want  warm  fires,  light  rooms  and  cheer- 
fiil  snrroitndings.  They  want  a  recognition  in 
Ike  frmily  circle ;  bat  they  want  also  a  little 
inner  temple  of  their  own  where  they  can  re- 
tire when  they  desire  solitude.  They  want  a 
nook  of  their  own  where  they  can  bestow  their 
penonal  belongings,  and  in  the  arrangement  of  \ 
it  make  it  take  on  their  personality.  And 
they  want  all  this  at  a  rate  within  their  means. 
Boys  n<^  all  this  as  much  as  girls,  but  girls 
ftd  the  need  of  it  more  than  boys.  And  they 
both  have  a  right  to  it.  I  do  not  wish  to 
quarrel  with  boarding-house  keepers.  Keep- 
ing boarders  is  a  legitimate  and  honorable 
hairiness,  and  with  all  its  risks  and  lofKses  it 
does  not  do  to  reduce  the  rates  of  board  too 
lov.  Still  the  fact  stands  that  girls  need  and 
have  a  right  to  all  this,  and  the  problem  is, 
how  shall  they  obtain  it? 

Investigation  of  the  homes  of  the  working- 
women  of  New  York  brought  to  light  some 
startling  fi&cts.  The  public  were  shocked  at 
the  descriptions  of  wretchedness  and  squalor 
which  ibliowed  these  investigations.  The  re- 
solt  was  tbatoneof  the  millionaires  of  the  city, 
in  emulation  of  a  still  more  renowned  philan- 
iliropist,  resolved  to  build  a  ''  Home  for  Young 
Working- Women."  But  being  a  man,  he  was 
certain  to  make  grave  mistakes.  Besides, 
•put  Yoarself  in  His  Place"  was  not  written 
when  he  made  his  plans,  and  the  worthy  Dr. 
Amboyne  had  not  taught  him  to  put  himself 
in  the  place  of  these  poor  working-girls,  the 
bstler  to  judge  what  they  need  and  want,  and  I 
have  grave  doubts  if  thfrf  will  show  themselves 
so  generally  ready  to  put  themselves  in  the 
pisoes  he  has  prepared  for  them. 

He  has  buiU  or  is  building  them  a  magnifi- 
CBDI  house.  It  is  too  fine,  and  makes  its  in- 
too  conspicuous.  He  reasons  from  an 
point  of  view  that  in  the  majority  of  \ 
b  would  be  better  and  more  desirable 
that  each  girl  should  room  aienei    Women  are 


social  beings,  eiMi  it  is  not  better  to  condemn 
them  to  solitude.    He  will  find  they  will  choose 
disoomibrt  and  companionship,  rather  than  the 
unshared  comibrt  he  provides  for  them.    Then' 
he  has  calculated  with  mathematical  exacti- 
tude the  minimum  of  space  that  will  suffice  for 
the  purposes  of  living.    So  he  allots  to  each 
solitary  a  cell  nine  feet  long  and  seven  wide. 
A  bed  four  feet  wide  and  seven  long,  leaves  a 
space  of  three  feet  in  width  at  the  side  of  the 
bed,  and  two  at  the  end.    Put  in  this  space  a 
chair,  a  table,  a  trunk  or  wardrobe,  and  a  wash- 
stand — ^the  barest  necessities  in  the  way  of  fur- 
nishing—and how  much  space  is  left?  Scarcely 
enough  to  stand  a  cat  in,  still  less  to  swing  one. 
Where  are  to  be  the  pictures,  the  flowers,  the 
bookcase^  the  birdcage;  where  the  rocking-chair, 
the  work-basket,  the  stand  for  books  and  papers,  - 
the  plain  and  cheaply-made  but  comfortable 
loonge ;  Where  the  room  for  the  entertainment 
of  friends  and  neighbors?    Yet  these  are  all  •> 
requisites  of  a  home,  and  of  just  as  vital  im- 
portance as  a  place  to  eat  and  sleep.    Home  is:. 
a  place  to  be  comfortable,  contented  and  happ^t' 
in.    it  is  n  place  in  which  to  live  one's  fullest* 
self— in  which  to  expand  until  all  one^s^beloang^- 
ings  and  surroundings  seem  a  part  of  one's 
self.    But  there  is  no  chanoe  for  expansion! 
here. 

No;  Mr.  Stewftrt  has  been  very  liberal  mid' 
well-intentioned ;  but  heisonly  a  m  an  and  there- 
fore bound  to  make  mistakes  in  the  matter. 

We  do  not  Q*«k  or  want  chs.rity  for  these* 
girls.    We  want  first  that  they  shall  be  so  edu- 
cated in  their  various  branches  of  business  that^. 
they  can  earn  more  money  than  they  do  now,, 
and  when  they  do  cam  it,  we  want  ft  paid  to- 
them,  so  that  they  can  aflbrd  to  pay  a-  reasons-  - 
ble  rate  of  board.    Then  we  want  homes  for^ 
working-girls.      Not  Homes    spelled   with  at 
capital,  which  mark  their  inmates  as 4n  some  • 
sense  tlie  recipients  of  charity.    But  liomes  in  i 
pleasant  families,  the  members  ot  which  are 
willing  to  assume  all  the  responstbSlities  of^ 
parents,  guardians  and  friends  to  these  girls,  so 
tliat  the  comforts,  enjoyments  andowholesome 
restraints  which  are  needed  to  peiiibet  their  yet* 
only  partially  formed  characters. will  none  of 
them  be  laeking.    In  this  wagr  only  can  wc- 
keep  our  worhing^rls  pure  and  good  and' 
make  of  them   honest  and  earnest  working- 
women,  a  blessing  instead  of  a  se^reach  to  their 
order  and  their  sex. 

Who  will  fiamisb  these  homes?  Will  pri- 
vate fiimiiies  think  over  this  matter^  and  of 
their  own  aooovd  open  their  arnm  to  receive 
tiioae  poor  ianoeent  waii»aBditiig%aBd-keepb 


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54 


ARTEUR*8   HOME   MAG  A  El  NS. 


Ihem  iiiuooent  aod  make  them  happj?  Or 
will  some  one  with  the  brain  of  a  man,  the 
heart  of  a  woman  aod  the  instinda  of  a  mother, 
devifie  a  boarding-hotuie  on  a  grand  scale,  or  a 
plan  for  any  nombei  of  smalJer  boarding-hoaBeBy 
which  nhall  meet  all  these  wants,  and  in  its 
practical  working  be  such  as  shall  recommend 
itself  to  the  class  for  which  it  will  be  intended  7 
This  class  is  growing  larger  every  day.  The 
number  of  women  who  must  be  self-supporting 
is  each  day  increasing.  And  in  addition  to 
this^  public  sentiment  is  rapidly  changing  in 
regard  to  labor  for  women.  We  already  have 
our  lady  medical,  legal  and  theological  stu- 
dents; our  telegraph  operators,  printers,  en- 
gravers, etc.  And  in  a  few  years  they  promise 
to  be  almost  as  numerous  as  men  in  the  same 
:  branches  of  busineM.  Most  of  these,  in  the 
early  stages  of  their  professional  or  business 
'  careers,  must  be  added  to  the  class  who  have 
no  homes  of  their  own,  and  are  dependent  on 

•  others  to  fnmish  them  home  comforts.  And 
if  we  would  develop  the  fullest  womanhood, 
and  give  girls  the  iairest  chance  to  show  the 
httt  they  can  do,  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
society  must  see  to  it  that  they  have  homes. 

Note. — By  one  of  those  singular  coinci- 

•  dences  which  sometimes  occur,  the  first  paper 
I  opened  after  the  above  article  was  penned 
and  ready  for  the  printer's  hands, contained  the 
following  paragraph — 

'*  A.  T.  Stewart's  Home  for  Young  Working- 
Women,  when  completed,  will  be  a  building 

.  of  magnificent  appearance,  with  aooomodations 
for  fifteen  hundred  occupants.  But  many  of 
the  girls  would  a  great  deal  rather  board  in  the 

:  plainest  three-roomed  cottage  where  she  could 

.be  f  one  of  the  &mily.'  ** 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

'fpHE  great  evil  upon  which  we  have  fallen 
X  in.  these  days  of  rapid  fortunes  and  ex<^ 
-  travagant  living,>will  be  appreciated  if  we  aek 
ourselves  what  meaning  is  attached  to  the 
word  Success.  What  are  oar  young  people 
taught  as  compassing  ;tnie  snooeas  in  life? 
What  dass  of  men  ave  held  up  as  the  true 
type  of  manhood,  and  as  worthy  of  emulation? 
When  Mr.  Greeley  talks  of  "self-made  men," 
who  are  the  bright  examples  be  holds  up  to 
•^iew,  and  whom  does  he  ask  our  young  men 
4o  pattern  after— the  men  of  ideas,  of  moral 
•power,  of  strong  virtues,  <>r  of  great  wealth  ? 
Whatiajmeant  by  soooeM  in  life  when  the  in* 


stances  most  dted  in  this  oonneotion  are  Astor, 
Qirard,  Stewart,  and  Vanderbilt?  Whoever 
speaks  of  men  like  Elihu  Burritt  and  that  dass 
of  pure  philanthropists  and  soholan,  who  are 
constantly  thinking  so  much  of  others  thai 
they  have  no  time  to  devote  to  the  accumula- 
tion of  wealth.  While  we  laud  to  the  skies 
such  men  as  Peabody,  who  having  lived  within 
himself  until  he  had  amassed  great  wealth, 
and  got  through  with  its  use  and  aggrandise- 
ment, bequeathed  it  to  such  purposes  and 
under  such  restrictions  as  suited  his  fancy  or 
his  ambition,  we  are  quite  apt  to  lose  sight 
of  the  thousands  of  tender  hearts  and  great 
souls  whose  wonderful  benevolence  and  fellow- 
feeling  have  made  it  impossible  that  they 
should  grow  rich  save  in  the  blessings  of  those 
whom  they  have  helped.  Is  it  not  time  that 
a  new  lexicon  was  prepared,  or  the  old  ones 
amended,  so  that  our  "coming"  men  and  wo- 
men shall  have  a  difiereut  idea  of  the  tme 
meaning  of  success? 

THE  BLACKBIRD'S  SONG. 

BT  LOUISE  V.  BOTD. 

I  HEAR  a  blackbird's  etrain  of  wild 
Untrammelled  eestssy, 
It  bringt  me  haunting  dreams,  sad  sweet, 
Of  my  lost  infanoy. 

0 

Like  daisies  then,  and  daisies  now, 

His  song  is,  old  and  new, 
And  part  of  summer's  fields  of  green 

And  summer's  skios  of  blue. 

Sweet  bird  !  oould  I  half  eomprchend 

The  mysteries  he  knows, 
Of  the  white  life  of  the  lily, 

And  the  red  life  of  the  roso ; 

Such  purity  and  passion 

Across  my  soul  would  stream, 
As  only  blessed  angels  know, 

And  happiest  poets  dream. 

Then  could*!,  what  he  gave  to  me, 

Frame  into  words  again. 
My  land  would  crown  me  Queen  of  Soy 

And  the  world  would  cry  **  Amen !" 

Miss  Robsrtboh,  an  English  anthoress, 
makes  the  heroine  of  one  of  her  noveksay  v^^fy 
pertinently :  ''  Let  any  man  look  into  his  own 
heart,  and  ask  himself  if  he  could  dare  to  think 
he  was  fit  to  point  out  what's  riglit  or  whafs 
wrong  to  any  reRpectable  woman.  It  well 
becomes  men,  after  spending  their  lives  God 
knows  how,  to  take  upon  them  to  tutor  and 
find  fault  with  women  who  are  an  innocent  and 
wall-behaved  as  the  saiole  a'aostf 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


]VCOTHER8'   DEI^A^RTlVCElSrT. 


THAT  BOY'S  TEMPER 

BT  MBB.  V.  O.  JOHHSOH. 

PSESAF8  tkero  is  nothing  else  that  so  much 
ezeites  a  naotkor's  anxiety  for  a  ehild's  futore 
■i  a  violent  temper.  It  ia  a  dangerous  thing. 
Vhea  ve  see  the  frowning  brow  and  crimson  oheek 
!  SBd*fla«htng  eyes,  the  tiny  hand  clinched,  while 
face,  bitter,  defiant  words  leap  from  the  little 
amUi— or  the  child  throws  his  toys  from  him,  and 
kuuelf  soreaming  oo  the  floor — it  may  well  cause 
iBxiety,  that  will  not  stop  short  of  persistent, 
vstekfol,  prayerful  effort.  It  is  a  pitiable,  a  ter- 
riVs  light. 

And  yet,  there  is  a  bright  side  of  this  turbulent 
latore.  The  very  passion  indicates  a  depth  and 
itNiigth  without  which  no  reliable,  forceful  char- 
sder  can  be  bailt.  The  richer  the  nature,  the 
■ere  naterial  it  holds  for  good — the  greater  danger 
«f  perrersion.  Talent,  generosity,  courage,  and 
deep  feeling — ^the  capability  of  ardent,  seif-saori- 
fieiikg,  deroted  affoetion,  are  almost  always  accom- 
fsaied  by  quick  passions.  The  reason  is  self- 
eridcat  A  strong  nature  is  strong  in  all  its  feel- 
isgt,  sll  its  tendencies.  It  is  said,  no  doubt  truly, 
&st  sun  cannot  hate  like  woman  ;  he  cannot  love 
SI  the  does.  And  the  very  natures,  that  if  per- 
verted, go  wildest  and  farthest  astray,  are  the  ones 
Ihit  ease  brought  (and  they  can  be  only  by  the 
lilsaee  of  lore— never  by  fear)  into  allegiance  to 
Chriit,  rise  to  the  loftiest  planes  of  self-abnegation 
■d  loving  Mrrioe,  trust  and  endurance.  He  who 
l«t  knew  the  human  heart,  said :  "  They  to  whom 
■Boh  is  foiKivea,  love  mueh." 

What  the  river  is  when  the  storm  swells  it  into 
fciBiag  fury,  and  it  overflows  its  banks — dark, 
Inbid,  irrosistihle—- carrying  devastation  wherever 
knms  its  mad  course,  such  is  the  soul  borne  along 
ly  passion's  wild  current  Bat  is  the  river  a  thing 
«f  evO?  Nay,  ia  it  not— kept  within  its  rightftil 
Waads  and  direeted  to  its  normal  ends — a  thing 
<f  noblest  use  and  beauty?  Can  we  dispense 
viftbHr 

Walt  till  the  tempest  has  passed  and  the  winds 
M  lalled  aad  the  sun  shines  out  again.  Then  see 
As  river  as  it  la.  Is  there  anything  more  beautl- 
U?  Anything  on  whioh  we  look  longer  or  with 
inper  tkriU  of  pleasure?  9ee  it  flowing  along, 
crfB,  blue,  silvery ;  iu  tiny  ripples  ohasing  eve 
aether  in  the  glad  suallght;  Its  clear  depths  re- 
iwUag  the  changing  sky ;  the  meadows,  on  either 
hmd,  green  f^m  its  ref^hlng;  the  trees  and 
iivers  drinking  Itfb  and  bloom  fVom  its  fnlness ; 
vhite  docks  sailing  and  diving  in  its  waters  ;  the 
fsiet,  brown-eyed  cows  wading  along  its  edge  and 
^■mehing  their  thirst  with  the  weary,  heated 
Wne;  the  old  way-worn  man  and  the  little  child 


sharing  its  benison  with  the  birds  of  the  wood. 
And  then,  farther  on,  as  it  traces  its  winding  way 
past  field  and  forest  and  hill,  making  sweet  music 
as  it  goes,  growing  deeper  and  broader,  till  it  bears 
the  snowy- winged  vessel  and  panting  steamer, 
with  their  freight  of  human  life  and  costly  mer- 
chandise. 

The  analogy  is  complete.  No  fear  of  the  horse- 
pond  !  That  is  very  well  in  its  way — a  good  and 
useful  thing.  But  would  yon  exchange  the  river 
for  it? 

But  yon  must  guard  the  river.  The  dyke  is  in- 
dispensable in  iotat  places,  and  it  must  be  strong 
and  sure.  And  you  must  guard  your  child.  All 
the  time  you  have,  through  childhood  and  youth, 
is  none  too  long  to  teach  him  self-government — 
that  without  which  all  outward  control  must  fail. 

And  as  to  ways  and  means — first  of  all,  we  need 
to  remember  that  fire  never  quenches  fire.  The 
mother  who  most  steadily,  fully,  conscientiously 
rules  her  own  spirit,  is  the  one  that  best  governs 
the  child.  Mere  outward  force  will  not  do  it. 
Severe  punishment  will  not  do  it;  but  rather  in- 
crease the  evil.  The  old  saying  about  whipping 
six  devils  in  while  trying  to  whip  one  out,  is  far 
more  true  than  elegant. 

Much  may  be  done  in  the  way  of  prevention. 
And  we  cannot  begin  too  early.  It  is  never  wi^o 
or  kind,  needlessly  to  vex  or  try  a  child.  In  in- 
fancy, what  ought  not  to  be  given,  can,  as  a  gen- 
eral thing,  be  kept  out  of  the  way — at  least,  out  of 
reach.  Some  object  to  this,  and  talk  about  teach- 
ing the  child  obedience  and  self-denial. 

But  my  perceptions  are  not  sufficiently  acute  to 
see  the  practicability  of  giving  moral  lessons  to 
babies.  It  is  never  well,  at  a  later  day,  to  refuse  a 
request  need'e99fy.  There  are  times  enough  when  it 
must  be  refused,  out  of  inability  or  for  the  ohi1d*8 
good — things  enough  which  he  must  see  and  not 
have.  If  we  are  only  faithful  to  duties  that  really 
exist,  wo  need  not  make  them  unto  4>ur»olves  or 
fsar  there  will  not  be  a  sufficient  number.  An  un- 
reasonable control  sours  a  ohild  and  tends  to  in- 
duce obstinaey,  fretfulness,  and  deception.  A 
reasonable  and  just  government  wins  his  respect 
and  a  cheerful  obedlenee. 

One  very  impovtaal  point  is  thla*--any  eonfldenoe 
on  the  child's  part  must  always  he  met  in  good 
faith;  however  small  or  trivial  the  subject  matter 
may  seem,  let  us  remember  there  was  a  time  when 
such  things  were  large  to  us.  The  father  and 
mother  of  readiest  sympathy  are  those  who  retain 
their  children's  confidence,  and  with  it  their  affec- 
tion, and  thus  are  able  to  exert  the  longest  and 
deepest  influence*  Ridicule  and  reproach  are 
always  and  only  bad,  whatever  may  be  the  cironm- 
stanoet  or  fault 

(66) 


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56 


ARTHUR'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


But— doing  all  in  our  power  to  avoid  occasions  of 
anger,  giving  our  chUdren  the  example  of  a  q«idt, 
self-controlled  spirit — when  outbursts  of  temper 
do  come,  let  us  meet  them,  not  with  indifference, 
for  60  will  it  grow  and  strengthen ;  not  with  sever- 
ity, bat  a  gentle  firmness.  It  is  born  with  the 
dild ;  transmitted,  like  all  tendencies,  through  a 
line  of  ancestry,  and  shows  Itself  long  before  moral 
or  spiritual  truths  can  be  taught.  The  best  mode 
I  have  ever  known  suggested  or  practised,  is  this  : 
Take  the  little  one  on  your  lap,  hold  his  bands 
-gently  in  your  own,  look  calmly,  kindly,  steadily 
in  his  eyes,  and  when  you  speak  let  your  toneH>e 
low  and  gentle,  your  words  affectionate,  though 
serious.  You  may  not  perceive  any  good  result 
the  first  or  second,  or  perhaps  the  sisth  time  ,*  but 
persevere,  By-and-by  you  will  find  these  out- 
breaks come  less  frequently  and  are  sooner  over ; 
and  as  your  child  grows  older  and  you  can  bring 
rriigiooB  teaching  to  bear,  do  so.    Then,  if  need 


be,  force,  of  a  certain  kind,  may  come  in  with 
benefit.  3«t  punish ofieQt,  if  veeded  at  all,  should 
be  of  a  mild  character;  and  rather  follow  than 
occur  at  the  time.  Perhaps  confinement  to  one 
room  and  akme  for  a  given  time,  or  deprivation  of 
some  pleasure,  is  the  best  mode.  And  one  thing  is 
often  overlooked  that  should  modify  our  oonduet 
toward  our  children ;  and  that  many  would  know 
to  be  true  if  they  could  fully  recall  the  experience 
of  their  own  ohildhood.  Many  a  sensitive  child 
really  straggles  with  temper  more  than  any  one 
suspects,  and  grieves  over  it  in  leoret.  Moat  traa 
is  it  in  this  case,  that 

"  What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
Bot  know  not  whats  resittaX." 
By  example  and  influence,  patienee»  finnneaa 
and  gentleness,  faith,  hope,  and  love  shall  the  evil 
be  gradually  overcome,  and  strength  of  feeling, 
generous  impulses,  and  rightly-direoted  wUl-foroe 
remain  to  fortify  and  adorn  the  character. 


THE   HOME    CIRCLE. 


EDITED    BY  A  IiADT. 


0' 


HOMES. 

\U'R  readers  wilt  find  an  article  in  the  present 
namber  of  Thb  Lady's  Homb  Magazine^ 
from  the  author  of  *'  Woman's  Work  and  Woman's 
Wti^^"  a  series  of  papers  which  attracted  some 
attention  last  year. 

She  treats  of  an  important  subjeot— the  need  of 
homes  for  working-girls.  If  it  had  been  oonsisteni 
with  her  subject,  she  might  have  made  a  portion  of 
her  essay  of  more  general  application.  She  does 
say,  in  one  paragraph  :  "  Boys  need  homes  as  mueh 
as  girls,"  bat  she  adds  in  oonolnsion — "  hut  girls 
feel  the  need  of  them  more  than  boys.'' 

Apropos  to  this  a  writer  in  it  recent  number  of 
The  Bevofniion  declares  that  **  a  large  proportion  of 
our  young  men  are  utterly  defioient  in  the  tastes,  sen- 
timents, affeetions,  and  aims  which  qualify  men  for 
husbands  and  fathers  and  heads  of  households." 
She  says  that  "  they  have  the  least  home  feeling ; 
they  hare  habits,  appetites,  assoeiatee,  ambitions, 
and  dispositions,  which  disqualify  them  for  a  rela- 
tion so  intimate  and  sacred  as  that  of  husband ;" 
and  earnestly  asks,  «  What  can  be  done  to  make 
young  men  marriageable  ?  How  are  these  yonng 
men  who  have  no  domestio  tastes  •♦  *  *  to  be 
tamed,  and  trained,  and  transformed  into  exem* 
plary,  home-loving  husbands  V 

In  answering  the  last  question  we  say,  with  im- 
plicit belief  in  the  troth  of  our  answer— young  men 
need  homeSy  and  this  need  is  quite  as  imperative  as 
in  the  oase  of  girls.    They  do  not  want  boarding- 


houses  ;  or,  if  these  are  a  necessity,  they  want  them 
as  homelike  as  possible. 

But  to  discover  the  eanse  of  this  lamentable  de- 
ficiency in  the  yonng  men  of  the  period,  we  must 
look  further  baok  than  at  first  glanoe  seems  neoes- 
sai^.  We  must  find  them  as  boys  in  the  homes  of 
their  parents.  If  there  is  a  yonng  son  and  daugh- 
ter in  the  family,  the  chances  are  that  the  daughter 
has  a  pleasant  room  allotted  to  her,  and  is  tanght 
to  keep  It  in  order,  and  to  consider  it  a  little  home 
of  her  own,  more  private  even  than  the  family  eir- 
ole.  But,  if  the  house  is  not  large,  any  plaoe  will 
do  for  the  son  to  sleep  in— a  oloset  of  a  ohamber 
over  the  hall— an  attio— anywhere,  fireless,  f^rni- 
tureless  beyond  the  merest  necessities,  possibly  even 
carpetless.  He  learns  to  crawl  into  his  den  at  as 
late  an  hour  as  possible,  and  never  to  spend  an  un« 
necessary  moment  in  iL  He  pitches  his  boots  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  puts  his  blaoking-boxes  and 
soiled  paper-eollars  on  the  table,  leafos  the  panta- 
loons he  wore  yesterday  on  the  only  chair,  and  the 
d^brit  of  the  cigar  he  smoked  the  night  before  on 
the  window  sill.  There  is  nothing  homelike  in 
this ;  nothing  to  attraot  him  to  the  place,  and  the 
very  desire  for  a  home  life  is  stifled  in  its  birth. 
Then  it  is  not  muoh  better  in  the  family  cirole. 
The  boy  is  taught  no  quiet  ocoupations  to  take  ap 
his  time  and  attention.  He  is  made  to  feel  that  he 
is  out  of  plaoe  in  the  handsomely  furnished  parlor 
or  quiet  sitting-room.  In  fact,  everything  com- 
bines to  teneh  him  th8|t  there  is  no  home  life  for 
him,  and  tu  force  him  abroad  to  find  toleration  even. 


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TSE   EOUE   cut  CLE. 


67 


The  sfnet  preients  attnotions  too  strong  for  Lim, 
and  the  last  hop«  of  onltirating  the  "  tastes,  senti- 
xnents,  affootioDSt,  and  alms  which  qualify  men  for 
liUBbandfl  and  fathers  and  heads  of  huuseholds'' 
b  crushed.  The  street-comers,  the  corner-grocery, 
the  har-room,  the  engine-house,  the  billiard-saloon, 
and  all  such  places  where  boys  and  idle  men  do 
most  congregate,  are  poor  schools  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  domestic  virtues;  and  any  youug  man 
who  takes  a  diploma  from  these  can  only  be  trans- 
formed into  a  model  husband  by  a  miracle.  And 
the  age  of  miracles  is  pasL  They  learn  in  these 
places  to  put  a  low  estimate  on  all  women,  to  sneer 
at  virtue,  and  to  agree  with  St.  Paul,  yet  for  far 
different  reasons,  that  it  were  better  never  to 
many. 

Oar  hoarding-houses  for  young  men — how 
liioeked  would  any  of  their  keepers  be  if  they  were 
told  thej  should  try  and  make  them  pleasant  and 
homelike.  Men  only  enter  them  to  eat  and  sleep, 
therefore  men  are  more  desirable  inmates  than 
women.  It  is  no  concern  of  any  one's  how  the 
halanee  of  their  unoccupied  time  is  employed. 
And  the«yonng  and  innocent  lad,  fresh  from  a  good 
borne  and  with  the  influences  of  that  home  still  lin- 
gering about  him,  shares  a  room  with  companions 
whose  very  touch  is  pollution,  whose  presence  is 
eontagton,  and  whose  speech  and  breath  are  pro- 
mutation,  and  not  long  does  he  remain  pure  and 
innocent. 

But  it  is  not  our  young  men  and  young  women 
akme  who  need  homes.  Boarding-house  life  is  at 
best  a  poor  substitute.  It  is  there  that  we  find  idle, 
frivolons  women— women  who  "want  no  more 
rfghtai "  lest  they  should  bring  with  them  new  du- 
ties— women  who  sneer  at  temperance  and  all  the 
^fcmest  questions  of  the  day — women  who  have  no 
bigher  aim  than  to  dress  fashionably  and  eztrava- 
gmntly*  and  to  be  admired.  It  is  in  boarding- 
bonnes  that  onr  scandal  and  divorce  cases  are  ma- 
tared — where  husbands  learn  to  be  neglectful,  and 
wires  unloving  and  unfaithful.  There  is  one  com- 
mon parlor  for  dress  and  show  and  flirtation,  for 
gossip  and  mischief- mali ing ;  but  no  chance 
for  any  of  that  quiet,  home-life  which  de- 
Telops  the  affections  and  brings  out  into  strong 
relief  all  the  manly  and  womanly  traits  of  the 
character. 

Ererybody  needs  homes.  The  boy,  the  gpri,  the 
man,  the  woman.  It  is  the  true  soil  in  which  all 
ih«  domestic  virtues  spring  up  and  flourish.  And 
abome  to  be  a  true  home  must  furnish  ease  and 
ooiBfiart,  freedom  from  all  restraint,  pleasant  sights 
and  pkaaant  sounds,  kind  words  and  warm  hearts. 
In  U  there  mast  be  a  oommingling  of  the  sexes  on 
broUierij  and  sisterly  terms,  which  shall  engender 
a  tnie  regard  and  respeet  in  ^each  sex  for  the 


air  joa  that  ase  homeless ;  and  yon 
t*  bsra  hoMs  see  that  they  are  truly 


EDUCATION  OF  CHILDREN. 

(^ELIA  BURLBIGH  appears  before  the  public 
^  as  a  lecturer  this  winter.  She  is  one  of  the 
most  talented  and  finished  writers  and  speakers  of 
which  America  can  boast.  Her  lecture  for  the  sea- 
son is  on  **  The  Rights  of  Children.''  Among 
many  cj^cellent  things  she  says — 

"  At  a  much  earlier  age  than  is  customary  with 
itiost  parents,  I  would  have  them  begin  to  teach 
the  child  to  provide  for  his  own  wants  and  meet  the 
exigencies  of  his  own  daily  life.  And  there  need 
be  no  such  diffcKence  between  the  sexes  in  this 
matter  as  custom  has  led  us  to  suppose.  The  boy 
no  less  than  the  girl  can  be  taught  to  take  pride  in 
a  neatly-kept  room,  in  orderly  closets  and  tastefully 
arranged  bnrean-drawere ;  to  have  a  place  for 
everything  and  everything  in  its  place ;  to  know 
what  garments  will  be  needed  for  the  ooming  sea- 
son, and  to  ask  father  or  mother  to  go  with  Mm  to 
select  them,  instead  of  having  everything  provided 
without  thought  or  care  on  his  part.  I  kavo  even 
a  secret  conviction  that  the  mastery  of  his  own 
buttons  might  be  acquired  by  a  boj  of  average 
intelligence,  and  that  to  take  care  of  his  own  room 
would  not  necessarily  lessen  his  chances  of  a  noblo 
and  self-respecting  manhood. 

"  As  for  the  girl,  I  see  no  reason  why  she  shouTi 
not  be  taught  the  use  of  the  Jack-knife,  the  ham- 
mer, and  the  saw,  to  drive  a  nail,  tighten  a  serew, 
or  put  up  a  shelf  in  her  room.  Every  girl  should, 
if  possible,  have  a  garden,  and  learn  to  take  a 
pride  in  her  acquaintance  with  nature,  in  herrobur>t 
health,  and  her  ability  to  endure  fatigue.  Each 
should  be  taught  what  is  traditionally  proper  for 
the  sex  to  which  he  or  she  belongs,  but  I  should 
be  very  far  from  saying,  *  Only  this  and  nothing 
more.' " 

In  an  exchange  we  find  the  following,  which 
relates  to  the  same  subject — 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  boys  should  be  allowed 
to  leave  articles  scattered  all  over  the  floor,  becau.«ie 
they  are  boys,  nor  any  reason  why  they  should  not 
be  able  to  sew  on  buttons  and  strings,  or  mend  a 
rent,  and  also  be  provided  with  the  implem^ts  to 
do  it.  It  is  this  eternal  'picking  up'  after  disor- 
derly men  and  boys,  who  learn  to  think  that  pick- 
ing up  after  them  is  womeiis  business,  which  makes 
the  labor  of  women  so  interminable.  Were  each 
member  of  a  family  carefhl  not  to  make  work,  the 
labor  of  nearly  all  households  would  be  half 
lessened*  In  fact,  the  principal  secret  of  a  happy 
household  is  teaching  the  ehildren  how  to  help  them- 
selves and  to  help  others." 

A  WESTERN  WOMAN. 

THBT  have  wide-awake,  stirring  women  in  the 
West  We  all  know  that  in  Wyoming  they  go 
to  the  polls  on  election  day  and  vote  with  their  hu|t- 
bands ;  and  in  Colorado  and  Utah  they  are  making 
efforts  to  do  the  same  thing.  An  Oregon  woman 
writes  to  a  well-known  paper — 

*'  I  am  the  mother  of  six  children,  own  and' carry 
on  a  milKnery  establishment  of  no  mean  propor- 
tions, write  sketches  and  *  sqnibs '  for  half  a  dosen 
newspapers,  talk  human  rights  on  appropriate 
occasions,  keep  pretty  well  posted  in  (rolitics,  have 
a  life  insurance  agency,  and  still  have  pletity  of 


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58 


ARTHUR'S   MOME   MAGAZINE. 


time  to  vote  without  Qogleotiog  the  babj,  who  will, 
I'll  renture  %  prognosticAtion,  grow  to  bo  a 
woman'!  rights  man,  and  wonder  at  the  benighted 
dajg  of  his  infancy,  when  some  frightened  Orego- 
nian  wailed  in  his  anguish, '  who  will  staj  with  tht 
baby  while  his  mother  goes  a-roting?'" 

THE  BIGHTS  OF  CHILDREN. 

THE  ohild  has  a  right  to  the  full  use  of  its  fac- 
ulties, to  bo  taught  the  mastery  of  the  won- 
derful iastrament  by  means  of  which  he  is  to  eom* 
munioate  with  the  world  oatside  of  him  ;  to  know 
bow  to  make  good  the  faculties  of  himself;  how  to 
command  firom  the  abundant  resources  of  the  world 
what  is  suited  to  his  needs;  and  in  turn  how  to 
bestow  all  that  he  has  and  is  upon  the  world  in 
beneficent  giving. 

He  shovld  be  taught  snob  mastery  of  himself  as 
will  ensure  the  mastery  of  any  situation  in  which 
he  may  be  placed.  We  know  many  persons  who 
live  BO  uneasily  in  their  bodies  that  they  seem 
rather  the  chance  tenants  of  a  night  than  authorised 
proprietors  and  legitimate  life-owners ;  whose  souls 
and  bodies  are  so  illy  a<iyusted  to  one  another  that 
they  are  constantly  getting  in  their  own  way  and 
helplessly  stumbling  orer  their  own  toes. 

Almost  every  family  has  its  members  who  walk 
over  things  without  seeing  them,  who  never  bear 
until  they  are  addressed  a  second  time,  whose  hands 
are  so  helpless  or  so  clumsy  that  they  might  almost 
as  well  have  been  made  hoops  or  pins.  The  ohild 
should  be  taught  that  his  eyes,  ears,  hands,  all  the 
organs  of  his  body,  all  the  faculties  of  his  mind, 
are  his  servants,  and  that  it  is  his  business  to  see  to 
it  that  they  serve  him  faithfully — that  they  report 
accurately  what  is  passing  about  him,  and  respond 
promptly  and  fhlly  to  his  demands. 

Such  sentences  as  "  I  didn't  notice,''  "  I  heard 
but  I  don't  remember,"  have  no  business  in  a  child's 
vocalyilary.  He  should  be  taught  to  apprehend 
clearly,  that  to  say  "I  forgot"  is  only  another  way 
of  saying  ^  I  did  not  care  enough  to  remember." 
Educate  the  faculties  !•  prompt  action ;  teach  the 
senses  to  respond  fully  to  every  impression  made 
open  them.  When  yon  give  a  command  or  eom- 
munioate  a  thought  to  a  ohild,  secure  his  attention, 
use  the  simplest  and  most  direct  terras,  and  do  not 
reptnt  them.  Superfluous  words  are  demoralising, 
and  iteration  a  bid  for  inattention. — Celia  Burleigh. 


LUCIAN*S  MISFORTUNE. 

IT  was  Lucian's  misfortune  to  be  an  only  son  in  a 
family  whore  were  half- a- doson  daughters.  He 
was  not  the  youngest,  and  so  "  the  baby  "  by  birth- 
right, but  they  all  conspired  to  spoil  him  just  the 
same.  Mother  made  it  her  boast  that  she  "  always 
made  a  point  of  humoring  Luoian  in  everything 
she  eonld."  His  especial  tastes  were  consulted  in 
all  household  arrangements.  His  favorite  dishes 
were  prepared  if  all  the  rest  of  them  had  to  dine 


on  mush  and  molasses.  The  girls  brushed  his  hair 
and  curled  it,  and  tied  his  cravats,  and  embroidered 
the  corners  of  his  handkerchiefs,  and  would  hare 
been  delighted  to  scollop  the  edges  of  his  coat  and 
the  bottoms  of  bis  trousers,  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  if  fashion  would  have  permitted  it 

Poor  fellow,  ho  was  to  be  pitied  as  much  as  the 
unwise  mother  was  to  be  blamed.  There  is  no  need 
to  tell  the  result.  With  half  an  eye  one  could  fore- 
»e  it.  A  dull,  heavy,  conceited,  selfish,  dissipated 
youth,  whose  presence  was  intolerable  to  all  except 
.  the  narrow  home-circle,  who  doted  on  and  spoiled 
him.  X  wonder  if  the  mother  ever  thought  it  the 
result  of  her  own  weak  system  of  indulgence,  when 
the  girls  were  forced  to  lead  the  tipsy  young  man 
home,  one  supporting  him  on  either  side,  while  he 
jeered  and  stumbled  from  the  shoulders  of  one  to 
the  other. 

But  such  a  course  from  childhood  up  naturally 
leads  to  such  results.  If  the  boy  is  always  taught 
.ho  is  of  the  greatest  importance  in  the  bouse- 
hold,  how  can  he  help  growing  weak  and  selfish? 
If  he  is  always  pampered,  an  unhealthy  appetite 
will  be  created,  which  will  constantly  be  craving 
something  still  more  exciting  to  gratify  it.  • 

Such  a  boy  as  Lucian  will  very  readily  develop 
into  the  domestic  tyrant  when  he  comes  to  have  a 
home  of  his  own.  If  he  chances  to  be  matched 
with  a  high  spirit,  then  jars  and  homo-wars  are 
inevitable,  followed,  very  likely,  by  the  disgraceful 
divorce  suit 

Mothers,  what  are  yon  training  your  sons  for? 
A  noble,  self-denying  manhood,  or  such  a  career  of 
evil? 


THE    PURE-HEARTED. 

BT  ANNA. 

A  TERRIBLE  storm  of  wind  and  rain  had  just 
passed.  The  earth  was  flooded.  Torrents  of  dis- 
colored water  swept  over  its  surface,  taking  with  it 
everything  that  lay  in  Its  way.  Everything  touched  ' 
by  it  bore  its  muddy  hue.  Watching  the  course  of  the 
angry  torrent,  my  attention  was  drawn  to  a  clear 
spring,  coming  out  at  the  edge  of  a  bank  ;  dear  as 
in  a  sunshiny  day  it  spouted  its  pure  treasure  into 
the  muddy  stream.  It  was  not  affected  by  the 
turbid  waters,  but  serenely  pure,  it  in  a  short  time 
purified  the  stream  itself,  and  a  dear  stream  took 
the  place  of  the  muddy. 

So  the  pure  of  heart—not  only  do  they  remain 
pure  amid  defilement,  but  purify  all  around  them, 
as  He  has  said :  "  Blessed  are  the  pure  of  heart,  for 
they  shall  see  God  !" 

With  time  and  patience  the  mulberry  leaf  be- 
comes satin.  What  dilBcuIty  is  there  at  which  a 
man  should  quail,  when  a  worm  can  accomplish  so 
much  from  the  leaf  of  the  mnlbenry  f 

A  VAN  who  BHTies  a  Mroloui,  showy  woman, 
fanosas  be  hat  h«ig  a  trinket  rooM  hii  neek,  baft 
he  ioon  finds  it  a  mill-stone. 


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EVENINOS  WITH   THE   FOETS. 


WEARINESS. 

BY  LOHQFtiibDW. 

OH.  little  feet  I  that  auch  long  yews 
Mast  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears ; 

Mart  ache  and  billed  beneath  yoor  load ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toll  shall  cfase  nnd  rest  begin, 

Am  wearj',  thinking  of  your  road  I 
Ob«  liUle  hands!  that,  weak  or  strong, 
liare  eiili  to  serre  or  rule  so  Iouk, 

Have  still  mo  lon^  to  give  or  ask; 
I,  who  so  mnnh  with  book  and  pen 
H«Te  toiled  among  my  fellow  men. 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  tusk. 

Ob.  liUle  hearts  I  that  throb  and  beat, 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat. 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires; 
Mine,  that  so  long  has  gl  .»wed  and  burned 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned. 

Now  eoyers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

Oh.  little  itools  I  as  pure  a  d  white, 
Jk»  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

JMrect  from  Hearen,  their  source  divine 
Befmcted  through  the  misto  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears  I 

Bow  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  I 
•di^o^ 

A  HOUSEHOLD  DIRGE 

BY  H.  W.  STOODIBA. 

•«  A  rix  years'  loss  to  Paradise— 
And  ne'er  on  Earth  the  child  grew  older." 

—  T.B.Bead, 

rVE  lost  my  little  May  at  last  I 
abe  perished  in  the  Spring, 
When  earliest  flowers  began  to  bud, 

And  earliest  birds  to  sing ; 
1  laid  her  in  a  country  grave, 

A  green  and  soft  retreat, 
A  marble  tablet  o'er  her  head. 

And  violets  at  her  feet. 
I  wonid  that  she  were  back  again. 

In  all  her  childish  bloom  ; 
My  joy  and  hope  have  followed  her. 

My  heart  is  in  her  tomb! 
I  know  that  she  is  gone  away, 

I  know  that  she  is  fled, 
I  miss  her  everywhere,  and  yet 

I  cannot  think  her  dead  I 
I  wake  the  children  np  at  dawn. 

And  say  a  simple  prayer. 
And  draw  them  round  the  morning  meal. 

But  one  is  wanting  there  I 
I  see  a  little  chair  apart, 

A  liUle  pinafore. 
And  Memory  fills  the  vacancy, 

As  Time  will— nevermore  I 

I  sit  within  my  quiet  room. 

Alone,  and  write  for  hours, 
And  miss  the  little  maid  again 

Among  the  window  flowers. 
And  miss  her  with  her  toys  beside 

My  desk  in  silent  pUy ; 
And  then  I  turn  and  look  for  her. 

But  she  has  flown  away ! 


I  drop  my  idle  pen,  and  hark, 

And  catch  the  iaintest  sound ; 
She  must  be  playing  hide-and-seek 

In  shady  nooks  around ; 
She'll  come  and  climb  my  chair  again. 

And  peep  my  shoulders  o'er ; 
I  hear  a  stifle<l  laugh- but  no, 

She  cometh  nevermore ! 

I  waited  only  yester-nlght, 

The  evening  service  read. 
And  lingered  for  my  idol's  kiss. 

Before  she  went  to  bed ; 
Forgetting  she  had  gone  before. 

In  slumbers  soft  and  sweet, 
A  monument  above  her  head. 

And  violets  at  her  feet. 


THE  OTHEE  WORLD. 

BT  HARBXKT  BKBCBia  8T0WX. 

r'  lies  aroand  ns  like  a  cloud— 
A  world  we  do  not  see ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  ai>  eye 
May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breeses  fan  our  cheek  ; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares, 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  aroand  ns  throb  and  beat, 
Bweet  helping  hands  are  stirred. 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The  silence— awful,  sweet,  and  calm— 
They  have  no  power  to  break ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

80  thin,  so  soft,  «o  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem— 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest, 
And  melt  into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring, 

♦Tis  easy  now  to  see. 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be ; 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear. 
Wrapped  In  a  t«tnce  of  bliss. 

And  gently  laid  in  loving  arms. 
To  swoon  to  that— from  this ; 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep. 
Scarce  asking  where  we  ore ; 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away. 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us,  watch  us  still, 

Press  nearer  to  our  side  I 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helpings  glide  I 

Let  death  between  ns  be  as  naught — 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream ; 

Yonr  joy  be  the  reality. 
Our  suffering  life  the  dream  I 

(59) 


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60 


ABTEVB'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


MY  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD. 

BT  MM.  S.  If.  B.  ^IkVt, 

I  KNOW  a  story,  fairer,  dimmer,  sadder, 
Than  any  story  painted  in  yoar  books. 
You  ore  so  glad i    It  will  not  make  you  gladder; 
Yet  listen,  with  yoar  pretty,  restless  looka. 

"  Is  it  a  Fairy  story  ?"    Well,  half-fairy,— 

At  least  it  dates  far  back  as  fairies  do ; 
And  seems  to  me  as  beautiful  and  airy. 

Yet  half,  perhaps  the  fairy-half,  is  true. 

You  had  a  baby  sister  and  brother, 

The  very  dainty  people,  rosy  white, 
Sweeter  than  all  things  except  each  other  I 

Older  yet  younger,— gone  from  human  sight  1 

And  I,  who  loved  them,  and  shall  love  them  ever, 
And  think  with  yearning  tears  how  each  light  hand 

Crept  toward  bright  bloom  and  berries,— I  shall  never 
Know  how  I  lost  them.    Do  you  undcrstaod  ? 

Poor  slightly  golden  heads  I  I  think  I  missed  them, 
First  in  some  dreamy,  piteous,  doubtful  vfuy; 

But  when  and  where  with  lingering  lips  I  kissed  them, 
My  gradual  parting,  I  can  never  say. 

Sometimes  I  fancy  that  they  may  have  perished. 
In  shadowy  quiet  of  wet  ro<*kfl  nnd  moss, 

Near  paths  whose  very  pebbles  I  have  cherished. 
For  their  small  sakes,  since  my  most  bitter  loss. 

I  fancy,  too,  that  they  were  softly  covered 
By  robins,  out  of  apple-flowers  they  knew, 

Whose  nursing  wings  in  far  homo  sunshine  hovered 
Before  the  timid  world  had  dropped  the  dew. 

Their  names  were,— what  yours  are.    At  this  you 
wonder. 
Their  pictures  are,— your  own,  as  you  have  seen  ; 
And  my  bird-burled  darlings,  hidden  under 
Lost  leaves — why,  it  is  your  dead  Selves  I  mean  I 
— HaTper*9  Magazine. 


"  Let  us  rest  in  His  love,  who  gave  up  all 
That  light  might  break  apouthe  dailtttt  w«e,— 

Who  wept  Himself,  that  He  might  wipe  our  tears,— 
Who  suffers  in  each  pang  our  hearls  can  know. 

"  The  precious  love  whfoh  we  have  tnourned  so  long, 
With  drooping  lids  and  questioning  despair. 

Is  sU-onger,  sweeter  now,  for  God  Himself 
Has  purified  it  in  His  mansion  tbera. 

"  And  though  so  far  away,  and  out  of  sight, 
'Tis  ours,  and  shining  on  us  to  the  last, 

A  truer  link  between  ourselves  and  Heaven 
Than  ever  in  the  happy  time  that's  past." 

I  raised  my  eyes— my  dim  and  weary  eye»— 
To  meet  his  smile,  brave  Uiongh  oompaasioDftte. 

"  Can  you  not  feel,  dear  little  wife,"  he  said, 
"  That  Ood  is  guarding  him  while  we  noat  wait  f 

'And  shall  we  cloud  this  little  time  we  wait 

With  angry  tears,  doubting  our  Fathinr^  love. 
When,  through  all  pain  or  trial,  we  may  know 
Our  darling  safely  rests  with  Him  above? 

"  Our  lives  are  what  we  make  them,  sad  or  gay; 

Our  world  is  as  we  see  it.  dark  or  bright ; 
Faith  points  to  where  the  flowers  strew  our  way; 

And  God  Himself  has  said,  •  Let  there  be  light.'  *• 

I  laid  my  hood  upon  the  beating  heart 

Wlilch  to  my  own  had  strength  and  courage  given. 
And  there  I  felt  the  links  of  our  strong  love 

Drawn  closer  by  our  litle  ohild  in  Heaven. 

<<KI»^0« 

THE  WIFE'S  BECAUSE, 

BT  ASKLAIBX  PROCTXR. 

IT  is  not  because  your  heart  is  mine— mine  only— 
Mine  alone ; 
It  is  not  because  you  chose  me,  weak  and  lonely, 

For  your  own ; 
Not  because  the  earth  is  fhirer,  and  the  skies 

Spread  above  yon 
Are  more  radiant  for  the  shining  of  yoar  ^es. 
That  I  love  you  1 


OUR  FIRST-BORN. 

TTIS  brave  and  earnest  eyes  looked  into  mine, 
Xl.    Which  fell  in  shame  to  see  the  courage  there ; 
My  cold,  clasped  hands  he  took  within  his  own, 
And  spoke  in  words  of  hope  and  strong  despair : 

"  Cloudy  I    Ah  no,  the  sky  is  bright  and  fair. 

The  wavy  sunbeams  dance  upon  the  lea ; 
The  brightness  of  God's  smile  is  everywhere, 
.    If  we  will  only  raise  our  eyes  to  see. 

"  Dark  1    This  is  but  a  floating  cloud  above, 
Hiding  the  sunshine  for  a  little  while ; 

And  it  is  made  so  small,  so  slight,  in  love. 
That  even  now  it  cannot  hide  God's  smile. 

•*  His  hand  has  strewn  our  path  with  other  flowers. 
And  though  they  may  be  hidden  in  the  grass, 

He  gives  us  faith  to  know  that  they  are  there ; 
He  gives  us  eyes  to  seek  them  as  we  pass. 

*"  And  He  is  sorely  grieved  and  pained  to  see 
Us  walking  idly,  looking  on  the  ground, 

When  o'er  our  heads  the  Heavens  are  bright  and  blue, 
And  His  own  flowers  are  blosaoming  around. 


It  is  not  because  the  world's  perplexed  meaning 

Grows  more  clear. 
And  the  parapets  of  Heaven,  with  angeln  leaning, 

Seem  more  near ; 
And  Nature  sings  of  praise  with  all  her  voices 
Since  with  my  silent  heart  that  now  r^oices, 

Love  awoke  1 

Nay,  not  even  because  your  hand  holds  heart  and  life 

At  your  will. 
Soothing,  hushing  all  its  discord,  making  strife 

Calm  and  still ; 
Teaching  Trust  to  fold  her  wings,  nor  ever  loam 

From  her  nest ; 
Teaching  Love  that  her  securest,  safest  homo 

Must  be  rest. 

But  because  this  human  love,  though  true  and  sweet— 

Yours  and  mine- 
Has  been  tent  by  Love  more  tender,  more  complete^ 

More  divine. 
That  it  leads  our  hearts  to  rest  at  last  In  Hteven, 

Far  above  you. 
Do  I  take  thee  as  a  gift  that  God  has  given— 

And  I  love  you  1 


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FRUIT   CTJlL.TXJRp3   FOR   I^^DIES. 

BY  THJB  AUTHOB  OF  **QAXBESrsa  F0&  LADIES." 


IN  these  d%j8,  when  the  pnmber  of  women  com- 
pelled to  support  themBeWes  seems  to  be  on  the 
incresse,  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  open  new 
fieldi  of  employment  for  them.  One  has  been  sug- 
gested which  seems  peooliarly  suited  to  women — 
that  of  horticulture.  It  is  a  business,  in  most  of 
it(  operations,  light,  easy,  and  pleasant,  is  certainly 
Withy,  and,  carefully  managed,  cannot  but  be 
Nificiently  remunerative  to  justify  iis  being  re- 
nrted  to  for  a  liYelihood. 

It  would  be  well  if  ladies  were  to  gire  more  at- 
lentioa  to  horticoldire  than  they  do.  £yen  if  they 
ifarald  not  expect  to  be  dependent  upon  it  for  their 
Hpport,  the  time  and  care  spent  upon  a  choice 
frail  garden  would  be  found  a  profitable  invest- 
aent,  not  only  sm  regards  the  luxury  of  fruit  for 
itmily  use,  but  also  as  a  healthful  recreation.  In 
this  oonneotiony  I  may  mention  that  there  is  now 
u  operation,  in  Hassaohusetts,  a  horticultural 
■ehool  for  ladies,  where  they  are  taught  all  branches 
of  the  business  neeessary  to  qualify  them  for  be- 
eomiDg  successful  gardeners,  with  the  capacity  for 
ubtaining  at  least  a  fair  living  from  the  occupation. 

Under  the  head  of  "  Gardening  for  Ladies,"  I 
endeavored,  duriog  the  past  year,  to  give,  briefly, 
j«t  with  tolerable  fulness,  to  those  desirous  of  ob- 
taining it,  some  little  insight  into  that  branch  of  \ 
horticalture  which  relates  to  the  cultivation  of  , 
flowers.  Daring  the  present  year,  I  propose  to 
follow  up  my  horticultural  efforts  by  introducing 
my  hdy  readers  into  the  modes  of  operation  of 
Mother  branch  of  the  same  science — that  of  fruit 
eultare.  I  cannot,  of  course,  in  the  brief  space 
which  can  be  spared  me  in  the  "  Lady's  Hoxx 
MiGAXiHB,"  attempt  to  give  full  instructions  in 
regard  to  the  raising  of  fruits,  so  that  one  who  has 
aerer  before  taken  an  interest  in  the  subject  will 
need  no  further  information.  At  best,  I  can  only 
hope  to  draw  the  attention  of  ladies  to  the  business, 
snd  will,  perhaps,  present  them  with  instructions 
nfieient  to  start  them  as  amateurs.  It  is  an  oe- 
eopation,  the  lighter  yet  more  important  details  of  \ 
which,  sneh  as  grafting,  pruning,  budding,  the 
raising  of  seedlings,  and  the  like,  are  Just  such  as 
women  oan  do  quite  as  successfully  as  men,  and 
certainly  with  greater  neatness  and  delioad^.  Such 
•f  fliy  readers  as  may  desire  to  make  a  regalar 
hvsiness  of  this  delightful  oeonpation  will  do  well 
to  supply  themselves  with  the  necessat^  books  and 
periodicals. 

Tkt  SmaU  Fn$U£€oordet,  published  at  Palmvra, 
N.  T.,  Tk9  Hanieultmrite,  TAe  Agriimliuritt,  and 
MoenTn  Rw^i  Nkw  Tarfker,  Of  New  York  Otty, 
sad  Tke  Oardener^g  Mo*thlff,  a  Philadelphia  publi- 
estion,  are  all  desirable  papers  for  ref^renoe  and 
iastmetion. 


STEATTBERRTES. 

THERE  is  DO  more  wholesome  fruit  than  the 
strawberry — ^none  more  easy  to  cultivate  to 
fair  excellence,  or  that  so  speedily  and  certainly 
repays  the  labor  bestowed  upon  iL 

The  soil  for  strawberries  should  be  a  warm,  sandy 
loam,  free  from  superfluous  moisture,  yet^  if  possi* 
ble,  made  by  deep  cultivation  and  draining  capa- 
ble of  retaining  moisture  in  the  dry  est  weather. 
For  all  ordinary  purpose?,  however,  a  good  garden 
soil  will  do  very  well.  Unless  tho  soil  is  very  sandy, 
heavy  dressings  with  stable  msfture  should  be 
avoided.  Wood  ashes,  ground  bones,  and  substan- 
oes  of  a  mineral  nature  are  far  more  advantageous. 

Prom  the  middle  of  August  to  the  first  of  Octo- 
ber is  a  good  time  for  setting  out  strawberries. 
The  old,  and,  after  all,  the  safest  plan,  however,  is 
to  set  out  tke  pUnts  in  spring^as  early  as  the 
season  will  permit.  Whichever  plan  is  adopted, 
the  ground  must  be  deeply  spaded  and  well  ma- 
Dured  with  thoroughly  decomposed  compost.  In 
fall  planting,  it  is  advisable  to  roll  the  ground 
with  a  garden  roller  before  setting  out  the  plants. 

Plantations  of  strawborries  are  formed  of  well- 
rooted  runners  of  the  previous  season,  supposing 
that  you  set  out  in  spring.  There  are  various  ways 
of  planting  strawberries.  The  best  in  my  opinion, 
for  ordinary  purposes,  is  to  set  the  plants  in  rows — 
the  rows  two  feet  apart  and  the  plants  from  twelve 
to  eighteen  inches  apart  in  the  rows.  Tho  finest 
fruit  is  produced  when  tho  plants  are  kept  distinct 
from  each  other,  as  if  in  hills,  carefully  cultivating 
the  ground  between  and  keeping  off  the  runners 
or  new  shoots.  Generally,  however,  it  will  be  sufil- 
eient  to  keep  down  weeds,  and  let  every  three  rows 
run  together,  thus  forming  a  bed  four  feet  wide. 
Buoh  a  bed  will  bear  well,  if  properly  attended 
to  for  three  or  four  seasons.  New  beds  may 
then  be  formed  by  spading  under  the  original 
rows.  In  setting  out  the  plants,  care  must  be 
taken  not  to  plant  them  too  deep.  **  Too  deep  "  is 
when  anything  bat  the  small  fibres  are  buried 
under  the  sarfaoe.  Always  cover  the  runner  by 
which  the  plant  was  attached  to  its  parent. 

There  are  numerons  varieties  of  the  strawberry, 
each  of  which  has  warm  advocates.  For  a  sure 
skud  abundant  crop  of  berries  that  .bear  considera- 
ble handling,  Wilson's  Albany  ii^  perhaps,  the  best 
It  is  a  soar  berry,  but  always  commands  a  fair 
price  in  the  market  when  not  too  small.  Will  suc- 
ceed OB  almost  anysolL  Another  excellent  market 
berry  is  the  Jucunda.  Like  the  Wilson,  it  is  firm 
and  bears  transportation  well,  is  large  and  fin^e- 
)eokix>g ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  is  somewhat  insipid  in 
flavor.  It  miist  be.growD  only  on  the  separate  plant 

(61) 


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ARTHUR'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


■ystem,  keeping  the  nmners  oonstantly  clipped.  It 
requires  s  hoftTj  toam  or  ofaij  seil  to  bear  abund* 
antlj,  but  will  saeoeed  well  on  light  land  if  heavily 
malobed.  The  AgriouUurtat  is  another  fine  berry, 
ia  sweet,  and  grows  abundantly  and  to  magnificent 
proportions.  It  is  more  certain  to  succeed  when 
Ottltivated  on  the  plan  recommended  for  the  Jn- 
ounda.  Like  the  latter,  it  requires  a  rich  soil  or 
free  mulching.  Being  somewhat  son  it  does  not 
answer  for  marketing.  Downer's  Prolific  is  another 
berry  we  can  recommend  for  family  use.  It  ripens 
very  early,  is  of  medium  size,  very  productive,  a 
vigorous  grower,  and  succeeds  well  on  light  soils. 
We  might  enumerate  many  other  varieties,  but  we 
think  that  any  one  who  succeeds  in  growing  these 
four  to  perfection  need  not  be  dissatisfied. 

BLACKBERRIEa 

BLAOEBERRUSS  are  best  raised  fh>m  root 
cuttings,  which  can  be  obtained  from  almost 
any  large  cultivator  at  a  very  trifling  cost  per  hun- 
dred. The  cuttings  may  be  planted  in  a  row  early 
in  spring.  Set  the  pieees  close  and  cover  to  the 
depth  of  three  or  four  inches.  Keep  down  weeds 
and  hoe  lightly  when  the  young  shoots  appear.  In 
the  fall  the  young  plants  should  be  separated  and 
set  out  where  they  are  intended  to  grow.  Another 
plan  is  to  set  out  the  cuttings  where  it  is  designed 
to  raise  plants.  The  rows  in  a  blackberry  planta- 
tion should  be  at  least  five  feet  apart,  and  the 
plants  four  fbet  apart  in  the  rows.  During  the 
first  year  vegetables  may  be  raised  between  the 
rows.  Keep  down  weeds,  mulch  in  dry  weather, 
and  cut  off  all  vagrant  suckers.  The  second  year 
after  planting  oui,  a  crop  may  be  looked  for,  and 
the  plants  of  that  year,  if  the  ground  is  kept  in 
good  condition,  will  begin  to  exhibit  a  rampant 
growth.  If  so,  elip  off  their  ends  when  they  have 
reached  a  height  of  about  five  feet.  After  the  fruit 
is  gathered,  out  out  the  stalks  or  canes  upon  which 
the  berries  were,  and  also  all  weak  and  superfluous 
shoots  of  the  new  growth.  Five  shoots  to  a  hill 
or  stand  are  plenty. 

Blackberries  grow  in  almost  any  kind  of  soil, 
but  require  high  feeding  and  close  cultivation  to 
attain  to  perfection. 

The  three  prominent  varieties  of  the  blackberry 
flow  In  cultivation  are  the  Kittatinny,  Wilson's 
Early,  and  the  Lawton.  The  latter  is  an  old 
-  variety ;  the  two  former  are  of  reeent  introduction. 

The  Kittatinny  is  perfectly  hardy,  a  strong 
grower,  and  bears  enormous  crops  of  large,  sweet, 
glossy  blackberries.  It  is  apt  to  sucker  too  muoh 
and  requires  severe  pruning,  and  the  ground  must 
be  well  cultivated  to  keep  down  the  sprouts. 

As  a  market  berry,  Wilson's  Early  has  no  supe- 
rior. It  is  very  hardy,  grows  well  on  light  soils, 
and  yields  abundantly.  Its  fruit  is  large,  showy, 
and  firm,  ripening  early  and  with  great  rapidity, 
■oavoely  ten  days  elapsing  between  the  first  and 


last  pickings.  The  growth  of  the  first  year  has  a 
tendency  to  trail  like  the  dewberry,  but  afler  the 
second  year  it  sends  up  stmighter  and  firmer 
stalks. 

The  defects  of  the  Lawton  are  its  want  of  hsutii- 
ness  and  the  diflBculty  of  gathering  its  fruit  when 
perfectly  ripened.  As  generally  sent  to  market,  the 
berries  are  sour.  When  fully  ripe  they  are  rich 
and  sweet,  but  drop  at  the  slightest  touch,  and 
even  when  safely  gathered  do  not  bear  transporta- 
tion well.  It  is  a  vigorous  grower  and  does  better 
on  light  than  on  heavy  lands. 

THE  RASPBERRY. 

THIS  most  wholesome,  grateful,  and  palatable 
fruit  is  especially  worthy  of  cultivation,  either 
for  family  use  or  the  market.  Many  foreign  kinds 
have  been  introduced  here,  but,  as  a  general  thing, 
none  are  so  good  as  our  American  varieties.  Of 
these  we  may  specify  the  improved  Blaek  Cap,  the 
Philadclp'hia,  the  Clarke,  the  Franconiay  and 
Brinckle's  Orange.  The  first  mentioned,  as  well  as 
all  the  rest  of  the  black  raspberries,  are  propagated 
from  the  ends  or  tops  of  the  current  season's 
growth,  bent  to  the  ground  and  slightly  covered 
where  they  take  root,  and  make  new  plants  which 
may  be  set  out  in  the  ensuing  spring.  The  four 
other  varieties  referred  to  are  propagated  like 
blackberries,  by  root  cuttings  or  suckers.  For 
light  soils,  the  Philadelphia  is  to  be  preferred.  It 
is  a  red  berry,  of  fine  flavor  and  appearance.  The 
Clarke  is  also  an  excellent  berry,  and  like  the 
Philadelphia  and  Franeonia,  perfectly  hardy. 
Brinckle's  Orange  is  perhaps  the  best  flavored  of 
all,  but  requires  a  deep  rich  soil  and  protection  in 
winter  to  succeed. 

The  soil  for  the  raspberry  should  be  rich  and 
somewhat  inclined  to  be  moist ;  though  deep  culti- 
vation and  thorough  mulching  may  answer  as  well 
as  moisture.  Raspberries  thrive  well  where  they 
are  partially  shaded.  Mr.  A.  M.  Purdy,  one  of 
the  most  experienced  of  our  fruit  growers,  writes  as 
follows  in  the  Amtriean  Farmer  with  regard  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  raspberry — 

**  We  set  in  the  fall  or  spring  only  young  fall  lay- 
ered plants,  being  careful  to  spread  out  the  roots 
and  have  the  germ  up,  and  covering  with  about  an 
inch  or  two  of  well  pnlveriied  soil.  On  the  rich 
prairie  soils  of  the  West  they  should  be  set  at  least 
eight  feet  apart— the  rows,  and  in  the  rows  flve  to 
six  feet;  with  us  here  we  advise  seven  feet,  and  In 
the  row  three  to  four.  When  they  get  sueh  a 
growth  as  to  interfere  with  cultivating,  we  clip 
them  off  to  within  a  foot  or  eighteen  inches  of  the 
crown  with  any  sharp  instrument.  Keep  them 
well  cultivated  and  hoed,  and  if  by  fall  they  throw 
out  a  large  quantity  of  side  branches,  trim  them 
back  to  within  a  foot  of  the  main  stalks. 

<*  Don't  rely  on  «s  large  a  crop  of  fVait  theyirsl 
bearing  season,  for  if  you  allow  them  to  bear  too 
heavi^,  you  make  the  plantation  much  shorter 
lived.  Let  the  roots  get  well  Mtablithed,  and  you 
may  then  rely  on  a  good,  profitable  plantation  for 
a  number  of  years. 


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B0U8EKEEPER8'    DEPARTMENT. 


63 


"  The  0eeond  fleaaon,  and  each  season  afterward, 
Bip  the  new  growtli  at  the  extremities  when  it  gets 
two  to  two  and  a  half  feet  higK  If  mere  than  tbur 
stalks  eome  np,  out  out  the  oyerplas,  and  as  these 
throw  oat  side  brancheSi  nip  them  off  also  when 
they  get  two  to  two  and  a  half  feet  long,  and  not 
allow  any  stalk  to  mn  np  perpendlcnlarlj  over 
foar  to  ft  re  feet  io  height.  If  this  nipping  is  well 
attended  to,  the  huh  will  become  very  stocky  and 
nqoire  no  staking.  Keep  well  caitivated,  and  in 
the  coarse  of  winter  throw  a  laige  forkful  of  coarse 
litter  close  around  each  plant.  A*  toon  as  they 
are  through  bearing  each  year,  trim  out  all  the  old 
wood,  throwing  it  into  every  fourth  row,  from 
which  it  oan  be  earried  out  with  manure  forks." 

These  directions,  as  will  be  seen,  are  applicable 
to  fteld  culture.  In  garden  culture  the  rows  need 
set  be  more  than  five  feet  apart,  the  plants  being 
ttuee  feet  asunder  in  the  rows. 


HINTS  FOB  THE  MONTH. 

TB!rr-CATERPiLLAB. — One  of  the  worst  ondmies 
of  the  orohard  is  the  tent-oaterpillar.  The  eggs 
msy  now  be  seen  near  the  ends  of  the  twigs,  glued 


in  a  broad  band-like  cluster.  Remove  the  eggs 
and  there  will  be  no  caterpillars,  as  another  crop 
will  not  bo  laid  until  next  sommer. 

Pbunino. — If  there  be  a  mild  spell  daring  the 
month  it  should  be  taken  advantage  of  by  those 
who  have  ttegleeted  deinrgeo  in^thefall*,  to  prvne 
grapevines,  gooseberry  and  currant  bushes.  In 
pruning  gooseberries  and  eurrants  the  plan  is  to 
thin  out  the  old  wood  and  shorten  the  new  by  one- 
third  or  one-half  its  growth. 

CioKS. — This  month  is  a  good  time  to  out  oions 
for  grafting.  They  may  be  cut  at  any  time  from 
now  till  the  buds  begin  to  swell,  taking  care  that 
the  wood  is  not  frozen.  Cut  from  the  growth  of  the 
past  year,  avoiding  all  suckers.  Cover  the  cut 
ends  with  grafting  wax,  tie  each  sort  by  itself, 
label  and  pack  so  that  they  will  not  dry  up  or  be 
subject  to  great  changes  of  temperature.  A  cool 
fW>Bt- proof  cellar  is  the  best  place,  and  they  may 
be  buried  in  the  earth  of  the  cellar-bottom,  or  if 
this  is  not  practicable,  place  them  in  boxes  of  earth 
or  dampened  moss. 


HOUSEKEEPERS'   DEI^j^RTMENT. 


COKTRIBUTBD  RECEIPTS. 

To  Cook  Salt  Fish. — Take  a  piece  of  thick,  diy 
•alt  fish  (English  oured  being  the  best),  and  after 
washing  and  cleansing  firom  bones  and  skin,  soak 
two  hours.  Then  put  in  a  deep  pan  or  dish  and 
nearly  cover  with  milk.  Bako  half  an  hour.  Add 
a  little  batter  and  break  the  fish  into  slices  in  the 
gravy  and  send  to  the  table  hot.  I  know  of  no 
way  in  which  dry  fish  is  as  good  as  this. 

Raised  Tba-Biscuit. — Take  two  quarts  sifted 
flour,  two  tablespooafuls  white  sugar,  two  table- 
^oonfols  batter  as  shortening,  half  cup  yeast  and 
one  pint  boiled  milk.  Make  a  hole  in  the  flour,  into 
whieh  put  the  other  materials,  brushing  the  flour 
over  the  top.  Let  stand  over  night.  Mix  in  the 
aomingy  and  as  it  rises  cut  the  dough  down  two  or 
three  times.  Two  and  a  half  hours  before  wanted, 
mould  into  biscuit  and  set  in  a  warm  place  to  rise. 

To  Cook  Swjbst-Potatobs. — It  makes  me  mis- 
snhle  to  see  sweet-potatoes  boiled  in  a  kettle  half 
foil  of  water;  of  eoarse  giving  out  their  sweetness 
to  the  water,  whieh  if  all  unnecessary.  Clean  the 
potatoes  and  put  them  in  a  kettle  with  Just  water 
enongh  to  oover  them,  and  torn  over  them  a  plate 
or  some  tightly-fitting  oover,  and  allow  the  water 
to  eook  almost  oat  of  them.  If  they  are  not  done 
when  they  are  nearly  dry,  pour  in  a  little  hot  water 
fioss  the  tea-kettle,  replace  ^e  cover  quickly  to 
prevent  the  sweet  steam  from  escaping,  and  cook 
natU  they  are  pretty  nearly  done  and  the  water  in 
the  kettle  (there  should  not  be  more  than  a  spoon- 
lU)  is  moUm€9p  whioh  is  saved  instead  of  being  In- 


fused  into  several  pints  to  be  wasted.  Then,  with 
the  molasses  upon  them,  put  into  a  baking-pan  and 
brown  to  a  rich  russet  in  a  hot  oven,  and  you  have 
done  justice  to  a  most  excellent  vegetable. 

To  Curb  Tongubs. — Cut  the  roots  from  the 
tongues  and  the  beards  off*  from  either  side,  and 
then  lay  them  in  water  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Take  them  from  the  water,  drain  them,  and  then 
rub  them  with  common  salt  and  let  them  stend  foe 
two  or  three  days.  After  this,  rub  them  with  salt- 
petre and  brown  sugar,  and  pack  them  away,  keep- 
ing them  closely  covered. 

Maccabovi  with  Otstbbs. — Boil  the  maocaronl 
in  salt-water  and  drain  it  through  a  colander.  Then 
teke  a  deep  earthen  or  tin  dish  and  put  in  alternate 
layers  of  maooaroni  and  oysters,  sprinkling  eaoh 
layer  of  maccaroni  with  fine  grated  or  cut  cheese 
and  cayenne  pepper.  Bako  in  an  oven  or  stove 
until  it  becomes  brown  on  the  top.  One  quart  of 
oysters  wil)  answer  for  a  large  dish.  Use  plenty 
of  butter,  putting  it  between  each  layer. 

Oliybs  Rotal. — One  pound  of  potetoes,  four 
onnoes  of  floory  ono  onnoe  of  batter,  cold  htf  sea- 
soned highly,  and  a  little  batter.  Make  the  olives  in 
the  form  of  a  turnover-pie  and  fry  them  brown  in 
lard  or  batter. 

Tomato  Soitp.— One  quart  of  tomatoes  ,*  stew  in 
the  usual  way,  putting  in  half-a-dosen  cloves  and  a 
dosen  allspice.  Mash  thoroughly.  When  done 
add  one  quart  of  water  and  one  quart  of  sweet  milk^ 
with  a  little  soda.  Season  with  pepper,  salt,  and 
butter,  and  thicken  with  a  litUe  flour  rubbed 
smooth  in  water.    Pour  orer  broken  oraokers. 


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NIETV  PUBLI0j^TIO3SrS. 


Lmu  H&BT  AKB  CBB  Faxxv.    Qy  Hartiei  B.  MoEeeyer, 
«uUiui-  of  '*  TUa  Pi|s«on'a  Wedding/'  eto.    Ptailadei- 
phia:  CUixtan,  Bemaen  dt  Baffdfingar. 
This  little  volume  blends  instruotion  and  amaBe- 

ment  in  a  manner  that  is  certain  to  please  its  joung 

readers.    It  contains  a  number  of  brightly  colored 

illustrationa 

Ths  Bouoaks  Luct  Books  or  Pokbt.  In  three  vols. 
Original  and  selected.  By  Jacob  Abbott,  author  of 
the  "*  Bollo  Books,"  etc.    New  York :  Dodd  d-  Mead, 

The  first  of  these  volumes  is  designed  for  chil- 
dren too  young  to  be  able  to  read  themselves.  The 
book  must  be  read  to  them  by  others,  while  they  are 
encouraged  to  learn  and  repeat  any  portion  that 
pleases  them.  The  second  volume  is  for  children 
who  are  learning  to  read,  that  they  may  practice 
reading  the  poems  aloud  and  learn  the  proper  enun- 
elation  of  words  and  emphasis  of  sentences.  The 
third  volume  is  intended  for  "young  persons  who 
are  Just  coming  forward  to  the  age  which  enables 
them  to  understand  and  appreciate  works  of  imagi- 
nation." Its  selections  are  made  wiffa  the  intention 
of  educating  and  correcting  their  tastes,  for  sale 
by  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia. 

Juvo  ow  A  JooMBT.  By  Jaeob  Abbott  New  York : 
Jkidi  <»  M«ad. 

HuBzax.  By  Jacob  Abbott.  New  York :  Dodd  t£  Mead. 
These  two  beautiful  volumes  belong  to  "The 
Jvno  Stories,"  a  serieb  of  stories  exceedingly  popu- 
lar among  the  young  people.  Mr.  Abbott  stands 
in  the  very  front  rank  of  writers  of  juvenile  litera- 
ture.   For  saJe  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co.,  Phila. 

Nelly's  Daek  Days.  By  the  author  of  "  Jessica'ii  First 
Prayer,"  etc.    New  York :  Dodd  dk  Mead, 

HoPEDALS  Tavikk,  ahd  What  IT  Wbouoht.  By  J.  William 
Van  Namee.  New  York:  National  Tefnperance  Soctety 
and  Publication  ffouse 

RoT*s  Skakch;  or,  Lost  in  tkb  Cabs.  By  Helen  G.  Peai> 
son.  New  York :  National  Tsmptranu  Society  and 
Publication  Houhc 

We  have  here  three  temperance  stories,  the  first 
especially  an  excellent  one.  They  should  be  exten- 
sively read.  The  first  is  for  sale  in  Philadelphia 
by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co. 

WoKPBBSor  Acomncs;  or,  Tbb  PmiroimA  or  Bovim. 
From  the  French  o(  Bodolphe  Badau.  The  English 
revised  by  Robert  Ball,  M.  A.  New  York :  OwrU* 
Seribner  d  Cb. 

Wo:n>BiiPUL  Ballooh  Ksckxtb;  or,  Thb  Oonamn  ev  trk 
Skim.  From  the  French  ol  F.  Marlon,  ifew  York: 
Charles  Seribner  «C  Cb. 

These  two  volumes  belong  to  the  "Illustrated 

Library  of  Wonders  "  now  in  course  of  publication 

by  Seribner  St  Co.     In  the  first  mentioned  we  have 

a  popular  treatise  on  the  science  of  sound,  giving, 

(64) 


in  clear  and  simplo  language,  and  in  a  pleaaanC 
taking  style,  nearly  all  that  is  yet  known  in  ih«4 
branch  of  physies.  The  eompanion  volume  is  » 
lively,  entertaining  history  of  tbe  balloon  and  of 
the  most  remarkable  balloon  voyages.  Both  books 
are  profusely  illustrated.  For^ale  in  Philadalphi* 
by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 

GsoppREY  THE  LoLLARD.    By  Francos  Eastwood.    New 
York :  Dodd  <£  Mead. 

It  may  bo  well  to  remind  ourselves  occasionaDj 
of  what  earnest  men  and  w.omen  have  done  and 
suffered  for  the  truth ;  nevertheless,  a  story  which 
is  founded  on  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs  eannot  help 
but  be  a  painful  one,  and  we  doubt  the  ezpedienojr 
of  placing  it  in  the  hands  of  children. 

Piabo  ass  Musmal  Mattbb.  ByG. delaMotte.  Boston: 

As  its  title  indicates,  this  is  a  book  of  instruction 
for  the  piano  and  for  the  science  of  music  generally, 
and  is  adapted  as  well  to  the  wantft  of  beginners  as 
to  those  of  advanced  playezs.  There  is  oonsiderable 
novelty  in  the  method  of  teaching  it  develops,  and 
novelty  in  this  instance  at  least  seemi  to  be  some- 
thing in  advance.  Four  editions  have  already  been 
called  for  within  a  year,  which  wo  presume  may  be 
pretty  strong  evidence  of  the  esteem  in  which  the 
work  is  held  by  those  competent  to  pronounce  upon 
its  merits.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Claxton, 
Remsen  &  Uafi'el finger. 

Wbt  ak>  How.  Why  the  Chinese  Emigiate,  and  ths 
means  they  adopt  for  the  purpose  of  reachinip 
America.  By  Russell  U.  Conwell.  Boston :  Lee  cf 
Shqpard. 

The  author  of  this  volume  has  given  nuch  time 
and  attention  to  the  study  of  the  problem  of  Chiness 
emigration.  He  is  still  doubtful  with  regard  to  its 
solution,  but  presents  many  interesting  facts,  inei- 
dents,  and  statistics  all  bearing  upon  the  matter. 
For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Claxtoo,  Rstnsen  it 
HafTelflnger. 

ToM  Bektlet  ;  or,  The  Stort  op  a  Prodigal.    Boston : 

BmryffoyL 

This,  we  are  told,  is  not  an  imaginative  sketch. 
"  A  life  that  has  been  lived  furnishes  the  frame, 
work  of  the  story,  and  gives  force  to  alt  the  lessens 
of  moral  and  religious  truths  that  ttiay  be  derived 
firom  it." 

Tbe  House  ov  Whebls  ;  or,  Tjib  Stqlbb  Cmui.     By 
Madame  De  Stolz.    Translated  from  the  French  by 
Miss  E.  F.  AdamB.    :^opton  :  Lee  d-  Shepard. 
This  is  a  charmingly  told  story  about  a  little  boy 
who  was  stolen  from  his  parents  by  a  parity  of  Gyp- 
sies, along  with  whom  ho  suffered  ma^y  hardships 
and  met  with  many  adventures,  before  he  had  at 


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NEW   PUBLICATIONS. 


65 


last  tiw  good  foitane  to  be  restored  to  his  home. 

The  mtrnX  ^  ihe  ti^e  i«  ib«t  ''it  u gofkd, neofuJ, 

nooffliiirj  to  obey,",  and  this  ii  what  the  little  hero 

•f  the  Biory  learned  in  a  very  rongh  school  indeed. 

Per  sale  in  PbiJadelphSa  by  Ohixton,  Remsen  ^ 

Haietfinger. 

Lbrbes  BvBBTviBn.    fliesna  iin>  RHmn  voa  Ckoj- 

■an.  Withtwenty<.«4ghiillueiraiioDe.  ByTheophile 

0ebaler.    Boston:  Lu it Skepard, 

We  hardly  kaow  whieh  to  admire  most  in  this 
hook,  the  chanuiag  freshness  of  its  stories  and  po* 
e(B%  or  the  qaaiainess  of  its  iJilusfcratione.  These 
latter  are  ezoeedingly  fine,  and  while  they  will 
greatly  amiiM  the  little  ones,  they  will  appeal  to 
th»  admiiaAion  of  older  and  more  oaltivated  eyes. 
P«r  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Olaxton,  Remsen  k 
Haffelfinger. 
Tk  Social  9tao«.    By  George  M.  Baher,  author  of 

*  Amateur  Dramas,"  etc.    Boston :  Lee  <£  Shepard. 

A  book  of  amusing  trifles  in  the  shape  of  original 
dramas,  eomedies,  bnrlesqnes,  and  entertainments 
for  home  recreation,  schools,  and  public  exhibitions. 
These  little  plays  have  been  prepared  for  the  special 
«je  of  amaUors  and  are  adapted  to  suit  a  great 
rariety  of  tastes  and  oeeasions.  For  sale  by  Clax- 
tea,  Remwn  k  Haffelfinger. 

Wao  Wnx  Wdu   By  Paul  Cobden,  author  of  **  Bessie 

UoveU,"  etc.    Boston :  Xm  dt  Shepard, 
Gem  mr  k  Missioh.    By  Paul  Cobden.    Boston :  Lee  4 


Theee  are  two  entertaining  stories  for  the  yonng 
folks.  They  are  in  holiday  garb  and  have  a  elaim 
tm  attention  at  this  season  of  the  year.  They  are 
the  first  volumes  of  "  The  Beckoning  Series/'  which, 
when  completed,  will  include  six  stories.  For  sale 
by  Claxton,  Remsen  A  Haffelfinger,  Philadelphia. 
Fitts  AHD  FoBisT :  or,  Thb  Fortunu  op  a  Faekib.    By 

Olirer  Optic.  Boston :  Lie  di  Shepard, 

This  is  the  first  of  a  new  series  of  stories  just 
hegnn  by  one  of  our  most  popular  writers  for  boys. 
It  is  called  the  "  Upward  and  Onward  Series,"  and 
ii  designed  to  illustrate  and  describe  the  career, 
from  ehildhood  to  manhood,  of  a  youth  whose  aim 
is  to  make  his  life  an  "  upward  and  onward  *'  pro- 
gress. The  soene  of  the  present  story,  which  is 
fall  of  stirring  incidents  of  border  and  pioneer  life, 
Is  laid  npon  the  waters  of  the  Upper  Missouri.  For 
■ale  by  Claxton,  Remsen  3t  Haffelfinger,  Phila. 
The  Bots  or  Gauie  Pes  Sobool.    By  the  author  of 

**  The  B.  O.  W.  a,*  ete.    Boston :  Lee  dk  Slkepard. 

The  success  of  '^The  B.  O.  W.  C,"  one  of  the 
fireHasfc  and  pleasaateit  of  books  for  boys,  seems 
to  hare  stimutoted  the  author  of  that  story  to  get 
«p  a  series  on  the  same  general  plan.  This  series 
U  to  be  ealled  '<  The  B.  0.  W.  G.  Series."  The 
whose  title  we  have  given  above  is  the 
i  ef  the  series,  and  is  folly  equal  to  its  prede- 
r  in  the  lively  and  etetUng  nature  of  its  inci- 
dents and  in  the  boy-f^n  and  boy-adventure  which 
give  life  to  its  pag^.  For  tale  by  Claxton,  Remsen 
A  HaffiiUlBS«r. 


Labor  Stands  o?r  Golden  F«et.  A  Holiday  Btory.^  By 
Heinrich  Zochokke.  Translated  by  John  Yeats, 
LL.  D.    New  York  :  Dodd  d  Mead, 

**  This  little  work,"  says  the  translator, ''  exhibits^ 
with  characteristic  energy  and  fidelity,  the  devel- 
opment of  those  principles  which  Zochokke  believed 
to  bo  the  basis  of  all  true  civilization.  The  influ- 
ence of  home  training  is  powerfully  portrayed; 
individual  and  social  progress  are  happily  illus- 
trated ;  the  purpose  and  scope  of  national  instruc- 
tion are  clearly  shown;  manual  labor  is  seen  at 
issue  with  machinery.  Throughout  the  work  max- 
ims of  prudence  and  precepts  of  piety  are  inter- 
spersed, such  as  an  old  man  of  seventy-five,  a 
patriot,  poet,  philosopher,  and  historian  was  will- 
ing and  anxious  to  bequeath  to  posterity." 

A  Fres  and  Independent  Translation  or  the  First  ahi> 
Fourth  Books  or  thb  iBNEiD  ot  Vraait :  In  Hexameter 
and  Pentameter.  Winsted,  Conn.:  Wineted  Herald 
Offuee. 

We  have  enjoyed  a  hearty  laugh  over  this  comio 
trifle,  whidi  is  evidently  the  work  of  a  humorist  of 
the  first  water.  The  illustrations,  by  Worth,  are 
capital  and  quite  equal  to  the  text  in  their  laughter- 
compelling  chaxaeteristios.  The  author  takes  ooea- 
sion  to  inform  ns  that  be  is  "  very  willing  to  sell 
copies  enough  to  pay  for  his  etOe"  Sent  by  mail, 
post-paid,  on  reoeipt  of  twenty-five  oents.  Address, 
Wineitd  Herald,  Winsted,  Conn. 

Tm  National  Temterahck  Almanac  roa  ign.    By  J.  M. 

Stearns.    New  York:   National  Temperance  Society 

and  PublieaUon  Houee. 

This  contains,  in  addition  to  the  matter  usually 
found  in  almanacs,  a  full  directory  of  the  temper- 
ance organisations  of  New  York  City  and  Brooklyn, 
list  of  Temperance  papers,  statistics  of  intemper- 
ance, etc.  It  is  handsomely  illustrated  and  con- 
tains much  interesting  reading  matter. 

The  PnojRE  or  Ooia  WAtia  ax»  Oraxa  Stobibb.   By  T. 

&  Arthur.    New  York :  National  Temperanee  Society 

and  PubUeaUon  House. 

A  small  volume  of  temperanee  stories  for  chil- 
dren, with  illustrations,  designed  to  create  in  the . 
minds  of  young  persons  a  wholesome  fear  of  the 
consequences  that  too  surely  follow  the  use  of  in- 
toxicating drinks.  There  is  little  hope  of  those 
whose  tastes  have  been  corrupted.  Our  hope  in  the 
future  lies  with  the  young.  Let  ns  do  all  in  our 
power  to  keep  them  out  of  the  way  of  danger. 
Baxib's  Haemoht  ahd  TflosouoB  Bass. 

We  have  reoeived  fh>m  the  publishers,  Oliver 
Ditson  A  Co.,  Boston,  this  useful  book  on  the  sci- 
ence of  music.  The  author,  Mr.  B.  F.  Baker,  has 
been  well  known  for  the  last  thirty-five  years  both 
as  a  composer  and  thorough  teacher,  and  in  this 
practical  work  presents  such  Illustrated  rules  as  will 
be  truly  valuable  to  the  organ  or  piano  student 

We  have  not  space  for  a  thorough  review  which 
this  treatise  deservedly  merits,  but  recommend  it 
to  all  who  desire  to  possess  a  knowledge  of  the  cor- 
rect relation  of  chords. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


EDITORS'   DEPARTMENT. 


THB  NSW  VmAJU 

**Tmm.IiABY*8  HoMB  Maoazikk"  opens  a  new 
year  and  a  new  series  with  the  present  number, 
whioh  is  rich  in  novelties  and  attractions.  The 
publishers  intend  to  make  it  fully  equal  to  the  best 
luagaxinesof  its  class,  and  superior  to  most  of  them 
in  the  extent,  variety  and  artistic  beauty  of  its  11- 
Instratious,  and  the  high  tone,  interest  and  literary 
excellence  of  its  articles.  As  a  reading  magazine, 
it  will  continue,  as  it  has  always  done,  to  challenge 
competition. 

OUR  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

During  the  year  1871  we  shall  give  a  great  vari- 
ety of  novel  and  attractive  illustrations,  including 
colored  steel  fashion  plates  and  a  series  of  oar- 
toons,  or  large  copies  of  popular  pictures  by  the 
best  artists.  **  The  Skeiit-Winders  "  in  this  num- 
ber, a  charming  subject,  is  -one  of  these.  Others 
are  in  preparation,  and  will  appear  regularly. 
These  elegant  illustrations  on  steel  and  wood  will 
not  always  be  given  in  the  same  number,  as  in  the 
present,  but  sometimes  together  and  sometimes  in 
alternation,  so  as  to  give  to  each  number  as  it  ap- 
pears a  beauty  and  variety  peculiarly  its  own. 

Our  double  fashion  engravings,  whioh  have  given 
such  an  elegant  appearance  to  "The  Lady's  Home 
Maoazine,"  will  be  continued  in  every  number, 
including  an  extensive  variety  of  fashion  and 
needle- work  designs. 

The  publishers  of  "  The  Lady's  Home  Maoa- 
£IMe"  confidently  offer  it  to  all  who  wish  a 
magazine  for  the  household  as  combining  the  best 
features  of  its  class,  with  excellences  and  attrac- 
tions not  found  in  any  of  its  cotemporaries. 
Cheaper  than  most  of  them,  its  subscription  price 
is  as  low  as  the  lowest. 

THE  MTBLKATn  OF  IMMORTICIjIjRS. 

This  splendid  picture  surprises  every  .one  who 
sees  it  by  its  elegance,  richness  and  beauty.  It  is 
by  far  the  finest  and  most  costly  of  our  premium 
engravings.  Mr.  Rice  has  surpassed  himself  in  this 
effort,  and  gives  so  exact  a  reproduction  of  the 
foreign  print,  which  sells  for  six  dollars,  that  it 
would  be  difficult  for  any  one  but  an  expert  to  tell  the 
copy  from  the  original.  We  are  proud  to  add  this 
elegant  picture  to  our  list  of  choice  engravings, 
and  congratulate  all  who  get  it  as  a  premium  for 
clubs,  or  for  the  nominal  prioe  of  one  dollar,  as 
subseribers,  on  possessing  a  gem  of  art 
•o*  •  • 
«A  DOLLAR  A  OAT.»» 

This  is  the  title  of  Mis^  Townsend's  new  terial 
oommonced  in  the  present  number  of  our  magazine. 
With  every  new  story,  Miss  Townsend  develops 
new  power  and  new  ability  to  hold  the  reader's 
absorbed  attention.  In  pathos,  tenderness,  in- 
sight into  human  nature  and  dramatic  force,  she 
is  not  exceeded  by  any  American  writer  of  fioUon. 
(66J 


VRBJICK  INFLVKNCR  ON  AineRlCAlf 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  mwH  vtfutm  •• 
American  society  of  French  sooial  customs  aii4 
French  social  ideas.  They  steadily  are  loweriDg 
the  standard  of  morals  in  what  is  eailed  our  "  beat 
sooiety."  We  need  not  go  into  particulars;  all 
thoughtful,  virtuous  and  truly  refined  people  ae« 
and  lament  what  we  deprecate.  Mrs.  Stowo,  in  her 
new  novel,  '*  Pink  and  White  Tyranny,"  now  ftp- 
pearing  in  '<01d  and  New,"  thus  refers  to  the 
subject — 

**  Lillie  liked  French  novels.  There  was  an  at- 
mosphere  of  things  in  them  that  suited  her.  The 
young  married  woman  had  lovers  and  admirera, 
and  there  was  the  constant  stimulus  of  beinK 
courted  and  adored  under  the  safe  protection  of  a 
good-natured  *man,* 

''In  France  the  flirting  is  all  done  after  mar- 
riage, and  the  young  girl  looks  forward  to  itas  her 
introduction  to  a  career  of  conquest.  In  America 
so  great  is  our  democratic  liberality  that  we  think 
of  uniting  the  two  py stems.  We  are  getting  on  in 
that  way  fast.  A  knowledge  of  French  is  begin- 
ning to  be  considered  as  the  peari  of  great  prioe, 
to  gain  which  all  else  must  be  sold. 

"  The  girls  must  go  to  the  French  theatre  and  be 
stared  at  by  French  debauchees,  who  laugh  at 
them  while  they  pretend  they  understand  what, 
thank  Heaven,  they  oannot.  Then  we  are  to  have 
a  series  of  French  novels,  oarefully  translated  and 
puffed  and  praised  even  by  the  religious  press, 
written  by  the  corps  of  French  female  reformers, 
whioh  will  show  them  exactly  how  the  naughty 
French  women  manage  their  cards ;  so  that,  by- 
and-by,  we  shall  have  the  latest  phase  of  electi- 
cism — the  union  of  American  and  rrench  manners. 
The  girl  will  flirt  till  twenty  a /a  Awerieaine,  and 
then  marry  and  flirt  till  forty  a  la  Fruncax$t.^ 

OUR  PRSMIUM  LIST  FOR  ISTl. 


Our  readers  will  see  that  we  offer  extra  induee- 
ments  this  year  for  snbsoribers,  in  a  large  and  va- 
ried list  of  premiums,  inoluding,  besides  those 
heretofore  offered,  several  new  and  valuable  ones. 
Prominent  among  these  are  two  beautiful  bronae 
mantel  olooks,  manufaetored  by  the  Amerieaa 
Clock  Company.  We  give  an  illustration  of  the 
one  day  mantel  clock,  which  we  send  for  8  subscri- 
bers to  The  Home  Ma«asiiib  at  $2.00  each. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


EDITORS*    DEPARTMENT, 


67 


OHAie  JIICROAGOFB. 

This  mior«Mope  U  oiie  of  the  ohe^pef  t  and  the 
beet.  It  msgnilies  minute  trftnspiirent  objeota  one 
hundred  diameterty  making  pl&inljr  disoemable  the 
•nimaloalos  in  impure  water,  the  globoles  in  milk, 
bloody  ete^  the  unseen  olawe  and  jointa  of  iniecte, 
and  the  definite  shape  of  the  pollen  dust  of  flowers. 
It  shows  the  "  trichina  spiralis  "  of  pork,  first  dis- 
eovered  in  this  country  with  this  instrument,  and 
the  eelle  in  vinegar  magnified  from  one  to  four 
iaehes  in  length.  The  editor  of  the  New  York 
Smmdmjf  Sehaoi  AdvoeaU  sajs  of  it — 

**  When  I  saw  a  statement  in  an  adTertisement 
that  the  Craig  Microscope  magnified  one  hundred 
diameters,  and  could  be  bought  for  two  dollars  and 
fifty  cents,  I  thought  it  was  one  of  the  humbugs  of 
the  hoar,  for  I  had  paid  twenty  dollars  for  a  mi- 
eye8cop«  not  long  before.  But  now  I  find  it  to  be 
mllT  a  Taloable  instrument,  which  I  should  like 
to  see  introduced  into  the  families  of  our  readers 
in  place  of  the  manifold  useless  toys  which  please 
ior  an  hour  and  are  then  destroyed.  This  micro- 
seope  woold  both  amuse  and  instruct  them,  and  I 
adriao  every  boy  and  girl  who  wishes  to  know  the 
wonders  that  lie  in  little  things  to  save  their  money 
until  tbey  have  two  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents, 
which  will  pay  for  the  microscope  and  postage  when 
sent  by  mail." 

This  mtorosoope  will  make  a  beantifnl  holiday 
gift  to  any  one,  either  child  or  adult  It  can  be 
obtained  of  A.  B.  Carlton,  Look  Box  41,  Elisabeth, 
N.J. 

OUR  SKUVUrO  MACHINB  PREMIUM. 

Don't  fail  to  examine  our  premium  list  For  30 
subseribers  to  onr  magazine,  at  $2  each,  we  will 
send  a  Gboysb  St  Bakbb  $55  sewing  machine.  If 
as  many  as  30  subscribers  cannot  be  obtained  by 
any  one  trying  to  get  a  machine,  we  will  take  the 
number  procured  and  charge  a  cash  difference,- 
which  will  not  be  large  in  any  case,  as  for  instance, 
if  only  25  subscribers  can  be  obtained,  $5  in  addi- 
tion to  the  subseriptioBS,  or  $55  in  all,  will  procure 
the  machine. 

THB  gKBSIK-lfriMOBRS, 

{Sw  CarUnm.) 
The  beautiful  and  effective  picture  which  we  give 
this  month  is  a  copy  of  a  painting  by  Jean  Louis 
Hsmon,  a  modem  French  artist.  He  was  a  pupil 
of  Delarocbe  and  of  Qleyra ;  and,  in  1833,  obtained 
a  third-class  medal  for  his  g^urt  paintings. 
The  London  Art  Journal  says  of  this  piotnre— 
**  It  bears  no  fisatare  to  conneol  it  with  modem 
nationalities,  exeept  that  females  of  the  present 
day  are  accustomed  to  wind  silk  and  cotton  as  did 
those  who  lived  centuries  ago.  But  the  figares, 
Jodging  by  their  costume,  and  the  furniture  of  the 
spartmeot,  scanty  as  this  is,  are  of  the  old  Roman 
type,  and  are  evidently  intended  to  convey  the 
idea  of  a  domestic  scene  in  the  time  of  the  later 
Rnman  emperora.  The  chief  merit  of  the  picture 
lies  in  the  comparative  originality  of  the  subjeot, 
sad  in  the  agreeable  manner  and  dalleate  feallng 
vithwUehHiftrsatad." 


'WAXM  vomojD* 

Rbhittaiv0B« — Send  poit^Slee  order  or  a  draft 
on  Philadelphia,  New  York,  or  Boston.  If  yoa  eaa 
not  get  a  P.  O.  order  or  draft,  then,  if  the  iom  ba 
five  dollars  or  upward,  have  your  letter  registersA 
at  the  post-offioe. 

If  yon  send  a  drafty  «n  tlMit  it  is  drawn  or  en- 
dorsed to  ofdBr  of  T.  S.  Arthur  ^  Sons. 

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it  goes  at  the  time  you  write. 

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of  the  year. 

Let  the  names  of  the  rabsoribers  and  your  own 
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different  post-offices. 

Canada  subscribers  must  send  twelre  cents  in 
addition  to  subscription,  for  postage. 

Postage  on  ''Thb  Lady's  Homb  MAOAiiinc" 
is  twelve  oents  a  year,  payable  at  the  offiee  whera 
the  magasine  is  received. 

In  sending  a  dub  in  which  onr  different  mapa- 
sines  are  included,  be  careful  to  write  each  list  of 
names  by  itself.  This  will  make  our  entry  of  the 
names  in  the  different  subscription  books  easier  and 
prevent  many  mistakes. 

Before  writing  us  a  letter  of  incpiiry,  examine 
the  aboTo  and  see  if  the  question  yon  wish  to  ask 
is  not  answered. 


LOST  LITERARY  PROPERTY. 

A  literary  correspondent  of  the  New  Orleans 
Smndajf  Times  solves  the  question  oonoeraing  the 
origin  of  the  two  hitherto  untraoeable  quotations, 
wbich  have  pussled  literary  circles  in  the  Crescent 
City  as  well  as  in  the  North,  vis:  **  Consistency 's 
a  jewel,"  and  '<Tho'  lost  to  sight,  to  memory 
dear."  The  first  appeared  originally  in  Murtagh's 
Collection  of  Ancient  English  and  Scotch  Ballads. 
1754.  In  the  ballad  of  "Jolly  Bobyn  Rough- 
head  "  are  the  following  lines,  in  which  it  appears — 
Tush  I  tush  I  my  lassie  I  such  thoughts  resigne, 

Comparisons  are  croell, 
Fine  pictures  emit  in  frames  as  fine, 

Qmgisteneie^s  ajewd. 
For  thee  and  me  coante  clothes  are  best, 
Rude  folks  in  homelye  raiment  drest, 
Wife  Joan  and  goodman  Bobyn. 
The  other  first  appeared  in  Terses  written  in  an 
old  memorandum  book,  the  author  not  reoollsotad-* 
Sweetheart,  good-by  I  the  finttefing  sail 

Is  spread  to  waft  me  fu  from  ihee, 
And  soon  before  the  fiiv'ring  gale, 

My  ship  shall  bound  upon  the  sea. 
Perchance,  all  desolate  and  forlorn. 

Thene  eyes  shall  miss  thee  many  a  year. 
But  nnforKotteu  is  every  oharm. 
Though  UM  to  tight  ton 


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68 


ARTSUlt'8  SOME   MAGAZINE. 


OUR  PJaBSMIim  BBMAATINGS. 

.ThMoaieftU  ^kprwilyMgraved  for  vs  aA  a  large 
OMty  and  afford  a  rare  opportuoity  to  thoM  who 
lare  geod  pieturet  to  Qbtain  them  at  leis  than  one- 
fillh  the  priee  at  which  the  foreign  eopiei  are  sold. 

For  1871,  all  who  make  np  clabe  will  haye  the 
ohotce  of  fonr  premiam  platen,  vis: 

Tub  Wrbatb  or  laiifOBTXUiBS, 

Thk  KsiQsu  «r  Pbagb, 

Bbd-Timc, 

RiOB'8  LaB09  AJtD  JflMX  StBKL  PoRTAiLiT  Of  T. 

8.  Arthur. 

One  of  whioh,  at  may  be  desired,  will  be  sent  to 
the  getfcer'Up  of  each-club.  And  every  lubsoriber 
to  <'Thb  IIomb  MA04.aNB"  mill  bo  entitled  to 
order  one  or  all  of  them  at  a  dollar  each;  or*  three 
at  $2.50;  or  the  foar  pictures  for  |3. 


THB  -WORKINGMAN. 

Send  a  stamp  and  get  in  return  a  specimen  copy 
of  this  careful  edited  and  riobly  illustrated  picto- 
rial. It  is  a  temperance  papei,  and  its  wide  cir- 
eulation  among  working  people  cannot  fail  to  do 
much  good.  It  is  only  sixty  cents  a  year^^so 
okoap  that  the  poorest  can  afford  a  copy. 

As  a  paper  for  family  reading,  where  young 
people  are  growing  np  and  daily  forming  opinions 
and  habits  of  thinking,  its  introduction  would  be 
of  great  use.^  Its  temperance  feature  is  not  obtra- 
sive,  but  so  addressed  to  the  reafM>n  and  common 
sense  as  to  carry  great  weight  The  moral  tone  is 
of  the  highest  and  purest  qnalityi  while  the  reading 
is  never  duU. 

THE  CHIliDRBH'S  HO\jR. 

The  January  number  of  the  "Hmtr  "  contains,  in 
a  Supplement,  nine  Carols  for  Christmas,  new  and 
old.  The  illustrations  of  this  beautiful  magazine 
are  verf  rich  and  varied;  and  the  reading  of  the 
oboioest  and  most  entertaining  character  for  chil- 
dren. Mr.  Arthur  commences  in  this  number  for 
bis  little  fHends  "Tna  Wondbrful  Stort  or  Gbk- 
TLB  Havd."    Bee  Prospeotns. 

HoKCROPATHTc  Ltve  Irbhrancx. — In  our  Septem- 
ber number  we  alluded  to  the  Hahnemann  Life  In- 
surance Company,  of  Cleveland.  Ohio,  and  recom- 
mended all  who  desired  insurance  to  investigate  the 
special  advantages  offered  by  this  company.  "Within 
a  few  days  we  have  received  a  copy  of  the  late  re- 
port of  the  New  York  State  Insurance  Department, 
which  places  the  Hahnemann  second  to  none  in 
the  country — the  company  having  $169.79  to  pay 
•very  $100.00  of  insuranoe,  and  this  exclusive  of  a 
cash  eapital  of  $200,000.  We  would  again  suggest 
to  our  friends  the  policy  of  considering  well  the 
special  advantages  offered  by  this  company.  Branch 
oflBoe  in  Philadetphia,  S.  W.  eomer  of  Broad  and 
Chestnut  Streets.    J.  A.  Cloud,  M.  B.,  manager. 

"  A  policy  of  life  insurance  is  the  cheapest  and 
safest  mode  of  making  a  certain  provision  for  one's 
fiunily. 


Tmm  PICMWICK  EiADLflW. 
Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall,  the  original  paV- 
lishers  of  Dickens's  ^'Piokwiok,"  were  so  well  pleased 
with  the  sale  of  the  book  and  their  handsome  sh«n 
of  profit,  that  they  made  a  present  to  t|^e  yoaii|r 
author  of  a  set  of  ladles  in  silver  gilt,  the  stems  of 
which  were  ornamented  with  little  figures  beaati- 
fully  modelled,  representing  the  different  oharaeters 
in  "  The  Posthumous  Papers  "  of  the  elub.  At  » 
reoent  sale  of  pictures,  china  and  miseellaneona 
knicknaoks,  etc.,  which  had  been  the  property  of 
Dickens,  these  ladles  were  included  and  were  bid 
off  separately.  The  immortal  Mr.  Pickwiek  bore 
away,  as  might  be  supposed,  the  bell;  be  wmm 
knocked  down  at  the  handsome  price  of  sixty-nine 
pounds.  Sam  Weller  was  next  in  favor,  bringini; 
sixty -four  pounds.  Next  in  rank  was  the  elder 
Mr.  Weller,  who  was  bid  off  at  fifty-one  pounds. 
The  Fat  Boy  and  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle  paired  at  thirty 
pcundsa  piece,  while  the  comparatively  uninterest- 
ing Mr.  Winkle  brought  only  twen^-three  pounds. 

The  Kbtstowi!  Srwiivo  MAcniNB.— This  ma- 
chine, now  being  extensively  manufactured  in  oar 
city,  is  among  the  best  lock-stitch  machines  made. 
We  speak  from  a  personal  knowledge  of  its  merits. 
It  runs  lightly  and  rapidly,  is  managed  easily,  and 
gives  an  even  and  beautiful  stiteh.  A  member  of 
our  family  has  one  of  them  in  use,  and  has  been 
delighted  with  it  from  the  beginning.  See  adver- 
tisement in  this  number  of  Home  Maoazimb. 

"  TffB  fVblse  shame  whioL  fears  to  bo  detected  in 
honest  manual  employment ;  which  shrinks  from 
exposing  to  the  world  a  necessary  and  honorable 
economy ;  which  blushes  more  deeply  for  a  shabby 
attire  than  for  a  mean  action ;  and  which  dreads 
the  sneer  of  the  world  more  than  the  upbraiding  of 
conscience— this  false  shame  will  prove  the  ruin  of 
every  one  v^o  suffers  it  to  influence  his  inner 
thoughts  and  his  outward  life." 


"  A  oooD  action  performed  in  this  world  reoeives 
its  recompense  In  the  other,  just  as  water  poured  at 
the  root  of  a  tree  appears  again  above  in  fruit  and 
flowers." 


CLUBBIBTO. 

We  offer  the  following  clubbing  lists,  inolnding 
'^  Arthur's  Lady's  Homb  Maoaeinx,"  "Godby's 
Lady's  Book,"  «Thb  Cbildrbs's  Hour"  and 
"  Tbb  WoRBimif AH."  By  taking  two  or  more  of 
these  publioations,  they  oan  be  obtained  at  a  larga 
discount  from  the  regular  subscription  prices. 

OKE  YBAR. 

AaTBua*s  Hon  Maoazinb  and  CniLDRsiv's  Hottr,  $2  50 
Do  do        and  Godbt's  Ladt*8  B*x,4.00 

Do  do        and  Thb  Wo&xiifQMAS,  2.25 

Chiuaxn's  Hour  and  Oodet^s  Lai>t*s  Boox,  3.60 

Do  and  WoaxiifOMAir,  iso 

WoaxjivoMAV  and  QonKT^s  Lady's  Book  ai25 

HoMs  Mao.,  Cbxlsus's  Houa  ^d  I^j'b  Boob,        £.qo 


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WHAT  SHALL  IT  BE.  CRUST  OR  CRUMB? 


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Ar'ii'ir's  Lfidy^  Home  MuifiziiLe 


Feb.  J  a -7]. 


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vr'riur's  Lady^  HoiT.e  M'i;^a7. iii 


Feb.  1871. 


'^k%\\%^%  FCji/k  tE!9?:;;:  AK.^ 


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HIGH  BODICE,  WITH  » 
,  Hke  bodice  is  open,  heari-shapedJ 


(fiadfe  Fww.) 


,  Ike  bodice  Is  open,  henrtrshaped  J 

JBilin;  this  1«  edited  on  the  upp«^^^  .  ^^      .       ^  ,.  ...j  ^„  ^  hAT.nlait  and  flnli«h«»d  off  with  a  hand 

•Jhce  folded  backwards  and  f^^e  bottom  of  tl»«  »»««JJ  *>  ^^gtyle  5  Wfce^^  »»«o  look  well  made. 

*»ribbon.TeWet  is  tacked  on  Jiing  and  a  bow  to  wmtch.    ThU  sty^e  of  ooaic 

m.  The  sleeTes  are  of  muilin  anl^io^Te^  with  a  qailted  aatin  waistcoat. 


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Lil£BY). 


OEMTLEMAira  DRESSINO-GOWN. 
The  material  is  grar  flannel,  whioh  is  bound  all  rooaa 
with  ficarlet  braid.    The  dreeeing-gown  fastens  round  the 
waist  with  a  band«  which  is  buttoned.  The  ooUar  ia  of  the 
same  material,  and  bound  with.brakL 


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•I^H, 


No.  l^-An 
ofashari  skirt 
TIm  paletolis 
oentr*,  and  the 
■ilk,  and  intarlJ 
ftir  on  the  oIm 
square  tlde-poc] 
Tel?e^  omameni 

No.  &— A  e< 
or  blMsk  Tell 
Poloiiaiae  fronta, 
baeqae,  with  m  ▼< 
teterltaied  like  ' 
ttMlooirfngoa 
loBg,  and  vide 
fehrelanda" 


BLUB  CASHMERE  DRESa 

.  which  is  somewhat  novel  in  effect,  consists  principally  of  velvet  ribboiia  of  a  rather 

he  dress.    Tins  ribbon  is  placed  round  tlie  skirt  in  four  rows,  crossed  at  iDterrals  by 

I  of  the  tini  of  the  dress.    The  trimming  of  the  open  tunio  corresponds  with  that  of 

dioe  is  high,  and  cat  waistcoat  fikshion.    The  sleeTes,  which  become  more  open 

e,  like  the  bodice,  trimming  correspondinfc  with  that  of  the  skirt.    The  nnaer- 

I  and  narrow  Valenciennes,  a  fluted  edging  of  which  senres  as  a  finish  roond  the  throat. 

■e  drf^ns  no  collar  is  worn.    The  toque  is  of  blue  satin,  with  richly  polished  sleel  oma* 

carried  ronnd  the  head,  and  falls  behind ;  it  in  adorned  with  bine  silk  fkinge.    It  ia 

I  without  anything  else;  it  is  trimmed  the  same  as  the  skirt;  the  tieeTea  are  iooae, 

blbow  with  a  bow  of  satin  ribbon. 


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FAJ9HION   IDEPA.IITMENT. 


FASHIONS  FOR  FEBRUARY. 

There  ii  no  marked  change  in  the  fathioni  itBee  last  moath.  Cashmere  suits,  or  suits  of  cashmere 
and  velrety  are  the  most  in  faror.  These  suits  may  be  in  one  single  color,  in  two  or  three  shades  of  the 
same  color,  or  a  single  color  with  black.  Where  black  is  used,  it  sboald  be  used  for  the  upper  garment, 
or  tunic,  and  the  darker  shades  should  always  be  worn  uppermost.  These  suits  may  be  trimmed  with 
reWet,  flringe,  or  lace,  or  with  crochet  embroidery.  Clan  tartans  are  much  worn,  and  are  trimmed  with 
a  rery  deep,  heavy  woollen  fringe.  The  most  popular  tartan  just  now  is  the  "  Argyle  Campbell" — white 
bars  on  green,  blue  and  black  ground— the  clan  tartan  of  the  Marquis  of  Lorn,  theySoae^e  of  the  Prineess 
Louise  of  England. 

Dinner  and  evening  dresses  are  still  made  with  long  trains,  and  some  of  them  Toiy  elaborately 
trimmed.  Dresses  may  be  rery  much  trimmed,  or  they  may  be  quite  simple  and  plain,  and  still  be  in 
fashion.  Some  of  the  newest  Tisiting  dresses  are  made  with  long,  plain  skirts,  and  either  postillion 
basques  or  pointed  waists,  without  sash  or  orerskirt  Orerskirts  are  still  worn,  but  longer  and  plainer 
than  formerly.  Dresses  are  usually  trimmed  flat  now.  When  flounces  are  used  they  have  very  little 
fulness,  and  should  be  headed  by  one  or  two  bands  of  Telret  One  wide  band  looks  better  than  two  narrow 
ones. 

Bonnets  are  now  worn  in  Tel?et  of  all  colors  to  fit  the  dress,  though  black  is  still  allowable  for  those 
whose  means  will  not  warrant  more  than  one  bonnet.  The  toque  and  the  gypsy  are  the  faTcrite  stylet 
this  winter. 

A  pretty  hat  is  made  of  light  gray  felt,  trimmed  with  a  scarf  of  Tclret  matching  in  color,  and  three 
ostrich  plumes,  two  gray  and  one  scarlet  By  changing  the  scarlet  feather  and  substituting  those  of 
other  colors^  this  hat  can  be  worn  with  other  oostumes. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  COLORED  STEEL  FASHION-PLATE. 

Fig.  1. — Suit  composed  of  polonaise  and  skirt  Petticoat  of  wine-eolored  silk  trimmed  in  gathered 
raffles,  finished  at  both  edges,  confined  with  bands  of  velTct,  with  the  upper  edge  to  form  a  heading. 
Polonaise  with  apron  front,  looped  with  a  TelTet  band  at  the  side,  and  finished  in  long  tabs  at  the  back. 
Flowing  slecTe.    Trimming  to  match  the  skirt 

Fio.  2.— Walking  dress.  Round  gored  skirt  of  pale-green  silk.  The  three  fluted  flounces  are  sepa- 
rated by  broad  puffings ;  the  upper  flounce  is  deeper  than  the  others  and  is  headed  by  a  rouleau  and 
three  narrow  flutings.  Overdress  of  purple  silk ;  Uiis  has  two  skirts ;  the  lower  forms  a  square  tablier, 
with  a  narrow  fluted  flounce  and  bias  band  of  green  silk.  At  the  back  it  is  deep.  Green  buttons  attach 
it  to  the  tablier,  thus  forming  the  fiill  panier.  The  graduating  flounce  is  divided  near  the  top  by  a  band 
edged  with  green.  The  short  upper  skirt  is  entirely  similar.  Ruffles  and  bands  trim  the  close  corsage 
and  straight  sleeves ;  these  are  slightly  open  at  the  outer  seams  and  flnished  with  green  bows.  A  veiy 
large  bow  fastens  the  green  silk  ceinture  at  the  back.    Lace  collar  and  undersleeves. 


Jjhtiala  F0&  J 


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THB  BIDE  DOWN  HILL. 


TOL.  XZXVIL— 1^ 


(77) 


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F^eiHioPfgi  FMouc  m:m:e:.  dkbiorest. 


THE  NEWTON  CABAQUB. 

This  CMAqae  is  made  in  the  Utest  fuhion,  with  ad  apron  draped  at  the  sides,  the  fronts  tight-fitting  and 
«M«Bding  over  the  apron  in  roanded  basqaes.  The  skirt  is  long  and  very  ftill,  surmounted  bv  a  deep,  pointed 
ftMon  which  descends  at  the  sides  in  broad,  sqoare  sashes,  reaching  to  the  bottom  of  the  casaque.  Our 
■OM  is  made  in  black  Lyons  TelTet,  trimmed  with  rich  guipure  lace,  a  handsome  twist  fringe  and  broad 
■ ""'  .  so  fine  thai  It  doeely  resembles  eilk  embroidery. 


THE  PET  0VEB8KIBT. 

'[••^eof  orerskirt  can  be  more  desirable  for  a  school-girl  than  the  "Pet"— its  peculiar  arrangement 
jnjg  It  an  exoeUent  substitute  for  an  apron.  Made  in  black  alpaca  or  silk  trimmed  with  ruffl<?«  and  relret, 
J»w»  either,  separately,  it  can  be  rery  appropriately  worn  with  any  dress.  If  made  to  wear  en  suite  the 
"^■mg  should  correspond  with  ihe  rest  on  the  costume. 


BMBKOIDBRSD  BOBDEB. 


v79) 

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Front  View, 


•OUR  PRIT8*  8UIT. 


Back  View, 


The  most  fiuihioDible  style  of  gait  worn  this  sewon  by  boys  from  MTen  to  ten  yetfa  of  age. .  It  ia  i 
•lly  made  in  dark  gray  or  mixed  cloth,  withoat  any  trimming  ezoepting  rery  narrow  oraid,  or  rows  of  machine 
stitching  near  the  edges.  The  pants  reach  Just  over  the  knees,  where  they  are  fitted  very  tightly,  and  fuir 
ened  on  the  outside  by  three  buttons. 


with 


The  Jacket  partakes  of  the  style  of  an  English  sbooting-Jaeket,  in  the  back,  reaching  tost  over  the  hips, 
I  a  square  pocket  on  each  side,  and  is  slightly  open  in  front,  disclosing  a  tight  Test  of  the  same  material. 


MINBTTA  DRES& 
A  pretty  design  for  a  dress  to  be  made  in 
erimson  all-wool  delaine,  trimmed  with 
floances  of  the  same,  and  narrow  black  vel* 
Tet.  A  taeh  of  black  silk  is  arranged  as 
bretalles,  and  descends  quite  low  in  the 

bACk. 


SCALLOPED  BORDER. 


SCISSORS  CASS. 
Out  out  a  piece  of  eerdboard  of  the  shape  seen  on  illnstrsr 
tion,  and  cover  it  on  one  side  with  blue  or  red  cashmere,  oo 
the  other  side  with  glased  calico  of  the  same  shade.  Sdss 
the  cardboard  with  a  silk  braid  or  gold  cord.  Fasten  at  the 
top  a  small  raised  plncoshion,  corered  and  edged  like  tus 
cardboard ;  then  cat  oat  three  pieoes  of  cashmere  for  the  three 
pookels  Ibr  the  scissors;  embroider  them  in  longstitch  wits 
silk,  and  sew  them  on  to  the  cashmere  ground.  The  case  is 
completed  with  a  bow  of  ribbon  and  a  smaU  oirole  pisosd  al 
the  u>p»  as  seen  on  Nlostration. 


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BAG  FOR  SKATES. 

Ifatorials.'^TQile  cirto.  or  American  oloth,  a  piece  memsuring  two  yards  and  four  inohea  in  length,  and  a 
yard  and  nine  inches  in  width ;  six  yarda  of  crimson  worsted  braid,  one  inch  wide ;  narrow  i>raid  to  mateb ; 
chalk-white  beads,  crimson  sewinc  silk ;  four  brass  rings,  one  inch  and  a  half  in  diameter. 

This  bag,  which  is  a  German  InTehtion,  is  made  of  strong  nsefal  materials.  As  skating  is  now  a  faTortte 
exercise  with  ladies,  we  trust  the  model  will  be  acceptable.  Oar  model  is  of  toils  cirte,  and  is  lined  wHh 
eanvaa.  The  entire  length  of  the  bag  is  cut  both  front  and  back,  being  in  one  piece :  the  lifter  tarns  orer 
with  a  flap.  This  is  now  coTered  with  a  trelliswork  of  crimson  braid,  each  diamond  being  fastened  down 
with  due  chalk-white  beads.  When  this  is  completed,  proceed  to  oat  the  sides  which  are  made  of  the  same 
material.  Before  Joining  them  to  the  front  and  back,  cut  a  roand  hole  at  the  top  and  three  parts  down,  as 
shown  in  the  iUaatration.  put  a  ring  into  hole,  and  work  it  over  with  battonhole  stitches  and  a  few  beads.  These 
rings  are  for  the  handle,  so  that  when  the  bag  is  filled,  the  metal  rings  prevent  the  cloth  breaking.  Both  sides 
are  alike,  and  boih  are  bound  with  braid,  and'^omamented  with  beads.  It  is  lastly  stitched  to  the  bottom  of  the 
side  of  the  bag,  the  Cutening  being  concealed  with  beada.  It  passes  through  the  rmff,  and  ia  again  brought  to  the 
oatside  at  the  top.  The  same  proceeding  is  obserred  on  the  opposite  side,  working  aownwwd Instead  or  upward. 


IB  diamonds. 


SLIPPBft  WITH  POnfT-LACB  ORNAHElrf. 
TMa  iUpper  Is  made  M  Une  glac«  silk,  slighftrgofKad,  Ihied  with  blae  Florence  silk,  and  stttahed  tbrou^ 
namonds.    The  slipper  is  ornamented  all  roand  with  Harrow  point  lace,  and  on  the  top  wlOi  a  bow  otm% 
lo  s^  and  black  Tslret  backle.    It  consists  of  three  leaf-shaped  paftf  orerlapping  each  ^g^J^y^  ™ 

(W) 


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STYLES  OF  HAIR-DRESSING  FOR  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

No.  1.— The  hair  Is  all  combed  back  from  the  forehead  and  oarled  at  the  ands.  They  are  kept  ia  their 
plaee  by  a  ribbon,  which  is  tied  in  a  bow  at  the  left  side. 

No.  2.— The  front  hair  is  divided  at  each  side  into  two  parts ;  the  npper  portion  is  combed  on  to  the  few- 
head  ;  the  lower  from  the  temples.  The  back  hair  is  plaited  in  two  thick  plaits  and  tied  at  the  top  of  the  head 
with  a  bow.  ^  f  y  y 

No.  3.— The  hair  is  combed  to  the  back,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  piece  which  is  combed  straight  fropi 
the  temples  and  tied  at  the  top  of  the  head.    The  remainder  falls  natoraliy  down  the  back. 

No.  4.— This  stvle  oonslsts  of  two  plaits,  fastened  with  ribbons  at  a  dhort  distance  from  the  ends. 

No.  6.— The  hair  is  plaited  above  tne  ears ;  then  the  plaits  are  crossed  so  as  to  faU  rather  low  on  the  OAck 


(M) 


K&ME  FOB  MARKINQ. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


ARTHUR'S  LlDT'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


FEBRVARY,    1871. 


ANNIE'S  AN^GELS. 


BT  BOSELLA  BICE. 


THERE'S  not  a  day  passes  in  which  I  do  not 
think  of  her,  niv  dead  Annie.  We  were 
Ktde  girls  when  we  first  met^  only  thirteen 
yeus  old.  I  was  coming  home  from  the  Til- 
lage with  papa's  Letters  and  she  overtook  me. 
TIm  beads  of  sweat  stood  on  her  forehead,  she 
had  walked  bo  htX  in  trying  to  overtake  me. 
I  was  homely  and  sanhnrnt  and  had  gray  eyes, 
doll  and  sleepy;  while  she  was  qaick  and 
nerrousy  with  the  loveliest  hazel  eyes  and  wavy 
brown  hair,  and  a  sweet  round  face  that  made 
me  love  her  at  first  sight.  In  that  walk  of 
forty  rods  was  formed  a  friendship  that  was  to 
last  while  lasted  our  two  lives.  I  had  a  good 
home--she  had  not ;  but  by  dint  of  planning 
and  plotting  and  contriving  together,  Annie 
and  I  were  never  separated  more  than  a  few 
dajs  at  a  Ume.  I  would  tell  my  father  pitiful 
Btories  of  unkind  teachers  in  Annie's  district, 
and  forthwith  my  parents  would  insist  on  the 
girl  boarding  with  us,  and  helping  me  wash 
diahes  and  work  long  division,  while  we  would 
attend  the  same  school. 

Then,  in  the  long  summers  I  would  be  lonely 
ipinning  in  the  third  story  chamber,  and  Annie 
would  be  hired  to  work  with  me;  the  dear, 
little,  loving,  pure  girl  came  like  an  ang|el  into 
oorhooseholdl 

And  thus  we  managed  for  ten  years  to  occupy 
the  same  cosey  little  room  together  nearly  all 
the  time.  Then  she  married  while  she  was 
teaching  onr  school  and  boarding,  with  us,  and 
my  stipulations  were  that  Ae,  theintruder,  would 
«d1j  visit  his  inle  once  a  week  during  that  sum- 
ner.  Oh!  we  had  gala  days.  Annie  could 
drive  fearles^y,  and  together  we  visited  all  the 
beantifal  and  wild  and  historic  places  for  many 
miles  aroond. 

lliat  was  the  crowning  summer  of  my  girl- 

VOL.  xxxvn.— 6 


hood.  When  the  little  Bosa  came,  she  was 
mine  to  love  and  care  for,  too. 

As  the  years  glided  on  we  had  cares  and 
sorrows  and  crosses,  but  together  we  shared 
them  and  comforted  each  other.  Her  Bosa 
lived  until  the  mystery  of  death  and  immor- 
tality was  to  her  a  theme  of  daily  wonder  and 
anxiety  ;  her  questions  concerning  the  angels 
puzzled  her  mother  and  troubled  her  heart. 
One  day  she  said,  ^'  Bosa  is  going  to  the  angels, 
and  mother  mustn't  cry  for  her  baby  then ;" 
and  soon  she  folded  her  little  hands  smilingly 
and  joined  them. 

Then  a  few  years  later  and  another,  whose 
little  head  was  a  shaking  cluster  of  nut-brown 
curls,  died  a  violent  death,  and  the  heart  of 
Annie  was  rent  with  anguish  and  sorrow.  Oh  f 
with  a  few  lines  of  ours  we  can  glide  over  a 
whole  life  time  and  cover  it  all,  and  the  story 
is  done— just  as  the  mosses  and  lichens  creep 
over  the  inscription  on  a  neglected  country 
churchyard  stone,  and  obliterate  the  name  and 
age  and  date.  She  was  all  the  world  to  me — 
to  the  careless  reader  who  may  glance  over 
these  sentences  she  was  nothing. 

Last  winter,  on  that  silent  Sabbath,  when  the 
cruel  white  snow  liyr  softly  and  deeply  all  over 
the  earth,  a  messenger  came  to  my  uck  bed  to 
tell  me  that  my  girlhood's  friend,  my  Annie, 
was  gone  from  my  mortal  sight  forever.  I  lay 
prone  upon  my  fkce  with  my  heart  broken.  It 
was  winter  in  my  soul.  I  had  no  woman 
left  who  knew  and  loved  me  as  well  as  she 
did. 

I  opened  my  arms  to  receive  her  three  chil- 
dren, but  no  wish  or  word  of  hers  had  given 
them  to  me.  I  said  that  is  very  strange — ^what 
did  she  say  of  her  babes  when  the  messenger 
came  00  soddenly  7   Her  husband  looked  me 

m 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


86 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


calmly  in  the  face^  and  his  lip  quivered  as  he 
Bteadied  his  voice  and  replied  that  her  reason 
returned  a  few  moments  before  she  died,  and 
she  said  the  Lord  had  dealt  lovingly  and  kindly 
with  her,  and  she  gave  her  children  to  him  in 
trust,  knowing  he  would  be  more  than  a  tender 
mother  even  to  them. 

I  thought  of  all  the  sorrows  she  had  under- 
gone, of  the  death  of  her  children,  the  loss  of 
their  home,  ill  health,  the  pinchings  of  poverty ; 
and  my  heart  smote  me  when  I  contrasted  my 
easy,  pleasant  life  beside  hers.  I  had  so  much 
more  for  which  to  be  thankful. 

And  yet  she  went  down  into  the  valley, 
looking  up  trustingly  into  His  face,  and  giving 
her  unsheltered  babes,  who  had  always  been 
cradled  in  her  soft  arms  and  in  sound  of  her 
bweet  voice,  into  His  care. 

Standing  on  the  cold  heights,  looking  on  with 
the  unannointed  eyes  of  one  loving  the  world, 
I  could  hardly  comprehend  this.  I  almost  felt 
that  I  should  come  6r8t  in  her  thoughts  when 
she  sought  one  to  fill  the  sacred  office  of  mother 
to  her  bereft  darlings. 

I  thought  much  and  often,  and  wondered 
about  this,  until  one  day  a  half  forgotten  inci- 
dent came  to  me,  and  the  mystery  was  solved. 

During  a  visit  I  had  made  her  the  year 
previous  we  were  sitting  one  evening  in  her 
cofiey  little  room  talking.  Her  husband  was 
absent  on  business  in  a  distant  State,  and  I  had 
taken  advantage  of  that  time  to  make  her  a 
visit  of  three  or  four  days. 

I  was  telling  Annie  that  I  believed  God's 
angels  met  us  every  day ;  that  when  we  were 
prompted  strongly  to  do  a  good,  unselfish  deed 
they  put  the  desire  into  our  hearts ;  that  through 
them  we  often  withheld  the  unkind  word,  and 
that  when  we  sought  to  do  right  they  upheld 
us  and  strengthened  us ;  they  were  God's  mes- 
sengers for  good,  and  came  directly  from  Him. 

''O  KosaP'  she  said,  "you  do  make  me  so 
glad ;"  and  while  the  tears  filled  even  to  the 
dark  lashes  of  her  beautiful  eyes,  she  laughed 
as  she  said :  "  I  know  one  time  sure  that  I  was 
met  by  the  angels,  then.  It  was  only  a  few 
weeks  ago— about  a  month  after  John  went 
away.  I  took  one  of  those  dreadful  spells  of 
pain  in  my  head  and  breast,  that  lasted  two 
days.  Willie  had  cut  his  foot  and  could  only 
just  limp  around  a  little,  Charlie  had  had  a 
severe  attack  of  the  croup,  and  the  baby  was 
unusually  cross,  and  everything  seemed  to  go 
wrong.  In  the  night  the  cows  from  town  came 
up  and  broke  into  our  good  garden  and  de- 
stroyed nearly  everything,  after  I  had  worked 
so  hard  in  it— and  it  was  the  best  one  in  the 


neighborhood.  Just  then  came  a  letter  that 
father  had  taken  to  drink  again,  and  mother 
contemplated  leaving  him,  and  that  Sister  La 
was  determined  on  marrying  that  idle,  worth- 
less, homeless  fellow,  Harry  Baker. 

''  Oh  1  my  troubles  came  thick  and  fast ;  in- 
deed, I  was  so  broken  and  bowed  down  that  I 
could  hardly  live.  I  just  felt  oompletelj  pros- 
trated, as  though  I  wanted  to  lie  on  the  hard, 
oold  floor  and  groan,  and  not  try  to  live  another 
day.  To  add  to  all  my  troubles,  my  husband 
was  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  home,  and 
did  not  write  half  as  often  as  he  should  have 
done. 

*'A11  this.  Boss,  in  the  beautiful  June,  re- 
member, the  crown-month  of  the  yeai^-the 
June  for  which  all  through  the  dreary,  white 
winter  and  the  bleak,  cold,  muddy  spring  I 
had  so  longed  and  lived  and  waited  for. 

"  That  saddest  night  when  we  went  to  bed  my 
heart  was  full  of  bitterness,  the  heavens  seemed 
brass,  and  the  Father's  face  seemed  tanaed 
away  from  me  and  mine.  Oh  I  I  was  wicked 
and  hard  and  stern.  I  felt  my  lip  cnrl  witii  a 
sneer  as  the  little  prayers  of  'Now  I  lay  me' 
fell  upon  my  closed  ear.  The  wanderer  Gain 
with  the  mark  upon  his  forehead  was  happier 
than  I  was. 

"  That  night  there  came  a  terrible  storm- 
strong  winds  that  almost  lifted  our  humble  cot- 
tage from  the  ground — winds  that  swept  and 
lashed  the  trees,  thunder  that  pealed  terrifie- 
ally,  and  blazes  of  lightning  that  made  it  seem 
as  if  the  whole  earth  were  wrapped  in  &imes. 
The  rain  came  through  the  roof,  and  little  rills 
ran  down  upon  our  beds,  and  drizzled  down  the 
white  walls  in  muddy  streams. 

"  I  sat  up  the  rest  of  the  night.  There  was 
storm  without  and  storm  within.  As  the 
sounds  died  away,  the  winds  lulled,  and  the 
thunder  muttered  afar  off  among  the  hill- tops, 
and  the  rain  fell  with  a  monotonous  soand,  I 
slept  a  little  in  my  rocking^hair. 

"  When  I  awoke,  desolation  abounded.  In- 
side of  the  house  was  dirt  and  confusion,  and 
mud  and  litter.  My  pretty  sunflower  qallt, 
that  you  and  I  pieced  out  on  the  rock  under 
the  cedars,  was  dabbled  with  muddy  stains,  tkt 
white  window  curtains  hung  limp  and  yellow, 
everything  was  dirty ;  and  the  cheery  sanshine 
that  came  in  at  the  east  window  seemed  onfy 
to  add  insult  to  injury.  With  the  pain  in  my 
head,  and  the  sadder  pain  in  my  hearty  it  was 
a  task  to  try  to  bring  order  and  neatness  oat  of 
such  dire  confusion.  The  grassy  meadow  be- 
low the  house  looked  as  though  a  heavy  roller 
had  gone  over  it;  the  grain  <lay  flat  on  the 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ANNIE'S   ANGELS. 


87 


l^round  in  plaoeo^  ftod  in  others  was  tangled 
aiid  twisted ;  tl^e  roads  were  washed  into  gullies 
and  the  little  plank  bridges  torn  away.  Brooks 
that  the  day  before  had  tinkled  lazily  along 
vere  mshing  madly  now,  full  to  the  edges  of  \ 
their  gnmy  banks.  I  knew  the  last  drop  would 
be  added  to  my  fbll  cup  of  bitterness  when  I 
should  go  to  the  spring-house. 

"  It  was  an  excellent  spring,  situate  in  a  hol- 
low between  two  hills,  but  during  storms  and 
heavy  fidla  of  ndn  a  torrent  would  rush  down 
the  raTin^  aocldenly  carrying  destruction  with 
it  It  proved  this  time  aa  I  had  feared.  Every 
crock  and  jar  had  been  turned  oyer  and  emp- 
tied of  its  contents.  A  churning  of  sour  cream 
ms  gone  and  only  the  stone  chum  remained. 
Bolls  of  butter  were  jammed  in  the  lower  end 
of  the  milk-house,  with  crocks  and  pans,  and 
jtiB  and  covers  all  a  mass  of  mud  and  sticks^ 
tnd  leaves  and  gravel.  Two  galk>n  jars  of  \ 
preserved  plums  were  emptied  and  lying  on 
their  sides,  and  pickles  and  all  my  little  store 
of  edibles  were  gone.  With  my  other  troubles 
this  annoyance  almost  vexed  me  beyond  con- 
trol. I  came  out  of  the  spring-house  and 
looked  all  around.  Every  thing  seemed 
stricken  with  desolation.  All  the  wondrous 
beauty  of  earth,  that  the  day  before  enwrapped 
it,  now  seemed  dashed  away  as  by  a  great 
blow  stru<^  in  angry  mood. 

**  I  stood  on  the  wet,  green  bank  above  the 
spring,  with  my  arms  folded  across  my  bosom. 
I  looked  into  the  spring.  It  was  muddy,  but 
the  clear,  pure  waters  that  came  up  from  the 
rock  in  the  bottom  of  it  were  slowly  filling  it 
and  driving  out  the  impurity.  The  muddy 
waters  that  had  rushed  in  suddenly  were  pass- 
log  oat,  and  as  I  watched  it  I  saw  the  pebbly 
bottom  showing  itself  down  through  the  pure 
depths. 

"  With  quickened  breath  I  thought  of  my- 
self as  I  looked  on  this  emblem  before  me.  The 
fountain  in  my  soul  was  muddy  too,  and  full  of  ( 
impurity.  I  said—*  May  God  forgive  me  and 
cleanse  my  soul  and  wash  me  clean,  even 
though  it  be  through  much  sufiering.' 

^  And  now  Boss,  listen  how  the  angels  met 
me— not  angels  that  floated  down  through  the 
fresh  blue  above  me,  with  wings  visible  and  with 
harps  attuned  ''—and  dear  Annie's  eyes  sparkled 
through  her  tears — "but  angels  such  as  we 
meet  every  day,  in  one  form  or  another. 

"As  I  stood  on  the  bank  above  that  rocky 
hillside-spring,  with  the  shadows  slowly  lifting 
themselves  from  about  me,  and  the  blessed 
sonshine  of  God's  amaxing  love  stealing  sofUy 
into  the  darkened  places  of  my  soul,  I  heard  a 


song  swelling  up  on  the  air  grandly.  It 
seemed  to  fill  all  space  around  me.  The  sound 
came  from  where  the  road  winds  about  the  hill, 
and  I  almost  held  my  breath  to  listen.  Just 
as  the  singers  came  around  the  hill,  and  before 
I  caught  sight  of  them,  they  finished  a  verse, 
and  the  chorus  fell  sweetly  upon  my  strained 
senses,  in  a  full,  rich  roll  of  melody,  and  it  was 
the  simple,  precious  words — 

**«  Trust  in  the  Lord.* 

"  God's  angels,  but  not  enveloped  in  a  mist 
that  set  them  apart  from  the  gaze  of  mortal 
eyes ;  angeb  to  me,  though  they  wore  the  guise 
of  two  old  men,  with  broad-brimmed  hats  and 
queer  coats,  and  unshorn  beards,  riding  on  a 
patchwork  quilt  in  a  little,  low,  rickety  buggy, 
that  looked  as  though  it  had  done  good  service 
ever  since  the  days  of  Noah. 

**  They  sang,  and  the  words  were  strong  and 
vitalised  with  Christian  life  and  love  and 
faith,  and  they  lifted  me  right  up,  as  would  a 
pair  of  stout  arms,  and  set  my  feet  on  firm 
footing. 

'*  The  refrain  rose  on  the  fresh  air  of  that 
newly  washed  June  morning — it  fell  like  a 
benediction,  for  the  blessing  of  God  went  with 
it. 

'*  Over  broken  roads,  and  across  where  little 
bridges  had  spanned  them  the  day  before,  and 
through  deep  pools  of  muddy  water,  and  around 
impassable  places,  the  old  angels  in  disguise 
calmly  drove  their  big,  broad-backed  horsey 
while  they  never  lost  a  note  out  of  their  song, 
nor  changed  any  of  its  wondrous  harmony  into 
discord. 

''  I  stood  spell-bound.  No  lady's  voice  was 
fuller,  or  sweeter,  or  more  perfect  No  instru- 
mental music  had  ever  filled  my  soul  to  such 
completeness,  or  given  me  such  a  sweet  sense 
of  satisfaction.  The  words  of  the  song,  (q* 
hymn,  were  grander  and  fuller  of  glory  to  me 
than  any  anthem  I  had  ever  heard  chanted,  ox 
any  sermon  or  oration  delivered  by  the  most 
eloquent. 

''I  listened  and  watched  until  the  sound  had 
died  away  among  the  hill-tops  and  the  old 
trees  that  skirted  the  road  on  either  side,  and 
then,  with  a  chastened  heart,  I  returned  to  my 
children  and  my  disordered  house. 

"  But  joy  was  in  my  souL  God's  graoe  had 
been  showered  down  upon  me.  The  fountain 
had  become  deansed.  No  darkened  chambera 
were  in  my  heart  then,  because  I  had  been  met 
by  the  angels.  I  kissed  the  children,  and  the 
kisses  must  have  imparted  a  little  of  my  own 
newness  of  life  into  them,  for  the  little  fellows 
took  hold  with  me  and  we  wori^ed  together  and 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


88 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   HO  HE   UAGAZINE. 


soon  had  our  rooms  made  nice  and  neat  They 
rolled  up  their  pantaloons  and  liked  the  job  of  \ 
helping  clear  ont  the  spring-house. 

"  With  a  trifling  loss,  the  rolls  of  butter  were 
made  clean ;  the  cows  gave  abundantly  of  new, 
creamy  milk,  and  the  garden  was  fixed  up^  and 
was  a  great  deal  better  than  no  garden  at  all. 

^  I  shall  never  forget  the  incidents  of  that 
June  morning.  I  have  felt  a  more  perfect  trust 
in  my  Heavenly  Father  ever  since  the  clouds 
that  darkened  my  sky  were  so  opportunely 
removed. 

*'  Tes,  I  do  believe  the  angels  meet  us  daily, 
and  that  often  they  find  our  hearts  so  closed 
they  cannot  enter  in,  and  they  turn  away  and 
seek  not  to  abide  with  us.  I  shall  always 
welcome  them  as  being  sent  by  One  who  loves 
us,  no  matter  in  whatsoever  guise  they  may 
approach  me,  whether  in  the  rags  of  the  beg- 
gar or  the  royal  purple  of  the  prince.  Either 
may  be  the  bearer  of  the  blessed  message  of  < 
*  peace,  be  still.' " 

So,  when  Annie  died  and  I  was  not  there 
to  dose  her  'Mong-lashed  hazel  eyes,"  or  hold 
her  slender  little  hand  as  her  feet  went  down 
into  the  Jordan  of  death  and  touched  the 
chilling  waters  alone,  I  know  by  the  evidence 
given  me  in  the  hours  of  conversation,  when 
our  very  souls  met  each  other,  that  her  unshaken 
trust  was  in  One  "  mighty  to  save  and  strong  to 
deliver." 

Though  our  friendship  on  earth  was  pure 
and  unselfish,  and  cemented  by  a  love  that 
could  not  be  shaken  in  time  or  broken  in  eter- 
ni^,  there  was  a  friendship  and  a  Friend  more 
and  dearer  to  her  than  this  of  ours.  When  all 
earthly  ties  were  severed,  and  all  earthly  vows 
put  aside  as  useless  toys,  this  one  great  friend- 
ship enclasped  her  kindly — the  friendship  of  \ 
Christ  the  crucified  was  her  all  in  all.  Where 
her  trust  was  she  could  give  her  children  con- 
fidingly, knowing  that  nothing  could  separate 
them  fix>m  His  love. 

Oh,  world-weary  souls!  tired  of  toil  and 
sorrow,  foot-sore  with  the  travel  of  long  years, 
heart-sick  over  hopes  blighted,  bowed  under 
the  weight  of  the  cross  that  is  yours  to  carry 
until  you  lay  it  down  on  the  banks  of  the 
river — ^there  is  good  cheer  for  you. 

Though  your  ears  may  be  deaf  to  the  sweet 
voices  calling  upon  you,  and  your  ^es  blind 
to  the  glorious  visions  before  you,  and  youf 
hearts  closed  like  a  dungeon  door  to  the  angels 
that  softly  knock  for  admittance,  I  pray  you 
open  your  eyes  and  ears  and  hearts,  wide  as 
morning  windows  fkcing  the  glorious  Eastern 
dawn,  and  let  the  sweet  messengers  in.    Bid 


them  welcome  with  their  Heaven-sent  i 
of  peace  and  love,  even  thoagh.they  come  dis- 
guised and  bearing  the  stamp  of  earthliness,  as 
did  my  darling  dead  Annie's  angels. 


TRUNDLE-BED  TREASUEES. 

BT  MBS.  BATTia  V.  BBUm 

THBBB  Utile  faoes  so  rooad  and  fair. 
Six  little  arms  all  dimpled  and  bare^ 
Long  fringes  drooping  o'er  dark  blue  eyes, 
Where  a  world  of  sanshine  and  misohief  lies. 
Rosy  lips  full  of  kisses  now. 
And  golden  locks  on  the  baby-brow, 
And  snug  and  warm  'neath  the  snowy  spread 
Are  six  little  feet  in  the  trundle-bed. 

8ix  litUe  feet  that  are  Ured  of  play, 

They  have  wandered  so  long  and  so  far  to-day, 

Down  where  spring  flrst  opens  her  hand 

And  soatters  her  gold  ooins  over  the  land ; 

Those  great  yellow  dandelions — ^you  and  I  know 

How  we  gathered  our  aprons  full  long  ago; 

They  were  better  than  gold  we  thought  these  for  true. 

We  slnoe  hare  found  out  they're  more  plentiful  too. 

Six  little  feet  and  a  mother's  love 
Sends  up  a  prayer  to  One  Father  above, 
As  she  thinks  of  the  wow  wfih  Its  pride  and  strife, 
And  then  of  the  pith  they  must  wander  through  life. 
'<0h,  God,  wilt  Thou  keep  them  and  lead  them  I  pray. 
Along  with  thy  lambs  in  the  straight  narrow  way." 
'Tis  a  mother's  prayer,  and  t^ar^  are  shed 
For  the  six  UtUe  feet  in  the  trundle-bed. 

Months  go  by  and  the  days  have  fled. 

And  there's  more  room  now  in  thetniodle-bed; 

For  one  little  form  has  been  laid  to  rest, 

And  two  little  hands  crossed  over  the  breast. 

There  were  burning  unshed  tears  that  night 

In  eyes  that  had  been  so  hopeful  and  bright. 

And  in  all  hearts  a  fear  and  dread, 

And  but  four  little  feet  in  the  trundle-bed. 

Four  little  feet — ^and  then — and  then — 
The  darksome  shadow  was  there  again. 
An  angel  came  thro'  the  twilight  dim. 
And  took  a  cherub  back  with  him. 
And  sad  hearts  murmured  at  setting  sun, 
"  0  God,  Thy  will— TAy  will  be  done." 
One  baby-brow — one  sunny  head— 
And — ^but  two  little  feet  in  the  trundle-bo^ 

liOng  years  have  passed  since  that  sad  day. 

And  the  sunny  head  is  frosted  with  gray ; 

That  little  sinless  baby  brow 

Is  full  of  cares  and  wrinkles  now. 

The  two  little  feet  have  grown  I  ween. 

And  when  they  walk  they  totter  and  lean. 

But  the  old  man  keeps  'neath  its  time-worn  BpwtA, 

Am  a  saored  relio— his  trundle-bed. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


CHILD-LOVE. 


[We  have  never  read  a  sweeter  description 
of  "Child-Love"  than  the  following,  which  we 
tike  from  one  of  the  opening  chapters  of  Mrs. 
Blowers  new  serial,  "My  Wife  and  I,"  now  ap- 
pearing in  The  Christian  UnicTL] 

SOMETIMES  of  a  Saturday  afternoon  Sasie 
was  permitted  to  come  and  play  with  me. 
I  always  went  after  her,  and  solicited  the  favor 
hmnbly  at  the  hands  of  her  mother,  who,  after 
many  washings  and  dressings  and  cautions  as 
to  her  clothes,  delivered  her  up  to  me,  with 
the  condition  that  she  was  to  start  for  home 
^en  the  san  was  half  an  hour  high.  Susie 
was  very  conscientiouB  in  watching,  but  for  my 
part  I  never  agreed  with  her.  I  was  always 
Bun  that  the  sun  was  an  hour  high  when  she 
set  her  little  fiioe  dutifully  homeward.  My 
siiien  used  to  pet  her  greatly  during  these 
visits.  They  delighted  to  twine  her  curls  over 
their  fingers^  and  try  the  effects  of  different 
articles  of  costume  on  her  fair  complexion. 
They  would  ask  hei^  laughing,  would  she  be 
my  little  wife,  to  which  she  always  answered 
with  a  grave  affirmative. 

Tesy  she  was  to  be  my  wife ;  it  was  all  settled 
between  us.  But  when  ?  I  didn't  see  why  we 
must  wait  till  we  grew  up.  She  was  lonesome 
when  I  was  gone,  and  I  was  lonesome  when 
she  was  gone.  Why  not  marry  her  now  and 
take  her  home  to  live  with  me?  I  asked  her 
and  she  said  she  was  willing,  but  mamma  never 
would  spare  her.  I  said  I  would  get  my 
mamma  to  ask  her,  and  I  knew  she  couldn't 
lefuae,  because  my  papa  was  the  minister. 

I  turned  the  matter  over  and  over  in  my 
mind,  and  thought  sometime  when  I  could  find 
my  mother  alone  I  would  introduce  the  subject 
So  one  evening,  as  I  sat  on  my  little  stool  at 
my  moth^s  knees  looking  at  the  bright  coals 
of  an  autumn  fire,  I  thought  I  would  open  the 
sabject,  and  began : 

"Mamma,  why  do  people  object  to  early 
marriages?^ 

"Early  marriages?**  said  my  mother,  stop- 
ping her  knitting,  looking  at  me,  while  a  smile 
dashed  over  her  thin  cheeks.  "What's  the 
child  thinking  off 

"  I  mean,  why  can't  Susie  and  I  be  married 
now?  I  want  her  here.  Fm  lonesome  with- 
out her.  Nobody  wants  to  play  with  me  in 
this  honse^  and  if  she  were  here  we  should  be 
together  all  the  time." 


My  father  woke  up  from  his  meditation  on 
his  next  Sunday's  sermon,  and  looked  at  my 
mother,  smiling.  A  gentle  laugh  rippled  her 
bosom. 

"Why,  dear,"  she  said,  "don't  you  know 
your  father  is  a  poor  man,  and  has  liard  work 
to  support  his  children  now?  He  couldn't 
afford  to  keep  another  little  girl." 

I  thought  the  matter  over  sorrowfully.  Here 
was  the  pecuniary  difficulty,  that  puts  off  so 
many  desiring  lovers,  meeting  me  on  the  very 
threshold  of  life. 

"Mother,"  I  said,  after  a  period  of  mournful 
consideration,  "  I  wouldn't  eat  but  just  half  as 
much  as  I  do  now,  and  Fd  try  not  to  wear  out 
my  clothes,  and  make  'em  last  longer." 

My  mother  had  very  bright  eyes,  and  there 
was  a  mingled  flash  of  tears  and  laughter  in 
them,  as  when  the  sun  winks  through  rain 
drops.  She  lifted  me  gently  into  her  lap  and 
drew  my  head  down  on  her  bosom. 

"  Some  day,  when  my  little  son  grows  to  be 
a  man,  I  hope  God  will  give  him  a  wife  he 
loves  dearly.  'Houses  and  lands  are  from  the 
fathers;  but  a  good  wife  is  of  the  Lord,'  the 
Bible  says," 

"  That's  true,  dear,"  said  my  father,  looking 
at  her  tenderly;  "nobody  knows  that  better 
than  I  do." 

My  mother  rocked  gently  back  and  forward 
with  me  in  the  evening  shadows,  and  talked 
with  me  and  soothed  me,  and  told  me  stories 
how  one  day  I  should  grow  to  be  a  good  man — 
a  minister  like  my  father,  she  hoped — and  have 
a  dear  little  house  of  my  own. 

"And  will  Susie  be  in  it?" 

"Let's  hope  so,"  said  my  mother.  "Who 
knows?" 

"  But,  mother,  am't  you  sure?  I  want  you 
to  say  it  will  be  certainly." 

"  My  little  one,  only  our  dear  Father  could 
tell  us  that,"  said  my  mother.  "  But  now  you 
must  try  and  learn  fast  and,  become  a  good, 
strong  man,  so  that  you  can  take  care  of  a  little 
wife." 

My  mother's  talk  aroused  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  my  nature.  Here  was  a  motive,  to  be  sure, 
I  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of  it  I  thought 
over  all  possible  ways  of  growing  big  and 
strong  rapidly — I  had  heard  the  stories  of 
Sampson  from  the  Bible.  How  did  he  grow  so 
strong?  He  was  probably  once  a  little  boy 
like  me.    "Did  he  go  for  the  cows,  I  wonder," 

(89) 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


90 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


I  thought — "  and  let  down  very  big  bars  when 
hia  hands  were  little,  and  learn  to  ride  the  old 
horse  bare-back  when  his  legs  were  very  short?*' 
All  these  things  I  was  emulous  to  do ;  and  I 
resolved  to  lift  very  heavy  pails  full  of  water,  , 
and  very  many  of  them,  and  to  climb  into  the 
mow,  and  throw  down  great  armfuls  of  hay,  and  \ 
in  every  possible  way  to  grow  big  and  strong. 

I  remember  the  next  day  after  my  talk  with 
my  mother  was  Saturday,  and  I  had  leave  to 
go  up  and  spend  it  with  Susie. 

There  was  a  meadow  j  ust  back  of  her  mother's 
house,  which  we  used  to  call  the  mowing  lot. 
It  was  white  with  daisies,  yellow  with  butter- 
cups, with  some  moderate  share  of  timothy  and 
herds  grass  intermixed.  But  what  was  specially 
interesting  to  us  was,  that,  down  low  at  the  roots 
of  the  grass,  and  here  and  there  in  moist,  rich 
spots,  grew  wild  strawberries,  large  and  juicy, 
rising  on  nice  high  stalks,  with  three  or  four 
on  a  cluster.  What  joy  there  was  in  the  pos^ 
session  of  a  whole  sunny  Saturday  afternoon  to 
be  spent  with  Susie  in  this  meadow  I  To  me 
the  amount  of  happiness  in  the  survey  was 
greatly  in  advance  of  what  I  now  have  in  the 
view  of  a  three  weeks'  summer  excursion. 

When,  after  multiplied  cautions  and  direc- 
tions, and  careful  adjustments  of  Susie's  cloth- 
ing, on  the  part  of  her  mother,  Susie  was  fairly 
delivered  up  to  me,  when  we  had  turned  our 
backs  on  the  house  and  got  beyond  call,  then 
our  bliss  was  complete.  How  carefully  and 
patronizingly  I  heli)ed  her  up  the  loose,  mossy, 
stone  wall,  all  hedged  up  with  a  wilderness  of  | 
golden-rod,  ferns,  raspberry  bushes,  and  asters  I 
Down  we  went  through  this  tangled  thicket 
into  such  a  secure  world  of  joy,  where  the 
daisied  meadow  received  us  to  her  motherly 
bosom,  and  we  were  sure  nobody  could  see  us. 

We  could  sit  down  and  look  upward,  and  see 
daisies  and  grasses  nodding  and  bobbing  over 
our  heads,  hiding  us  as  completely  as  two  young 
grass  birds ;  and  it  waa  such  fun  to  think  that 
nobody  could  find  out  where  we  were  I  Two 
bob-o- links,  who  had  a  nest  somewhere  in  that 
lot,  used  to  mount  guard  in  an  old  apple  tree, 
and  sit  on  tall,  bending  twigs  and  say,  '^Oiack  I 
chack!  chack  T'  and  flutter  their  black  and  < 
white  wings  up  and  down,  and  burst  out  into 
most  elaborate  and  complicated  babbles  of  \ 
melody.  These  were  our  only  associates  and 
witnesses.  We  thought  that  they  knew  us,  and 
were  glad  to  see  us  there,  and  wouldn't  tell  any- 
body where  we  were  for  the  world.  There  was 
an  exquisite  pleasure  to  us  in  this  sense  of  utter 
isolation— of  being  hid  with  each  other  where 
nobody  oould  find  us. 


We  had  worlds  of  nice  secrets  peculiar  to 
ourselves.  I^obody  but  ourselves  knew  where 
the  "thick  spots"  were,  where  the  ripe,  scarlet 
strawberries  grew ;  the  big  boys  never  suspected 
them,  we  said  to  one  another,  nor  the  big  girla ; 
it  was  our  own  secre^  which  we  kept  between 
our  own  little  selves.  How  we  searched  and 
picked  and  chatted,  and  oh'd  and  ah'd  to  each 
other,  as  we  found  wonderful  places,  where  the 
strawberries  passed  all  belief! 

But  profoundest  of  all  our  wonderful  secrets 
were  our  discoveries  in  the  region  of  animal 
life.  We  found  in  a  tuft  of  grass  overshadowed 
by  wild  roses  a  grass  bird's  nest  In  vain  did 
the  cunning  mother  creep  yards  from  the 
cherished  spot,  and  then  suddenly  fly  up  in 
the  wrong  place ;  we  were  not  to  be  deceived. 
Our  busy  hands  parted  the  lace  curtains  of 
fern,  and,  with  whispers  of  astonishment,  we 
counted  the  little  speckled,  blue  green  eggs. 
How  round  and  fine  and  exquisite,  past  all 
gems  polished  by  art,  they  seemed ;  and  what  a 
mystery  was  the  little  curious  smooth-lined 
nest  in  which  we  found  them  I  We  talked  to 
the  birds  encouragingly.  "  Dear  little  birds^" 
we  said,  "don't  be  afraid ;  nobody  but  we  shall 
know  it;"  and  then  we  said  to  each  other, 
"  Tom  Halliday  never  shall  find  this  out,  nor 
Jim  Fellows."  They  would  carry  off  the  eggs 
and  tear  up  the  nest ;  and  our  hearts  swelled 
with  such  a  responsibility  for  the  tender  secret 
that  it  was  all  we  could  do  that  week  to  avoid 
telling  it  to  everybody  we  met.  We  informed 
all  the  children  at  school  that  we  knew  some- 
thing thatChey  didn't — something  that  we  net>er 
should  tell  I — something  so  wonderful  I— some- 
thing that  it  would  be  wicked  to  tell  of— for 
mother  said  so;  for  be  it  observed  that,  like 
good  children,  we  had  taken  our  respective 
mothers  into  confidence,  and  received  the 
strictest  and  most  conscientious  chaiges  as  to 
our  duty  to  keep  the  birds'  secret. 

In  that  enchanted  meadow  of  ours  grew  tall, 
yellow  lilies,  glowing  as  the  sunset,  hanging 
down  their  bells,  six  or  seven  in  number,  from 
high,  graceful  stalks,  like  bell  towers  of  fairy 
land.  They  were  over  our  heads  sometimes  as 
they  rose  from  the  grass  and  daisies,  and  we 
looked  up  into  their  golden  hearts,  spotted  with 
black,  with  a  secret,  wondering  joy. 

"  Oh !  don't  pick  them,  they  look  too  pretty," 
said  Susie  to  me  once  when  I  stretched  up  my 
hand  to  gather  one  of  these.  "Let's  leave 
them  to  be  here  when  we  come  again  I  I  like 
to  see  them  wave." 

And  so  we  left  the  tallest  of  them ;  but  I  was 
not  forbidden  to  gather  handfuls  of  the  less 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


CHILD-LOVE. 


91 


wonderfuKspecimeus  that  grew  only  one  or  two 
on  a  8t&lk.  Our  bouquets  of  flowtirs  increased 
with  oar  strawberries. 

Through  the  middle  of  this  meadow  chat- 
tered a  little  brook,  gargling  and  tinkling  over 
many-colored  pebbles,  and  here  and  there  col- 
lecting itself  into  a  miniature  waterfall,  as  it 
pitched  over  a  broken  bit  of  rock.  For  our 
height  and  size,  the  waterfalls  of  this  little 
brook  were  equal  to  those  of  Trenton,  or  any 
of  the  medium  cascades  that  draw  the  fashion- 
able crowd  of  grown-up  people;  and  what  was 
the  best  of  it  waa^  it  was  war  brook  and  war 
vateriall.  TFe  found  them  and  we  verily  be- 
lieved nobody  else  butouiselves  knew  of  them. 
By  this  water£Ul,  as  I  called  it,  which  was 
certainly  a  foot  and  a  half  high,  we  sat  and 
anaDged  oor  strawberries  when  our  baskets 
were  full,  and  I  talked  with  Susie  about  what 
my  mother  had  told  me. 

I  can  see  her  now,  the  little  crumb  of  wo- 
manhood, as  she  sat,  gayly  laughing  at  me. 
''fi&e  didn't  care  a  bit,"  she  said.  Sh^  had  just 
as  lief  wait  till  I  grew  to  be  a  man.  ^hy,  we 
could  go  to  school  together,  and  have  Saturday 
afternoons  together.  "Don't  you  mind  it, 
Hazzy  Dazzy,"  she  said,  coming  close  up  to  me, 
and  patting  her  little  arms  coaxingly  round 
my  neck ;  ''we  love  each  other,  and  it's  ever  so 
nice  now.'' 

I  wonder  what  the  reason  is  that  it  is  one  of  \ 
the  first  movements  of  affectionate  feeling  to 
change  the  name  of  the  loved  one.  Give  a 
baby  a  name^  ever  so  short  and  ever  so  musi- 
cal, where  is  the  mother  that-does  not  twist  it 
into  some  other  pet  name  between  herself  and 
her  child.  So  Sasie^  when  she  was  very  loving, 
called  me  Hazzy,  and  sometimes  would  play  on 
my  name,  and  call  me  Hazzy  Dazzy,  and  some- 
times Dazzy,  and  we  laughed  at  this  because  it 
was  between  us ;  and  we  amused  ourselves  with 
thinking  how  surprised  people  would  be  to 
hear  her  say  Dazzy,  and  how  they  would  won- 
der who  she  meant.  In  like  manner,  I  used 
to  call  her  Daisy  when  we  were  by  ourselves, 
because  she  seemed  to  me  so  neat  and  trim  and 
pure,  and  wore  a  little  flat  hat  on  Sundays  just 
like  a  daisy. 

"  r U  tell  you,  Daisy,"  said  I,  "just  what  I'm 
going  to  do*— I'm  going  to  grow  strong  as  Sam- 
ion  did." 

''Ohl  but  how  can  you?"  she  suggested 
doubtfully. 

'*  Oh  I  I'm  going  to  run  and  jump  and  climb, 
and  carry  ever  ko  much  water  for  mother,  and 
I'm  to  ride  on  horseback  and  go  to  mill,  and 
go  all  round  on  errands,  and  so  I  shall  get  to 


be  a  man  fast,  and  when  I  get  to  be  a  man 
I'll  build  a  house  all  on  purpose  for  you  and 
me — I'll  build  it  all  myself;  it  shall  have  a 
parlor  and  a  dining-room  and  kitchen,  and  bed- 
room, and  well-room,  and  chambers  " — 

"  And  nice  closets  to  put  things  in,"  sug- 
gested the  little  woman. 

"Certainly,  ever  so  many— just  where  you 
want  them,  there  I'll  put  them,"  said  I,  with 
surpassing  liberality.  "And  then,  when  we 
live  together,  I'll  take  care  of  you — I'll  keep 
off  all  the  lions  and  bears  and  panthers.  If  a 
bear  should  come  at  y(m»  Daisy,  I  should  tear 
him  right  in  two,  just  as  Samson  did." 

At  this  vivid  picture,  Daisy  nestled  close  to 
my  shoulder,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  and  re- 
flective. "We  shouldn't  leave  poor  mother 
alone,"  said  she. 

" Oh  I  no;  she  shall  come  and  live  with  us," 
said  I,  with  an  exalted  generosity.  "  I  will 
make  her  a  nice  chamber  on  purpose,  and  my 
mother  shall  come,  too." 

"But  she  can't  leave  your  father,  you  know." 

"Oh  I  father  shall  oome,  too— when  he  gets 
old  and  can't  preach  any  more.  I  shall  take 
care  of  them  alU" 

And  my  little  Daisy  looked  at  me  with  eyes 
of  approving  credulity,  and  said  I  was  a  brave 
boy ;  and  the  bobolinks  chittered  and  chattered 
applause  as  they  sung  and  skirmished  and 
whirled  up  over  the  meadow  grasses ;  and  by 
and  by,  when  the  sun  fell  low,  and  looked  like 
a  great  golden  ball,  with  our  hands  full  of  lilies 
and  our  baskets  full  of  strawberries,  we  climbed 
over  the  old  wall  and  toddled  home. 


"GROW  NOT  OLD." 

BY  MRS.  LOUISA  J.  HALL. 

Never,  my  heart,  wilt  thou  grow  old ! 
My  hair  ia  white,  my  blood  ruos  cold. 
And  one  by  one  my  powers  depart. 
And  youth  sits  smiling  in  my  heart. 

Downhill  the  path  of  age !    Oh  1  no. 
Up,  ap  with  patient  steps  I  go; 
I  watoh  the  skies  fast  brightening  there, 
I  breathe  a  sweeter,  purer  air. 

Beside  my  road  small  tasks  spring  up, 
Though  but  to  hand  the  cooling  cup, 
Speak  the  true  word  of  hearty  cheer. 
Tell  the  lone  boqI  I  that  God  it  near. 

Beat  on,  my  heart,  and  grow  not  old  I 
And  when  thy  pulses  all  aro  told. 
Let  me,  though  working,  loving  still, 
Kneel  as  I  meet  my  Father's  will. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 


BT  HABT  £.  COlCSTOCK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

NOTHING  seemed  more  improbable  at  the 
time  than  that  it  shoald  happen.  But 
happen  it  did  and  in  a  very  short  time 
withal. 

The  bnrden  was  a  heavy  one.  Lillian  Rose- 
velt  had  borne  it  three  years  now,  and  yet  it 
seemed  no  lighter  than  at  first. 

Had  you  entered  the  pleasant  family-room, 
at  Ko.  48  Court  Street,  and  given  a  glance  to 
the  group  of  young  ladies  gathered  there  busy 
with  graceful  trifles  of  needle-work,  you  would 
have  felt  at  once  that  the  sweet  girl  clad  in 
mourning  garb,  who  spoke  in  clear,  low  tones 
when  she  joined  in  the  merry  chat,  and  who 
smiled  so  softly  and  brightly  when  the  others 
laughed,  was  neither  sister  nor  very  close  heart 
friend  of  the  others.  Though  participating  in 
all  that  went  on  around  her  by  some  indefina- 
ble in^uence,  she  seemed  set  apart  in  her  gentle 
fragile  fairness  and  sweetness  like  a  lily  among 
flowers  of  brilliant  dyes. 

Sid  Maxwell,  who  had  come  from  the  other 
side  of  the  street  for  an  hour's  chat  about  the 
arrangements  for  the  coming  fair,  they  were  in 
common,  manufacturing  articles  for,  took  leave, 
and  Imogene  and  Izzie  Fairchild,  the  dark 
eyed  daughters  of  the  bouse,  were  alone  with 
the  gentle  orphan  cousin  when  Betz,  an  over- 
grown boy  of  sixteen,  came  in  with  a  sbade  of  \ 
green  silk  tied  over  his  eyes. 

"I  say,  Sis,"  addressing  Izzie,  "what  non- 
sensical traps  you  and  Imogene  do  get  up  for 
the  fair !  Mats  and  bead-cushions  that  nobody 
can  stick  a  pin  into,  and  watcb-cases,  when 
everybody  has  got  a  half  dozen  already,  and 
slippers  a  man  has  got  to  get  made  up  for  him- 
self and  scarfs  and  needle-cases  and  silly  little 
bookmarks." 

"Do  hear  the  boy,"  said  Imogene.  "He 
has  actually  been  taking  an  inventory." 

"O  Betzl  prying  into  people's  bureau 
drawers  t  I  thought  you  were  too  honorable  to 
do  such  things,"  said  Izzie. 

"  I  didn\"  said  Retz  stoutly.  "  They  were 
every  one  spread  out  on  the  bed,  and  what's  a 
fellow  like  mo  to  do,  bat  pry  and  prowl,  I'd 
like  to  know.  I>on't  you  wish  you  had  let  me 
go  down  street?" 

"Retz,  you  are  tall  enough  to  be  more  rea- 
sonable, after   all  Doctor « Ashton  said,  about 
(92) 


your  eyes,  and  Uie  light  is  blinding  on  the 
snow  to-day  I" 

" Then  rU  prowl,"  said  Retz.  "You're  too 
busy  with  your  miserable  work  to  amuse  me. 
Such  nonsensical  gewgaws,  though.  Little 
you  ladies  care,  though,  so  you  get  the  money. 
Yon  call  it  charity.  I  call  it  cheating.  Cousin 
Lil's  got  the  nicest  collection  I  Jolly  mittens 
and  socks,  and  red  little  hoods,  and  girls'  frocks^ 
and  an  old  woman's  capT" 

«  Why,  Retz  P' 

"Why,  Retz !"  repeated  the  boy  in  ludicrous 
imitation  of  feminine  tones.  "  If  you  won't  let 
me  go  down  street  I'll  use  what  eyesight  Tve 
got  at  home.  I  gave  you  warning  before.  Cousin 
Lil ;  'twas  jolly  of  you  to  leave  your  trunk 
open  for  me.    I  amused  myself!" 

•'I  thought  yon  were  working  with  ns  for 
Miss  Allcotfs  table,  Lillian,"  spoke  Imogene. 

The  shapely  head,  with  its  fair  coronet  of 
golden  hair,  and  sweet,  expressive  face,  full  of 
tender  meanings,  was  raised  from  close  atten- 
tion to  a  bit  of  delicate  embroidery. 

"And  so  I  am,  Jeannie.  Retz  came  across 
some  of  Cook's  and  mv  partnership  doings. 
That  is  all  I" 

"  Oh  I"  said  Imogene.  The  accent  was  dep- 
recatory. 

"  Some  of  the  Holly  Street  friends,"  asserted 
rather  than  interrogated  Izzie. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lillian  very  simply,  and  then 
she  rose  and  came  to  Jeannie  to  ask  instruction 
in  a  new  embroidery  stitch. 

The  "Holly  Street  friends,"  as  the  girls  de*- 
Ignated  some  needy  families,  to  whose  ncces^ 
sities  Lillian  in  person  and  througb  Cook  had 
ministered,  were  not  very  popularwith  Imogene 
and  Izzie  Fairchild.  There  was  seldom  open 
remonstrance  at  the  kindness  shown,  but  no  in- 
terest was  ever  manifested. 

With  wealth  of  her  own,  an  apparently 
pleasant  home  at  her  uncle's,  and  many  ao- 
quaintances  who  would  readily  become  fViends 
if  she  would  let  them,  Lillian  Rosevelt's  lot 
in  life  looked  a  very  happy  one.  Her  sweetest 
pleasure,  however,  was  in  doing  kind  deeds^ 
"making  sunshine  in  shady  places,"  whether 
for  a  barefoot  boy  or  a  sufiering  old  woman. 

Lillian  tried  to  live  taking  interest  in  what- 
ever the  hour  ofilered,  and  putting  away  a  past 
that  had  promised  great  brightness.    Yet  the 


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sow   IT  HAPPENED. 


98 


Iniden  was  no  lighter  now  than  the  day  Holt 
Ingleaibj  so  craeily  misandenfeood  her;  when, 
aa  one  stnnned,  she  had  let  him  aay  hia  good- 
by  and  go  firam  her  forerer. 

'^  Yoo  wrong  me,  Holt,  hut  I  cannot  explain 

lajself,"  she  had  said.    Silenctiy  by  erery  con- 

fiideration  of  duty  and  honor,  had  been  imposed 

npon  her,  and  no  defencehad  been  left  her  against 

drcomatanoee  that^  web-llke^  had  bound  her  in 

their  meshes.    In  his  passion,  her  calmness  had 

exasperated  Holt  Inglesby  to  desperation,  and 

when  he  foond  that  she  woald  not  explain  facts 

Uul  had  transpired  under  his  eye,  he  left  her 

snd  went  his  way.    There  had  been  mutual 

relose  from  bonds  which  would  have  been  only 

feUeiB  where  confidence  on  either  side  must  be 

withheld. 

And  so  far  all  had  worked  well  according  to 
the  plans  of  Esty  Burdelt,  a  discarded  suitor, 
who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  had  been 
Inglesby's  rival. 

Bofdelt  worked  warily.  He  was  always  in 
appearance  the  polished,  noble-minded  gentle- 
man, but  cunningly  planned  had  been  all  the 
adroitly  circulated  suggestions  of  which  Lillian 
had  remained  in  ignorance — suggestions  calcu- 
lated to  weaken  Holt  Inglesby's  belief  in  her 
attachment  to  himself.  In  order,  too,  to  obtain 
power  over  the  daughter,  Burdelt  had  possessed 
himself  of  business  and  political  facts  which, 
in  a  gentlemanly  way,  might  yet  be  used  most 
detrimentally  to  Mr.  Boeevdt 

"See  Esty  Burdelt  at  the  'party  to-night, 
hand  him  this,  and  give  him  the  message  I  told 
you  or  I  am  a  ruined  man  1*'  her  father  hod 
said ;  and  Holt  Inglesby  had  found  her  in  the 
conservatory  in  low-toned  conversation  with 
the  man  of  whom  report  had  so  long  said — 
**  She  keeps  him^  with  his  handsome  fortune  and 
brilliant  position,  in  reserve^  in  case^  in  their 
long  engagement,  Inglesby  fails  to  work  his 
itay  up  into  the  front  rank  of  wealth  and  pop- 
ularity. Young  ladies  now-a^ays  are  calcu- 
lating angels." 

Holt  Inglesby  had  regarded  various  innuen- 
does of  this  purport  much  as  he  would  the 
bczzing  of  insects,  but  oonstant  dropping  wears 
away  the  stone;,  and  unwittingly  he  had  over- 
heard grave  words  in  the  conservatoEy-ialk 
which  Lillian  could  not  explain. 

The  bird  had  struggled  in  the  snare,  then 
folded  its  wings  and  drooping  its  head  hid  the 
blood-stains  on  its  white  plunuige^  for  Lillian's 
heart  bled  constantly  while  Holt  Inglesby 
travelled  in  foreign  lands»  While  abroad^  he 
had  heard  the  lie  that  Esty  Burdelt  had  planned 
that  he  should  hear,  namely,  that  LilUan  had 


become  his  wife.  If  a  hope  had  lingered  in 
Holt  Inglesby's  heart  it  received  its  death-blow 
now.  Bumors  soon  after  came  home  that  he 
had  met  a  lovely  young  American  girl 
in  Paris  to  wham  he  had  become  engaged— 
the  marriage  to  take  place  as  soon  as  the 
young  lady's  education  should  be  quite 
completed. 

Meantime  Lillian's  father  had  died,  and  she 
had  shrunk  from  Burdelt's  renewal  of  marriage 
ofiers  with  shrinking  heart  that  could  not  be  mis* 
taken.  She  had  supposed  hersel  f  nearly  penni- 
leas  at  the  time.  Her  own  handsome  fortune^ 
inherited  from  her  mother,  had,  however,  r^ 
mained  unjeopardised  by  her  father's  late  ru* 
inons  speculations,  and  she  accepted  an  invita- 
tion to  make  her  home  with  an  uncle  who  had 
lately  come  to  the  city. 


CHAPTER  IL 

Three  years  had  passed  since  Holt  Inglesby 
had  said  that  bitter  good-by.  Lillian's  was  a 
nature  that  could  love  but  once,  yet  if  Holt 
Inglesby  could  but  know  the  truth— could  but 
know  that  she  had  never  even  for  a  mpment 
been  ialse  to  him — it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  better  bear  never  to  see  his  face  again. 

But  this  could  not  be.  Hence,  though  she 
brightened  other  lives,  the  shadow  was  always 
upon  her  own. 

In  her  own  beautiful  room,  where  she  had 
gathered  so  many  of  the  choice  things  of  the 
past,  tears  fell  fast  on  the  bright  wools  she  was 
weaving  into  graceful  trifles  for  the  coming 
fair. 

"  Every  one  is  kind,  and  it  is  weak  to  in- 
dulge in  regrets  that  are  unavailing,"  she  said 
mentally; ''  but,  oh,  in  the  old  time  papa  and 
mamma  enjoyed  my  pleasure  so  much,  and 
Holt  was  so  often  with  us,  and  there  was  so 
much  hecai  in  everything  1  I  keep  busy  with 
hands  and  heart,  and  books  and  music  give 
their  treasures,  and  I  pray  to  be  kept  from  un- 
thankfulness  and  gloom,  but  the  monotony  ox 
this  constant  level  of  inanity  seems  terrible  at 
times.  It  is  like  desert  travel,  without  even  a 
mirage."  With  habitual  self-control  she  qui- 
eted herself,  but  memories  came  thronging — 
the  memories  of  the  olden  time— and  barriers 
threatened  to  be  swept  away.  "  O,  I  cannot, 
cannot  bear  it  I"  said  the  agonised  heart.  "  It 
is  too  hard,"  and  she  rose,  panting  like  some 
driven  animal,  and  clasped  her  hands  tight 
across  her  threshing  heart,  in  the  eflbrt  to  re- 
gain self-control.  '*  Let  me  think  of  some  joy, 
however  small,"  sh^  said^  eoming  at  length  o«t 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


u 


ARTEUR'8   LADT'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


of  the  paroxysm,  '*  that  may  grow  for  another 
out  of  this  painT' 

*'Ah,  Madeline  Jarrit;  I  have  it  I"  and  she 
walked  toward  a  £tTorite  piciare  and  gased 
upon  its  familiar  beautj.  ^  It  will  qniet  her 
like  a  spell/'  she  said.  ""  8he  shall  have  it." 
The  picture  had  been  painted  by  one  of  the  city 
artists,  obscure  at  the  time,  but  since  known  to 
fiime.  Lillian  remembered  well  the  day  she 
bad  paiehaaed  it  Holt  Inglesby  had  entered 
the  store  and  she  had  stayed  the  wrappings  for 
his  opinion  of  her  purchase.  It  was  a  bit  of 
landscape,  embodying  the  yery  spirit  of  the 
snmmer,  and  there  was  a  lonely  monntain  path 
revealed,  the  spiritual  meaning  of  which  Lil- 
lian had  but  dimly  comprehended  at  the  first. 
Bbe  understood  it  now — the  upward  path  that 
each  must  toilingly  ascend  alone. 

"  It  will  help  Madeline  as  it  has  helped  me," 
she  said.  "  I  loved  the  picture  for  its  coloring 
and  grace  at  first.  I  love  it  for  its  meaning 
now,  and  so  will  she  I" 

Madeline  Jarvis  was  the  lame  girl  who  did 
such  beautiful  embroidery,  and  made  exquisite 
flowers  in  wax  and  in  mnslin.  She  had  worked 
for  the  stores  until  she  fell  sick,  and  Lillian 
found  her  in  Holly  Street,  and  interested  some 
ladies  to  give  her  orders  for  her  beautiful  work, 
with  pay  in  advance,  at  better  prices  than  the 
stores  gave.  This  kindness  helped  Madeline 
to  get  well  better  than  did  medicine,  for  it 
relieved  pressing  needs^  iind  yet  she  was  not 
allowed  to  feel  that  she  was  receiving  charity. 
As  strength  slowly  returned,  she  worked  for  a 
little  while  each  day,  and  felt  that  she  was  little 
by  little  discharging  the  obligation.  Hers  was 
a  refined,  loving  nature.  Surroundings  were 
most  nncoDgenial,  but  her  brave  spirit  never 
complained.  Lillian  was  growing  to  love  her 
very  much. 

The  next  day  Issie  Fairchild  entered  her 
cousin's  room. 

''Ah,  hanging  yonr  pictures  over  again, 
lily?  Why,  what  have  you  done  with  the 
other  landscape?'' 

**  It  is  going  to  Madeline  Jarvis."  Lillian 
never  prevaricated,  eren  where  she  knew  she 
would  meet  with  no  sympathy. 

"Why,  Lily,  you  are  certainly  demented  1 
That  lovely  picture  I  and  it  must  have  been 
expensivOi  too  I  Jeannie  t"  calling  to  her  sister 
In  the  next  room,  ''come  herel  Lillian  is 
going  to  send  one  of  her  handsomest  paintings 
10  Madeline  Jarvis !" 

Imogene  looked  around  the  walls  and  missed 
the  picture  before  she  quite  comprehended 
vhat  wu  being  said  to  her. 


"  Better  send  her  a  bottle  of  father's  old  poet 
and  some  of  mother's  grape  jelly — tbey  will  do 
her  a  great  deai  more  good!" 

"O,  Jeannie,"  said  Lillian,  very  eweetly, 
''will  yon  add  those?  Do^  please;  they  will 
do  her  good,  I  know.'* 

"  And  yon  will  not  send  the  picture  T* 

*^1  cannot  promise  that  Madeline  loves 
beauty.  One  might  know  that  from  her  work, 
and  idie  has  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  loc^  at 
around  her." 

"  Such  people  do  not  have  time  to  mtfis  such 
things,"  said  Jeannie,  oracularly.  "  If  diejr 
are  fed  and  sheltered,  that  is  all  they  aspire  to." 

"  And  that  is  all  any  one  need  aspire  to,  desr. 
But  the  whole  nature  wants  food — ^mind  and 
heart,  as  well  as  body.  Every  faculty  and 
afibction  need  their  own  proper  nourishmeD^ 
and  the  eye  craves  beauty/'  said  Lillian. 
"There  are  more  starved  souls  than  bodies— a 
great  many  more,  and  especially  here  in  the 
city.  In  the  country  one  has  Nature.  In  the 
city  those  who  toil  have  little  that  the  eye  can 
rest  upon  with  pleasure." 

"  But  the  everyday  needs  press,  LiL  They 
can't  eat  beauty." 

"  I  think  they  can— feed  their  souls  with  it, 
and  in  so  doing  many  times  forget  the  needs 
and  pains  of  the  body." 

"Think  how  out  of  place  that  beaatiful  pic- 
ture will  look  in  Madeline  Jarvis's  room. 
There  will  be  nothing  to  correspond  with  it," 
said  Jeannie. 

"  Madeline's  eyes  t"  smilingly  suggested  Lil- 
lian, "and  a  geranium  and  pot  of  ivy  will 
make  all  the  rest  right" 

"Can't  you  find  another  picture   at  Lar- 
raine^s?"  suggested  Lizzie; "  something  that 
.  will  answer  instead  of  this?" 

"  I  looked,  but  found  nothing  Hiked  so  well," 
patiently  stated  Lillian. 

"I  should  think,"  added  Jeannie,  unspar- 
ingly, "there  might  be  old  associations  that 
wpuld  make  you  dislike  to  part  with  this." 

The  pain  that  the  wound  of  the  chance  shot 
gave  was  so  keen  that  Lillian  must  speak,  most 
say  something  ix  lose  self-control.  Hence  she 
said  involnntarily  what  she  would  not  have 
said  had  she  been  inwardily  as  calm  as  she  was 
outwardly. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better,  more  strengthening,  to 
put  away  old  assodations  altogether  I" 

The  slightest  shade  of  despondency  or  regret, 
though  very  seldom  observable  on  LilUan's 
part,  was  always,  in  their  crude  eflbrt  to  com- 
fort, construed  into  a  personal  afiiront  by  her 
nncle't  Atmily. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


HOW   IT  EAPPENED. 


95 


'I  am  Bare,"  began  Jeannle  upon  this 
cIiaDoe  void  ahe  had  wrasted  from  her  oonainy 
*  we  all  try  to  make  yoa  happy.  Ma  and  pa 
treat  yon  with  the  same  consideration  they  do 
UB^  and  Izzie  and  I  wonld  be  glad  to  please 
7<Mi  if  ire  could  V* 

Lilliin'B  heart  was  sore  and  aching  from  this 
juring  talk.  Argument  wonld  be  of  no  avail 
she  well  knew,  so  as  usual  the  stronger,  sweeter 
natare  yielded  to  the  weaker. 

8be  went  to  Imogene  and  kissed  her,  and 
nid  Tery  simply :  "  You  and  Izzie  are  wery 
deir  cooains^  indeed."  And  Imogene's  shallow 
aitoie  inwardly  triumphed,  and  she  thought, 
''I  always  make  her  ashamed  of  her  own  un- 
gntefalness  in  the  end." 

Eirlj  in  the  afternoon  Lillian  went  to  Holly 
Street  and  glorified  Madeline  Jarvis's  room. 
It  was  pleasant  work,  and,  as  if  in  appreda- 
tioo,  the  sun,  which  had  not  that  day  shone 
before,  came  out  when  all  was  iinished,  and 
finding  his  way  where  welcome  was  most  eager, 
gilded  everything  with  beauty,  and  made  the 
two  friends  glad. 


CHAPTER  m. 

A  few  days  later,  in  a  pleasant  parlor  on  Elk 
Street,  a  little  figure  sprung  suddenly  from  a 
comer  of  the  luxurious  sofa  and  addressed  the 
**eet-looking  lady  who  sat  in  a  low  rocker 
Kro9B  the  room :  "  O  mamma  I  to-day  la  the 
^wnty-Beyenth.  I  do  hope  my  embroidery 
nU  be  done  to-night  If  it's  not,  my  wedding- 
gift  will  be  too  late  for  presentation  at  Katie 
Kelding'g  wedding." 

And  Ally  Melbourne  calculated  in  dismay 
tbe  amount  of  work  that  would  be  necessary  in 
patting  together,  after  the  embroidered  bits 
*ere  added,  before  the  el^aut  gift  could  be 
completed. 

"Cousin,"  she  said,  turning  coazingly  to  the 
^  gentleman  who  was  spending  a  day  or  two 
with  them  in  paflsing  through  the  cityj  "\?ill 
70a  take  me  out  to  see  about  some  work  I  must 
lare  done?  Charley  isn't  here^  and  it  is  get- 
ting late." 

*"  With  pleasure,  little  one,"  said  the  foreign- 
^klng  cousin  with  the  kind,  handsome  eyes 
*ad  pleasant  yoioe;  and  a  few  minutes  later 
AUy*B  light  footsteps  were  keeping  his  firmer 
^^^  company  down  the  busy  street  in  the  late 
•ftcrnoon. 

"Why  where  are  you  taking  me,  Ally?"  her 
I  ^*Qort  asked,  as  his  guide  unexpectedly  turned 
•  comer  and  entered  a  street  yet  more  wretched 
naa  the  one  they  had  just  left 


^  Where  I  need  a  knight,  to  be  sure,  or  I 
shouldn't  have  asked  you.  Down  in  Holly 
Street." 

**  My  dear  girl,  you  should  let  them  send 
your  work  home  for  inspection.  Do  not  come 
here  again ;  let  them  send  it" 

''But  Miss  Jarvia  has  no  messenger,  and 
she's  lame,  and  she's  lowely,"  answered  Ally, 
concisely;  and  they  mounted  a  rickety  stair- 
case, and  Ally  tapped  at  a  door  that  opened 
from  a  narrow,  dirty  hall. 

"Gome  in,"  said  pleasant  tones. 

They  obeyed  the  invitation,  and  felt  imme- 
diately transferred  to  another  sphere  of  life  and 
influence. 

Lillian's  quick,  efiectiwe  touches  here  and 
there  had  produced  order  and  perfect  neatness 
which  the  lame  girl  in  her  sickness  had  not 
always  been  able  to  secure;  and  the  beautiful 
picture  with  the  mantling  iwy,  procured  from 
a  greenhouse,  gave  tone  of  refinement  and 
beauty  to  the  whole  apartment  Geraniums 
stood  in  the  window.  A  soft  rug  atoned  for 
deficiencies  in  the  carpet  where  Madeline  sat, 
and  her  canary,  inspired  by  surroundings,  was 
surpassing  himself  in  very  exuberance  of  song. 

Love  and  sympathy  had  acted  like  the  ex- 
cellent tonics  that  they  are^  and  Madeline's  eyes 
were  like  stars,  and  her  face,  that  had  been 
sweet  but  careworn,  smiled  in  soft  sunniness, 
and  looked  positively  full  of  happiness. 

'*  A  bud  and  a  little  spray  to  be  added  to  the 
embroidery,"  said  Madeline,  anticipating  in- 
quiries for  the  work,  "and  then  it  will  be  quite 
done ;"  and  she  displayed  the  graceful  design 
as  she  worked  upon  it 

"  Oh !  how  beautiful  t"  exclaimed  Ally.  "  I 
did  not  think  my  article  would  be  so  hand- 
some. The  embroidery  will  beautify  it.much. 
I  am  BO  glad  I  thought  to  ask  your  help!" 
And  as  Madeline  wrought  on  she  added : 
"  You  are  a  great  deal  better  than  when  I  was 
here  last,  are  you  not.  Miss  Jarvis?" 

"I  believe  I  am,"  said  Madeline.  "One 
ought  to  be  well  that  is  ministered  to  by  angels. 
Do  you  see  what  my  angel  has  wrought  for  me? 
Would  you  know  my  poor  little  room  ?" 

She  had  never  spoken  to  Ally  so  frankly, 
unguardedly,  before,  and  this  was  in  presence 
of  the  strange  gentleman,  too. 

Ally  laughed.  "A  vety  tangible  angel,  I 
Judge,  Miss  Jarvis — one  you  do  not  have  to  go 
into  a  vision  to  behold,  I  think." 

"One  whom  it  is  a  vision  to  behold,"  said 

Madeline  enthusiastically.    "It  is  not  alone 

that  she  Is  angelic  in  her  ministry  to  me  that 

\  I  love  her,  but  they  say  her  heart  goes  oat  to 


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ARTEUR'8    LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


every  one  in  sorrow.  Do  yoa  see  that  lovely 
landscape?  She  pot  it  there  to  please  herself, 
she  said.  It  would  make  her  happ/  to  know 
xn7  eyes  were  beholding  summer.  She  calls 
me  her  'friend/''  said  Madeline,  and  tears 
stood  in  her  beautiful  eyee.  "  She  doesn't  do 
good  in  'the  charitable  way.'  She  does  it  as 
He  did  it  I"  and  the  girl's  very  soul  seemed  to 
smile  through  the  pearly  tears. 

Ally  stood  looking  at  the  picture  while  she 
waited,  and  she  signed  to  the  gentleman  to 
come  as  the  last  of  the  sunset  rays  stole  into 
the  room. 

"Is  it  not  a  lovely  picture?  Such  an  atmoe- 
phere  of  brooding  calm  and  summer  sunshine^ 
and  yet  so  lonely." 

Ally  was  startled  at  the  intent  gase  her  com- 
panion gave  the  picture,  and  at  the  unnataral| 
abrupt  way  in  which  she  a^ked  her. 

''  Do  you  know  who  it  is ;  that  is,  the  lady's 
name?" 

Ally  turned  inquiringly  to  Madeline. 

"  I  do  not  often  speak  her  name,"  she  said, 
but  seeing  the  gentleman*s  eager  look,  she 
added :  "  I  will  tell  you  if  you  wish  so  much 
to  know ;  it  is  Miss  Lillian  Bosevelt" 

Ally  felt  rather  than  saw  the  sudden  start 
her  cousin  gave.  He  bowed  low  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  information,  and  uttered  not  a 
word  till  they  were  in  the  street  again. 

"  Did  not  Miss  Bosevelt  marry  Esty  Bur- 
delt?"  he  asked  as  they  walked  along. 

"I  don't  know.  Cousin  Holt|  Pm  sure.  Kot 
this  lady,  probably,  or  Miss  Jarvis  would  not 
have  called  her  Miss  Bosevelt." 

**  Very  sensible,  little  one  1"  smiled  Holt  In- 
gleeby,  coming  out  of  a  state  of  abstraction 
which  had  lasted  since  Madeline's  worshipful 
accents  had  pronounced  the  magic  name.  His 
little  cousin  had  been  at  school  when  Holt  In- 
glesby  went  abroad,  and  could  not  have  given 
him  much  information  of  any  of  his  old-time 
friends  or  companions. 

He  propounded  the  question  to  her  mother 
when  they  reached  home. 

"  Aunt  Sue,  did  not  Lillian  Bosevelt  many 
Esty  Burdeltr 

"  Dear  me,  I  hope  not  I"  said  Mrs.  Melbourne. 
"  What  a  marriage  that  would  have  been,  to 
be  sure!  Why,  Esty  Burdelt  acted  in  the 
most  atrocious  manner  toward  her  £ither ;  was 
the  indirect  cause  of  his  death,  I  suppose, 
through  excitement  that  brought  on  an  apo- 
plectic fit.  He  wanted  to  get  power  over  Mr. 
Bosevelt  for  some  reason  or  other,  at  least  so  it 
seemed,  and  got  knowledge  of  business  transac- 
tions which  he  misrepresented.    I'm  sure  no- 


body knows  what  pospomcd  the  roan.  The 
anonymoDS  letters  were  all  traced  to  him.  It 
was  the  moat  singular  development  I  ever 
heard  oC" 

''Where  is  Lillian,  now?"  If.  Mrs.  Mel- 
bourne had  not  been  engrossed  with  the  work 
she  held  in  her  hand,  she  would  certainly  have 
noticed  the  intense,  repressed  eagerness  of  In- 
glesby's  tone  and  manner. 

"  I  don't  know  where  Lillian  is,  Holt.  I 
never  met  her  anywhere ;  I  think  slie  went  to 
etay  with  some  friends  after  her  father's  death, 
but  whether  in  or  out  of  the  city  I  really  can't 
say.  I  don't  go  out  or  hear  much  about  people 
of  late  years,  yon  know." 

Holt  Inglesby  did  not  leave  the  city  the  next 
day  as  had  been  his  intention.  Had  Lillian's 
seolnsion  been  far  greater  than  it  was,  means 
would '  have  been  found  for  penetrating  it 
Monasteiy  walls  would  have  been  but  slight 
impediments  to  his  impatient  spirit 

"Is  it  possible  that  yoa  can  forgive  the 
wrofig  I  did  you,  Lillian  ?"  he  asked,  upon  at 
length  coming  into  her  presence,  and  when 
Holt  Inglesby  quitted  the  house  after  mutual 
explanations,  there  was  joy  in  two  hearts.  Ths 
broken  engagement  whicJi  each  in  spirit  had 
been  true  to  through  these  years  of  cruel  mis- 
understanding was  renewed,  and  an  early  wed- 
ding-day was  named.  ^ 

The  lovely  young  American  girl  had  not 
been  an  entire  &brication.  She  did  exist.  She 
was  a  niece  of  Holt's,  to  whom  in  Paris  he  vsa 
most  kind  while  her  mother  was  travelling  in 
Switzerland. 

"And  so  His  Boyal  Highness  is  going  to 
take  yon  off  I"  said  Beta.  "Pm  sorry,  lily! 
and  I  think  he  was  for  himself." 

And  thus  it  happened  that  the  dark  shadov 
was  lifted  from  Lillian  Bosevelfs  life. 


A  VOICE. 

BT  ▲.  P.  C. 

Ho  flower  of  g^aee  is  "  bom  to  blush  nnseen," 
While  Ho  who  mado  doth  keep  it  in  His  eye; 

Hold  on  thy  way,  firm,  traatfal,  and  serene, 
For  One  doth  watch  thine  inaiost  privaoy. 

Squander  not  pearls  and  opals  on  the  herd^ 
Nor  let  regretful  tear  thy  lashes  wet : 

God  gathers  gems  from  deeps  of  man  unheard; 
He  hoards  them  for  His  own  pure  cabinet. 

His  ways  are  not  man's  ways  t  His  range  is  high 
As  suns  and  stars  that  do  elude  our  gra^  • 

His  searah  is  low-^Iow  as  that  nether  sky 
Starred  with  the  wealth  man  may  not  idly  elaip* 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 


W 


r£  aoBwer,  imidi*  If  the  annala  of  New 
Ef^gLand  were  eflbced  up  to  the  present 
poiod,  and  no  record  of  its  people  preserved 
bat  their  baptismal  names^  there  would  remain 
eurioaa  indications  of  their  history  and  their 
flioital  progress.  The  pilgrims  came  with 
ptod  old  gentlemanly  English  names,  rather 
OKforing^  too,  of  their  belonging  to  the  Kor- 
■an,  Che  axistocratic  branch  of  the  English 
fcmilj.  Tbej  were  Williams,  Boberts,  Bogers, 
and  Henrys,  and  their  wives  Elizabeths,  Sarahs, 
Gbtfauines  and  Annes.  But  those  names  had 
tw  atroDg  a  world's  taint  to  be  retained.  They 
voe  memoriab  of  kingly  state,  of  crape  and 
kvB  and  lordly  hall.  Those  stem  devotees  to 
fiberty  and  religion  gave  their  children  names 
tbit  indicated  their  faith  in  their  dose  rela- 
tuDB  with  Providence.  Their  names  marked 
■Mae  signal  mercy,  a  rescue  from  death,  a 
gradoua  interposition  of  Heaven.  They  were 
ft  ipecieB  of  votive-ofiering.  Thus  our  pro- 
{cnitors  started  on  their  pilgrimsge  from  the 
oadle  to  the  grave  labelled.  Sea-born  I  the 
cbild  bom  on  the  passage  from  England  to 
Plymouth  Bock.  Deliverance!  Preserved! 
Or  they  were  marked  with  the  pious  aspira- 
fioos  of  their  parents,  as  Faith,  Hope,  Mercy, 
Love,  Temperance^  Submit.  In  the  progress 
of  time  and  in  a  larger  liberty,  their  fervor 
Abated — the  sackcloth  and  ashes-mantle  were 
ptred  away ;  or  perhaps  such  accidents  chanced 
•  a  Patience  turning  shrew,  a  Temperance 
loving  strong  wine,  or  a  Submit  breaking  the 
Qoojogal  yoke.  At  any  rate  there  were  indi- 
etfioos  of  a  softening,  if  not  dissolving  of  the 
Psritan  ice,  in  the  new  type  of  names  which 
enae  in  from  the  schools  with  which  our 
Others  eagerly  fortified  the  freedom  of  their 
aev-world  home.  The  scaroe  fledged  scholars, 
nm  mad  with  a  very  little  learning,  adopted 
Bsnes  from  Persian,  Grecian,  and  Boman  his- 
Iwy.  In  inverted  order  Pagan  succeeded 
(Ustian  designation,  and  New  England  was 
looded  with  Cyruses,  Bariuses,  Orondateses, 
CiSBon-Danas— (an  aged  Shaker  vestal,  our 
booored  friend,  still  worthily  bears  that  name 
of  Cyra^s  mother)  ?  Uly seses,  Hectors,  Soloni*, 
ud  Lycurguses — ^Viigils,  Sallusts,  Luciuses, 
Mttooaes^  etc.,  etc.  We  all  remember  these 
— iLTiiirii  of  the  hefoes  of  battle,  song  and  his- 
toty,  among  the  Tillage  schoolmasters,  shop- 
keepen,  artisans  and  rustics  of  our  own  day. 
GoQteinporary  with  these  there  was  an  inanda* 


lion  of  feminine  names  from  the  ftshionaMe 
novels  of  the  time.  Adelaides  and  Adelines^ 
Clarissas  and  Clementines,  Angelinas  and 
Laura-Matildas,  and  bevies  of  little  rosy- 
cheeked  ehubby  school  girls  bearing  the 
charmed  name  of  Sterne's  ideal  Maria.  These 
deteriorated  into  the  pervading  and  vulgar 
compounds  of  Abby-Anne,  Sarah-Anne,  Julia- 
Anne,  Delia-Jane,  Martha- Jane,  etc,  etc. 

One  name^  through  each  change  and  genera- 
tion of  names,  from  the  Christian  era  to  the 
present  day,  has  maintained  its  place.  One 
perennial  name  around  which  all  the  sweetest 
and  holiest  associations  have  gathered.  One 
name  sung  in  sacred  hymns,  in  the  songs  of 
troubadours,  in  Saxon  ballads  and  Sooteh  lays. 
One  name  heard  with  the  pealing  organ,  and 
in  the  tenderest  aooenti  of  home.  One  name^ 
that,  borne  by  sister,  friend,  wife,  or  child, 
is  a  sweet  si^ll  to  every  heart — Mary/  Of 
late  it  has  become  the  fashion  among  the 
dainty  in  these  matters  to  go  back  to  our  Saxon 
ancestors  for  feminine  names,  and  babies 
christened  over  silver  fonts,  are  now  called 
Edith,  Melicent,  Winifred,  Mabel,  eta,  etc. 
The  last  name,  by  the  way,  is  of  Norman  deri- 
vation, and  a  contraction  of  AmicMe.  The  first 
person  of  that  name  illustrated  in  history  was 
a  sparkling  young  heiress  of  the  reign  of  Henry 
First— the  son  of  the  conqueror.  This  nnfor^ 
tunate  king  was  said  never  to  have  smiled  after 
the  shipwreck  which  deprived  him  of  all  his 
children  except  one  natural  son,  Bobert  About 
the  time  that  he  came  to  maturity  a  certain 
Bobert,  son  of  Aymon,  a  rich  Norman  of  the 
province  of  Gloucester  died,  and  left  heiress  to 
all  his  wealth,  one  only  daughter,  called  ^mia- 
ble,  familiarly  Mable^  or  Mabile,  whence  our 
Mabel. 

The  king  negotiated  a  marriage  between  his 
illegitimate  son,  Bobert,  and  this  only  daugh- 
ter ;  her  relations  consented,  but  the  young  lady 
refused,  and  refused  without  assigning  any 
reason.  At  last  being  urged  to  give  one,  she 
said  she  would  never  many  a  man  without 
two  names. 

"The  two  names,"  says  the  French  Histo- 
rian who  tells  the  story  of  this  spirited  damsal, 
or  **  a  double  name,  composed  of  a  proper  name 
and  a  surname,  whether  purely  genealogical  or 
indteating  the  possession  of  land,  or  the  exer- 
cise of  an  employment,  constituted  one  of  the 
signs  distinguishing  the  Norman  race  in  Eng- 

(97) 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


land  from  the  yanquished  Saxon.  By  bearing 
a  single  name  in  the  times  that  immediately 
followed  the  oonqaest^  one  ran  the  risk  of  pass- 
ing for  a  Saxon,  (the  subordinate  race,)  and  the 
far-seeing  vanity  of  the  heiress  of  Robert,  son 
of  Aymon,  was  alarmed  beforehand  with  the 
idea  that  her  future  husband  might  be  con» 
founded  with  the  mass  of  the  natives."  She 
avowed  this,  in  a  oon venation  with  the  king. 
The  colloquy  is  prettily  transmitted  in  a  ballad 
by  Robert  of  Glouoesier,  bat  being  intelligible 
only  to  a  Sazoo  sofaolar,  the  French  Historian 
gives  it  thus :  ''  Sire,"  said  the  young  Norman 
girl,  "I  am  aware  that  you  have  fixed  your 
eyes  rather  on  my  heritage  than  on  myself,  but 
having  so  fair  a  heritage^  would  it  not  be  a 
great  shame  to  marry  a  man  without  two 
names  7  During  his  life  my  father  called  him* 
self  Sir  Robert,  son  of  Aymon,  and  I,  sire,  will 
not  belong  to  a  man  without  a  name  to  tell 
whence  he  comes." 

"Well  spoken,  lady,"  said  the  king,  "Sir 
Robert,  son  of  Aymon,  was  the  name  of  thy 
father.  'Sir  Robert  son  of  the  King,'  shall  be 
thy  husband's  name." 

The  clever  young  lady  looked  too  keenly  at 
the  honor  of  her  posterity  to  be  outwitted  in 
this  way. 

"Ah  1 1  grant,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  fine  name 
to  do  my  husband  honor  through  his  lifetime — 
but  how  is  my  son  to  be  called?— or  the  son  of 
his  son?" 

The  king  understood  her,  and  quickly  re- 
plied: "Lady,  thy  husband  shall  have  an  im- 
maculate name  ('saas  reproche*)  for  himself 
and  for  his  heirs.  He  shall  call  himself  Robert 
de  Gloucester,  he  and  all  those  who  shall  spring 
from  him." 

Let  our  New  World  Mabels  cherish  the 
name  of  Amiable^  daughter  and  heiress  of 
Robert  d'  Aymon. 


TWO  ODES  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

BT  KATBERIVE  KINGSTON  PILXB. 

(Ode  tht  f%rtt^(Xd  Tear.) 
Oh !  slamber  'neath  the  seasons  low, 

And  Ii«  so  silent,  olden  year, 
I  shall  forget  thee  and  not  know 

That  ever  thoa  wast  here. 
May  old  Time  be  thy  dreamless  bridc^ 
Hay  Memory  rest  at  thy  side. 

Let  me  forget  thee,  and  not  know 

That  ever  thoa  wast  here. 

In  other  lives  thy  memoried  langh 
May  trill  full  lightly  thwart  Time's  lyrc^ 

In  other  homes  thou  mayst  have  sat 
A  weloome  guest  at  feast  and  fire; 


Let  them  r^ember  thee  who  will, 
While  thou  unseen  art  hovering  nesr 
With  whispers  of  the  olden  oheer. 

But  in  my  heart  be  dead  and  still. 

Toll  slowly,  bells;  toll  lowly,  bells; 

Toll  death,  death,  death  to  mounts  and  deDs, 

Toll  death  to  sonith,  through  the  skies, 

Desth !  unto  nadir  and  the  sun. 

Death !  till  the  wiads  thai  roam  on  hi|^ 

Hepeat  tba  reqaiem  moaraftiny ; 

Death  1  till  the  planets  in  their  maiuh, 

Systems  that  round  their  centres  roll. 

Shall  sweep  the  ory  through  infinite  spaoe^ 

From  uniyersal  pole  to  pole. 

(Ode  the  Seeowi'^New  Tear.) 
Ring  out,  0  Bells !  ring  loud  and  high. 
Thy  'mpassioned  notes  to  land  and  sky! 
Shake  the  blue  welkin  into  song, 
While  myriad  suns  thy  strains  prolong! 
Peal !  Heaven  e'en  rends  with  musio  mad. 
And  seraphim  lore-smiling,  glad. 
Bow  down  in  eostasy  before  the  throne. 
Making  your  joy  exultant  e'en  their  own. 
Hark  I  nebulous  pinions  thwart  the  harp-stiingi 

crash; 
At  music  rending  hearenly  harps  asunder 
Innumerable  planets  fall  in  wonder. 
And,  through  all  HeaTen,  a  Totoe  asoending  ttsi 
Cries ;  "  Peaee  to  all :  good  will  to  men  r 

Lo,  Christ  was  onoo  a  little  ohild, 

Dear  Christ  I  and  now  hath  sent 
One  young  and  white  athrough  the  night. 

To  bring  to  earth  content. 
And  rouse  in  man  the  dormant  blood 
To  work  incessant  for  all  good. 

Wake,  men,  to  strire  at  last 
For  pleasures  high  and  Tast  I 
Cast  ye  the  old  life  off  foroTermore, 
Of  languid  idleness,  and  slothful  rest, 
That  nourished  vilest  evil  on  its  breast. 
Seek  what  is  holy— -strive  for  what  is  pnre^ 
Cherishing  superstitions  vile  no  more. 

3ar  Msahood  out,  and  heinous  sin- 
Let  truth  and  innooenoe  oome  in; 
Shut  weakness  from  your  souls  away; 
Attain  to  strength  through  pr^er  to-day. 
Through  life's  long  Heaven-tending  days 
Labor  for  good  in  godlier  ways. 
Reaching  by  deed  the  stars  ye  see  at  even 
Hanging  like  stars  around  the  gate  of  Heaven, 
Grasping  by  deed  the  immortelles 
Growing  in  God's  eternal  dells ! 

Talk  much  with  any  man  of  Tigortma  uiad^ 
and  we  acquire  very  ihst  the  habit  of  looking 
at  things  in  the  same  light,  and  on  each  ooinm 
renoe  we  anticipate  his  thought 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


"UNCLE  JOHN'S"  PLAN. 


BY  "GERALD/ 


*T  AM  almost  tempted  to  give  up  and  leave 

X  this  place.  I'll  strike  for  some  other 
qaartera,  oat  West^  anywhere,  I  don't  care 
where,  if  I  can  find  some  luck.  There's  none 
in  this  city  for  me.  Here  am  I,  forty-two  years 
old,  worked  hard  all  my  life  and  not  a  red  cent 
beforehand.  If  I  had  only  gone  into  that 
agency  with  Harry,  six  years  ago,  I  might 
have  been  on  the  road  to  riches  now.  Look  at 
him  I  He  always  was  a  lucky  dog.  Every- 
thing he  touches  turns  to  money,  and  he  started 
with  no  more  than^L  He  has  just  finished  a 
pretly  house  on  the  avenue,  (that  land  cost  him 
DO  small  sum  either,)  furnished  it  hsiidsomely 
fipom  top  to  bottom,  and  now  to-day  he  has 
booght  a  horse  and  buggy  that  I  declare  fairly 
made  me  envy  him." 

And  the  speaker  gave  a  petulant  push  to  the 
dudr  on  which  his  feet  were  resting,  while  the 
one  he  occupied  was  tipped  backward  to  the 
utmost  veige  of  its  balance. 

Unde  John,  to  whom  this  outpouring  was 
addressed,  turned  a  pair  of  keen  eyes  upon  the 
weaker,  saying  nothings  but  watching  the 
transfer  of  a  morsel  of  the  "Indian  weed" 
fiom  a  capacious  box  to  the  mouth  just  opened 
to  declaim  against  luck, 

HaTing  thus  refreshed  himself  Albert,  or  as 
he  was  &miliarly  called,  "  Bert "  Warren, 
proceeded. 

**  Harry  don't  work  as  hard  as  I,  has  three 
diildren  and  I  but  one,  while  you  have  seen 
the  finery  his  wife  indulges  herself  in.  She  is 
a  smart,  capable  woman,  it  is  true,  but  how  she 
drenes  t  I  can't  afford  gUk  for  my  wife,  nor  a 
piano  for  my  Jenniei,  and  I  know  she  has  as 
Boch  talent  as  Harry's  girls.  I  can't  under- 
«andit'' 

''Do  jou  not  like  to  see  a  woman  dress  as 
Hanry's  wife  does?  Her  style  always  ap- 
peared to  me  as  the  result  of  taste  rather  than 
extzmvagance.  She  has  silks,  it  is  true,  but  ex- 
actees  a  judicious  economy  in  the  selection, 
and  care  in  the  use  of  her  fineiy,  as  you  call  it. 
Being  an  old  bachelor  myself  perhaps  I  am 
Doi  to  be  counted  as  an  authority  upon  such 
matters,  but  I  like  to  see  a  woman  becomingly 
dressed,  and  the  best  fabrics  are  the  cheapest" 
Uncle  John  drew  forth  a  little  memorandum- 
book  and  idly  pencilled  snndiy  items,  as  he 
continued.    "  I  have  heard  Harry  rather  boast 


of  his  wife's  good  management,  and  imagine 
that  some  of  these  silks  you  speak  of  were  a 
sort  of  reward  for  the  same." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that;  but  J  can't  afford 
it,  that  I  know,  and  my  wife  is  as  good  an 
economist  as  his — it  is  all  his  luck,"  rather 
hotly  responded  Bert,  nettled  at  what  he  con- 
sidered a  covert  reproof. 

The>  elder  lapsed  into  silence  for  a  moment, 
still  consulting  his  memoranda,  then  asked : 
"  How  do  you  get  on  with  your  foreman,  Hig- 
gins  ?    Does  he  please  you  better  of  late  ?" 

"No I  Matters  get  worse.  The  fellow  is 
absent  from  his  post  altogether  too  often.  Of 
course  I  can't  always  be  in  the  office  to  watch 
him.  I  never  could  bear  close  confinement 
during  the  summer  months.  If  he  were  only 
to  be  trusted  I  would  take  Jennie  and  her 
mother  and  make  a  trip  in  the  mountains,  if 
only  for  a  couple  of 'weeks.  But  all  would  go 
to  the  dogs,"  and  poor  Bert  heaved  a  sigh 
wiiich  seemed  to  oome  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart  as  he  spoke. 

"Why  do  you  keep  him?"  said  Uncle  John, 
pouring  out  a  glass  of  ice-water  and  leisurely 
sipping  as  he  spoke.  "  He  must  be  an  actual 
loss  to  you.  Do  you  pay  him  .full  wages?  or 
do  you  deduct  his  absences?" 

"Oh,  that  would  never  do.  His  temper, 
when  excited  by  liquor,  is  terrible.  He  would 
stop  at  nothing.  The  next  fire-alarm  would 
surely  sound  my  number.  You  know  little 
about  such  men  to  ask  me  that." 

"I  hope  that  I  do,  and  I  shall  never  desire 
to  know  more,"  quietly  answered  the  old  gen- 
tleman. "  Do  your  apprentices  and  workmen 
go  on  by  themselves  industriously,  or  are  they 
in  the  habit  of  waiting  for  his  return  to  get  the 
wheels  in  motion  ?" 

"I  have  been  into  the  shop  dozens  of  times 
and  seen  every  one  idle,  or  playing  some  game 
to  wile  away  the  time.  But  what  in  the  world 
do  you  catechise  me  so  closely  for,  uncle?  I 
would  not  dare  to  dismiss  him.  Neither  could 
I  better  myself  if  I  did.  The  men  of  his  class 
all  drink  some— will  have  an  occasional  spree 
in  spite  of  everything — lager  beer,  I  suppose, 
hurts  no  one.  Higgins  understands  my  busi- 
ness, and  planning,  and  arranging  work  for  the 
men,  better  than  any  one  I  ever  had  in  my  em- 
ploy.   He  is  a  first-class  workman,  if  he  would 

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ARTEVR'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


only  attend  to  his  bosinen  and  keep  sober.    Bnt 
I  suppose  I  muHt  make  the  best  of  it." 

The  elder  Warren  bit  the  end  of  his  pencil 
reflectively,  while  his  nephew  exclaimed: 
*^  You  give  me  the  blues.  Uncle  John,  bring- 
ing to  my  thoughts  the  way  that  I  am  ham- 
pered. Sometimes  everything  goes  against  me. 
I  must  have  a  smoke  to  drive  'dull  care' 
away."  He  started  from  the  verandah,  where 
they  had  been  lounging,  for  his  cigar-case. 
Beturning  in  a  moment,  and  re-seating  himself 
he  lighted  a  cigar,  saying :  "  It  seems  unsocial 
to  smoke  alone,  but  you  never  acquired  the 
habit,  and  I  sometimes  regret  that  I  ever  did. 
Cigars  are  abominably  high ;  I  would  not  dare 
tell  you  what  I  paid  for  that  last  box ;  but  then 
I  can't  endure  an  inferior  cigar,  of  all  things." 

Uncle  John  said  nothing,  but  turning  his 
hoe  from  the  puffi  of  blue  smoke  curling  lazily 
around  the  head  of  his  disturbed  nephew,  and 
toward  the  sunset,  he  watched  the  rosy  glow  in 
the  west,  deepening  and  fading,  for  a  time  in 
perfect  silence.  Glancing  round  at  Bert's  face, 
he  saw  his  eyelids  half  drooping  and  his  fea- 
tures settling  into  an  expression  of  repose  of  an 
extremely  unintdUdual  nature.  80,  judging 
that  any  rhapsodies  concerning  the  beauties  of  | 
the  scene  before  them  would  meet  a  dull  ear, 
he  brought  him  back  to  things  mundane  and 
practical  by  observing:  ''Can  you  calculate 
how  many  days  in  a  month  Higgins  is  gener- 
ally absent?" 

"Always  on  Mondays.  Works  poorly  on 
Tuesdays;  but  does  tolerably  the  rest  of  the 
week,  with  the  exception  of  an  hour's  absence 
in  the  forenoon  for  his  dram;  unless  there 
should  be  an  election,  or  military  turn-out,  or 
picnic,  or  something  of  that  sort,"  replied  Bert 
with  an  involuntary  laugh,  which  lacked  any 
merriment,  however. 

"Two  days  in  a  week,  then,  and  an  hour 
each  day,  besides  occasional  gala-days,"  says 
Uncle  John,  scribbling  a  few  more  items  in  his 
note-book. 

"  Bah !  that  cigar  has  no  flavor,"  and  away 
went  the  stomp  into  the  dew-laden  grass  be- 
yond, as  the  speaker's  chair  came  down  upon 
its  fore  legs.  "Come,  let  us  go  down  town, 
uncle.  I  feel  out  of  sorts  to-night,  thanks  to 
your  catechism." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  you  will  have  to 
excase  me  this  evening,  as  I  must  fulfil  an  en- 
gagement I  have  made  with  Jennie  to  show 
her  a  little  about  shading  her  last  drawing. 
6he  is  coming  on  finely,  and  would  make  some- 
thing more  than  a  dabbler,  if  under  the  hands  of 
a  competent  instructor." 


"Yes,  but  my  parse  is  too  shallow.  Con« 
found  the  lack,  I  can't  aflR>rd  itt" 

And  the  two  separated,  pursuing  an  entirely 
distinct  train  of  thought,  evolved  from  the 
same  circumstanoes. 

Bert  and  Henry  Warren  were  brothers, 
blessed  with  energy,  brains,  and  health,  etch 
with  a  helpmeet  after  Solomon's  pattern,  "who 
looketh  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household." 

Uncle  John  was  at  present  an  inmate  of  the 
family  of  Albert.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  comfortable  share  of  this  world's 
goods,  obtained  by  his  own  prudent  manage- 
ment and  skill. 

An  hour  or  so  of  the  evening  on  which  we 
make  their  acquaintance  was  spent  most  pleas- 
antly by  Jennie  and  her  uncle  over  her  draw- 
ing. But  as  the  hou:^  for  retiring  approached, 
and  the  head  of  the  household  returned  not, 
interest  lagged,  and  the  pencils  were  finally 
laid  aside.  They  were  beginning  to  cast  anxious 
glances  at  the  &ce  of  the  venerable  time-piece 
ticking  away  so  soberly  in  the  comer,  when 
his  footsteps  were  heard  approaching  with  a 
rapidity  quite  of  keeping  with  his  usual  de- 
liberation. 

As  he  entered  the  parlor,  his  face  wild  and 
whole  appearance  agitated,  they  exclaimed: 
"What  is  the  matter?  Why  are  you  so  late? 
Are  you  ill,  dear  father?"  and  Jennie  sprang 
toward  him  as  he  sank  into  the  nearest  seat, 
and,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  groaned 
out  rather  than  spoke : 

"I  have  seen  ajnan's  hand  lifted  against  his 
own  brother,  and  then  his  own  life  taken  the 
next  moment.  At  a  saloon  in  Arnold  Street, 
two  brothers  met  for  a  '  social  glass,'  as  was 
their  nightly  Custom,  and  after  a  few  moment's 
chat  the  proprietor  inquired  of  one  concerning 
some  venture  which  he  had  been  lately  mak- 
ing, and  successfully,  it  seemed.  In  replying, 
he  took  occasion  to  rally  the  other  upon  his  ill 
luck,  bidding  him  follow  in  hU  footsteps.  This 
was  taken  in  high  dudgeon.  Unkiqd  words 
fbllowed  each  other  6st  They  had  drank 
enough  to  render  them  quarrelsome;  for,  quick 
as  thought,  their  hands  were  upon  each  other. 
A  pistol  was  drawn,  and  one  shot  through  the 
head.  No  sooner  did  the  brother  see  his  work 
than  he  turned  the  revolver  against  hiuuelf, 
and  before  any  could  interfere  he  was  in 
eternity." 

"Did  you  know  the  parties ?"  asked  Uncle 
John,  with  a  look  on  his  &ce  as  if  some  per- 
sonal hazard  was  involved  in  the  answer  he 
was  to  receive. 

"Oh!  yes,  I  haye  met  them  frequently  at  thii 


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101 


place.  They  were  men  of  respectable  position, 
in  the  reception  of  good  wages  as  overgeers. 
Both  of  them  were  nsaallj  quiet — ^indeed,  never 
▼ery  talkative,  unless  they  had  taken  a  glass  or 
two — and  mnch  liked  by  all  who  knew  them." 

"  Is  the  place  an  orderly  one  V  queried  Uncle 
John,  persistently. 

"Certainly/'  and  Albert  lifted  his  head  with 
a  look  of  some  indignation.  "I  never  saw  any- 
thing contrary  to  the  rules  of  propriety  there 
belbre,  and  I  stop  in  nearly  every  night  on  my 
way  down  town  and  get  a  glass  of  lager  beer. 
I  consider  it  an  excellent  tonic'' 

No  reply  being  made  to  this,  and  few  more 
remarks  being  passed,  the  group  soon  separated 
fiir  the  night. 

Several  days  went  by,  after  this  occurrence, 
with  no  allusion  to  financial  matters.  One 
evening,  as  they  were  fitting,  after  tea,  on  the 
piazza  enjoying  the  coolness  of  the  summer 
twilight,  Jennie,  at  her  father's  request^  sang 
■everal  simple  ballads.  Her  voice  was  clear, 
tweet,  and,  for  a  child,  powerful.  With  culti- 
vation, she  gave  promise  of  reaching  a  high 
standard.  Her  father  sighed  heavily  as  she 
passed  into  the  house,  intent  upon  fulfilling 
some  direction  of  her  mother,  trilling  a  merry 
song  as  she  went. 

"  If  I  was  only  a  richer  man,  I  would  spare 
neither  money  or  pains.  That  voice  should  be 
cultivated  and  her  musical  talent  developed. 
Bot  it  is  useless  to  talk,  there  is  no  way  opened." 

''I  think  that  J  see  a  way  to  reach  that  and 
some  other  privii^es  also^  Bert,  if  you  will 
hsteo  to  me  and  not  be  ofiended  at  a  little 
plain  speaking.  I  have  been  taking  notes^  and 
have  arrived  at  certain  conclusions  therefrom." 

Bert  tomed  his  eyes  upon  hb  uncle  in  won- 
der, bot  held  his  peace,  and  waited  farther  de- 
velopments. 

^I  have  a  sum  of  money  subject  to  my  order, 
sofw  lying  idle,  which  would  furnish  a  good 
sad  aoitable  instrument  This  I  will  place  at 
your  command  for  any  length  of  time  yon  may 
nqnire^  if  you  wish,  and  will  indulge  me  by 
ttfiBg  an  experiment  Don't  answer  me  t»* 
a^l^t.  Hear  me  through  cahnlj  and  without 
any  feelings  of  vexation." 

**  I  am  all  interest  to  know  your  plan,  Uncle 
John— or  your  experiment,  as  you  term  it" 

**  Ton  pay  your  foreman  one  htmdred  dollars 
per  month,  do  yon  not?" 

-Yes,  I  do" 

**  Because  he  is  not  steady,  or  faithful  either 
to  hie  own  interests  or  those  of  his  employer, 
yoor  lou  out  of  that  averages  eight  dollars 
per  week  fnm  kU  negliffenee-^lhu  dktetly;  i&- 

TQau  XZXVIL— 7 


directly,  you  cannot  estimate  it ;  and  /  know 
that  the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars  per  year 
must  be  far  below  the  actual  figure.  Dismiss 
him.  Understand  me,  I  should  be  the  last  to 
condemn  for  a  single  fault,  or  for  many  lapses ; 
I  would  strive  by  every  means  in  my  power  to 
encourage  the  erring,  if  repentant;  but  I  would 
no  longer  set  a  premium  on  vice.  Give  his 
place  to  an  honest,  conscientious  roan.  This 
one  leak  stopped,  you  will  find  its  influence  in 
other  ways.  Your  workmen  will  soon  feel  a 
change  in  the  atmosphere,  which  will  work  a 
radical  reform.  Then  comes,  perhaps,  a  harder 
task  still — to  put  the  axe  to  the  root  of  your 
own  pleasures.  These  little  selfish  gratifica- 
tions seem  trifles  in  themselves,  but  they  sum 
up  in  a  fearful  aggregate,  even  in  the  light  of 
dollars  and  cents ;  but  in  their  influence  upon 
the  character,  in  their  weight  upon  the  soul, 
(which  requires  help,  not  hindrances,)  who  can 
estimate  it  ?  Looking  at  the  matter  merely  in 
a  pecuniary  light,  your  two  or  three  glasses  of 
lager  each  night  for  a  tonic,  your  two  or  three 
cigars,'  (for  a  aedaiive,  I  suppose,)  amount  in 
the  course  of  a  year  to  a  sum  suflBcient  to  secure 
the  services  of  able  instructors  in  both  music 
and  drawing.  Thus  Jennie  could  be  provided 
for,  and  the  path  oonld  be  opened  to  her  and 
yourself,  not  only  for  present  enjoyment,  but 
possibly  immense  benefits  in  the  future.  That 
page  is  mercifully  dosed"  to  us;  but  it  often 
turns  darkly ;  and  resources  like  these  would 
keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  and  a  feeling  of 
independence  in  the  heart  But  I  will  bring 
my  little  lecture  to  an  end,  only  asking  you  to 
think  without  offence  of  Uncle  John's  plan, 
and  give  me  your  decision  in  a  day  or  two. 
Good-night" 

And  he  lefl  his  somewhat  chagrined  nephew 
to  his  own  thoughts.  What  these  were  we 
must  judge  by  the  results. 

The  conclusion  was  not  reached  without  some 
effort  and  some  stings  of  remorse,  particularly 
as  he  remembered  of  a  rather  sarcastic  remark 
he  indulged  in  once  regarding  "  Brother  Har- 
ry's squeamishness"  in  employing  none  but 
strictly  temperate  men,  and  never  needing 
tonics,  or  stimulants,  or  soporifics  himself. 
The  good  wife  was  taken  into  the  "council," 
and,  like  a  true  woman,  her  influenoe  was 
thrown  into  the  right  scale. 

He  had  never  looked  at  his  principres  in  the 
matter  in  this  light  before,  and  it  was  very, 
very  humiliating  to  be  obliged  to  do  so  now. 
But,  in  spite  of  his  pride,  he  knew  his  unde 
was  right,  and  at  last  had  the  manliness  to 
aaysOi 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


In  following  oat  his  friend's  advice,  do  not 
think  that  he  found  it  easy  to  reform,  for  he 
did  not  It  required  moral  courage  to  speak 
plainly  to  his  overseer  of  the  cause  of  his  dis- 
missal. It  required  self-denial  to  break  off  | 
those  habits  which  had  become  second  nature 
to  him,  but  it  taught  him  that  which  before  he 
did  not  know— that  of  himself  he  could  do  "  no 
good  thing.*'  It  taught  him  to  look  to  a  higher 
source  for  strength,  to  tnist  in  Providence,  not 
in  luck,  and  in  the  light  of  the  spiritual  bless- 
ings which  flowed  in  upon  them,  as  well  as 
earthly  enjoyments.  He  found  cause  to  be 
grateful  to  Uncle  John  lor  persuading  him  to 
adopt  his ''plan." 


THE  FIRST  SNOW. 

BT  HSBTEB  A.  BEKEDIGT. 

THROUGH  all  the  days  of  her  most  royal 
reign,  until  near  its  dose,  November  has 
been  clinging  to  the  golden  raiment  of  her  pre- 
decessor, decking  herself  in  hues  as  varied, 
and  beating  upon  the  mists  that  folded  up  the 
purple  hills  as  glad  a  time  to  as  perfect  a  Te 
Peum. 

A  little  graver,  perhaps,  her  tresses  less  luxu- 
riant, and  the  carpet  pressed  by  her  flying  feet 
mingling  russet  with  its  glorious  green ;  yet  the 
blue  above,  spotted  and  garnished  with  clouds 
of  feathery  pearl,  has  been  more  magnificently 
limitless  than  ever  the  skies  of  an  October 
time. 

The  winds  had  lost  their  feverish  heat,  and 
with  refreshing  coolness  fanned  the  faded  cheek 
and  furrowed  brow  of  age,  and  danced  with 
children  among  the  leaves  beside  the  sea-bound 
streams,  until  each  had  wellnigh  forgotten  the 
approach  of  winter's  stormy  king. 

But  how  changed  has  the  fleeting  month  be* 
come  t  To-day  darknef«  has  battled  with  the 
light  and  gained  great  victory.  No  ray  from 
sun,  or  moon,  or  stars,  obtrudes  itself  upon  the 
shadowy  pall  that  wraps  the  face  of  earth ;  and 
yet  a  wliiteness,  soft  and  tender  as  the  wing  of  i 
hope,  is  falling  gently  through  the  gloom,  to 
deck  and  beautify  the  fallen  leaves  and  all 
earth's  withered  herbage,  with  a  robe  as  lovely 
as  the  pnre  in  heart  should  wear,  while  it  sym- 
bolizes the  raiment  that  shall  be  ours  when 
"this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortality." 

The  first  snow  t 

Flake  after  flake,  it  falleth  through  the 
moveless  air,  silently  and  softly,  as  kisses  upon 
lips  aglow  with  the  wine  of  love,  as  tears  upon 
the  low,  cold  mounds  tliat  were  not  heaped  last 


year,  as  melodies  from  the  land  where  life  and 
love  are  eternal. 

We  sit— alone  with  the  twilight  and  the 
snow — and  through  all  the  silences  that,  hand 
in  hand  with  shadows,  go  evermore  about  oa, 
flutters  the  fragrance  of  water-lilies  that  made 
sweet  a  day  departed  and  a  dream  long  dead. 
The  far  off  singing  of  birds,  with  the  choruses 
of  winds  and  waves,  come  faintly  from  the 
green  groves  of  the  past,  and  the  sound  of  a 
harp,  the  whisper  of  a  voice,  the  reach  of  a 
hand,  and  the  flutter  of  a  tress,  make  glad  the 
spiritual  perception  that  neither  time  nor 
eternity  can  dull. 

We  lean  from  the  lattice,  and,  fairer  than 
pearls  in  the  purples  of  our  hair,  fall  the  pare 
white  flakes,  and  we  say :  They  are  benedic- 
tions dropped  from  the  land  ihey  wander  in, 
whose  lives  were  lifted  ftom  th^  clay  so  long, 
so  long  ago  I 

And,  saying  this,  there  comes  to  us  a  thought 
of  other  lives — lives  tender  and  human — over 
whose  verdure  and  sweetness  the  hand  of  des- 
tiny is  scattering  to-night  the  snows  that  never 
an  earthly  dawn  will  melt  away ;  the  snows  of 
a  sorrow  that  will  lie,  not  like  that  upon  the 
happy  hills,  lightly  and  dreamily,  but  with 
an  iron  weight  over  all  the  green  leaves  of  de- 
light and  the  perished  blooms  of  hope. 

We  pray  for  such.  We  cry  through  the  cold 
whiteness  of  the  storm :  God  send  to  them  the 
sweetness  of  His  peace  I  And  we  reach  toward 
them  a  hand  whose  fingers,  like  their  own,  are 
full  of  painful  yearning  to  twine  once  more 
the  tendril  curls  that  are  under  the  snow  to- 
night. 

He  who  giveth  rain  to  the  thirsty  earth,  and 
foldeth  the  fields  in  a  drapery  of  snow,  that  in 
the  seed-time  they  may  be  strong  and  in  the 
harvest  fruitful,  knoweth  best  the  need  of  every  . 
human  soul;  and  doubt  of  His  guidance,  dis- 
trust of  His  goodness,  are  unworthy  the  qrea- 
tures  of  His  care. 

The  first  snow ! 

Softly,  silently,  as  tears,  as  kisses,  as  melodies, 
it  droppeth  over  the  face  and  into  the  heart  of 
night ;  and,  leanings  from  the  lattice,  with  ita 
whiteness  in  the  purples  of  our  hair,  a  dream 
comes  to  ns  of  a  land  where  never  a  hope  and 
never  a  joy  is  folded  down  with  still  lids  and 
silent  pulses— under  the  snow  t — and  through 
all  the  aisles  of  being,  mystical  and  shadow- 
wrought,  flutters  a  low  prelude  tp  the  anthem 
whose  diapason  notes  will  drop  sweetly  from 
our  lips  by  and  by,  waking  glad  echoes  among 
the  hills  that  never  are  wrapped  in  drapery  of 
SHOW. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


JBY  yiSGINIA  F,  TOWNBENB 


CHAPTER  in. 

KETCHAM,  the  butcher,  came  to  the  front 
door  in  a  huny,  wiping  his  hands  on  his 
greasy  apron.  He  had  just  left  one  of  his  best 
coatomers  at  the  scales,  in  which  the  butcher 
hid  dumped  a  choice  piece  of  sirloin,  and  as 
Ketcham  had  a  sharp  eye  for  his  ewn  interestfl^ 
tVe  attraction  must  have  been  strong  outside 
whiA  ooald  make  him  run  any  risk  of  ofiend- 
iag  a  good  customer. 

Bat  there  the  man  stands  in  the  doorway 
with  a  row  of  fowls  picked  and  dressed,  dang- 
ling on  hooks  just  above  his  head;  a  short, 
thick-sety  bald-headed  man,  with  a  reddish, 
boflhy  growth  of  beard. 

The  focal  point  of  Ketcham's  gaze  at  this 
moment  was  nothing  less  than  a  handsome 
open  carriage,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  small-framed, 
dainty,  high-bred  baya,  driven  by  a  coachman 
in  quite  showy  livery. 

Indeed,  the  whole  effect  of  the  turnout  might 
have  seemed  a  little  pretentious  to  people  of 
quiet  tastes,  still,  this  was  a  matter  open  to 
discussion,  and  everything  was  well  ordered 
and  handsome. 

On  the  coachman's  box  sat  a  boy  or  youth, 
for  he  must,  by  this  time,  have  scaled  half  the 
high  walls  of  his  teens.  He  had  a  stout,  well- 
ihaped  figure,  and  altogether  made  a  good  ap- 
pearance in  his  blue  broadcloth  suit,  mounted 
op  there  on  the  box  by  the  coachman. 

The  youth  must  have  been  saying  something 
vhich  struck  the  boy  and  girl  inside  as  im* 
m«Dsely  witty  or  funny,  for  they  laughed  out 
b  a  loud,  tickled  way,  not  unpleasant  to  hear ; 
jouDg,  mirthful  voices  never  are. 

The  girl  had  a  pretty  face,  at  least — it  looked 
vonderfully  so,  under  its  soft  drooping  plumes 
of  white  and  aaure ;  it  was  a  face  just  out  of 
iti  childhood,  and  its  bloom  could  not  have 
been  the  bloom  of  more  than  fourteen  sum* 


The  boy  by  her  side  divided  the  distance 
betwixt  her  and  the  boy  on  the  box.  He  had 
an  odd-looking  face ;  bright  enough,  certainly, 
bat  bis  eyes  were  deep  set,  and  he  had  a  com- 
ical habit  of  winking  them  almost  incessantly; 
indeed,  the  girl  had  once  given  out  her  opin- 
ion that  Proctor's  eyelids  had  solved  the  pro- 
blem of  perpetual  motion. 

Her  father  thought  that  a  wonderfully  smart 


speech,  laughed  over  it  immoderately,  and 
averred  that  he'd  like  to  see  another  girl  of 
Cressy's  birthdays  who  oould  beat  that. 

The  man  sits  on  the  front  seat  of  his  carriage 
in  an  easy,  half-lounging  way,  with  a  half* 
conscious  air  that  he  is  its  owner,  **  and  if  any 
man  lives  who  can  show  a  better  right  to  sit 
there,  he'd  like  to  see  him,  that's  all." 

Look  at  this  man  well,  for  he  will  have  his 
own  part  to  bear — not  an  unimportant  one  in 
the  movement  of  the  drama  before  you.  He 
is  hardly  an  old  man,  still  less  is  he  a  young 
one ;  his  figure  is  a  little  above  average  height 
and  growing  portly,  a  broad  area  of  well-shaped 
face^  with  carefully  trimmed  whiskers.  He 
wears  the  best  of  broadcloth,  and  diamond  studs, 
and  a  heavy  seal  ring,  and  a  solid  watch  chain ; 
the  man,  like  his  carriage,  handsomely  got  up, 
the  same,  indeed,  to  be  said  of  both,  nothing 
offensive^  yet  a  little  salient  for  people  of  quiet 
tastes. 

A  penetrating  gaae  would  not  take  this  man 
for  a  gentleman,  in  the  fine,  old  content  of  the 
word.  Broadcloth  and  diamonds  never  make 
that,  you  know;  and  there  is  a  certain  atmos- 
phere of  coarseness  about  the  man;  a  fSunt 
smirk  of  self-complacency  in  his  face,  and  a 
degpree  of  hardness  which  might  not  strike  you 
at  first,  but  you  would  be  certain  to  detect  it  on 
examination. 

So,  the  bay  horses  and  the  handsome  car- 
riage with  its  inmates,  rolled  along  the  principal 
streets  of  Thornley,  and  curious,  admiring  eyes 
beside  Ketcham  the  butcher's,  followed  it,  for 
in  all  the  town  there  was  no  carriage  and  pair 
which  oould  compete  with  this  one. 

Ketcham  rubbed  his  hands.  He  had  an 
audience  by  this  time.  FiveK>r  six  people  had 
gathered  around  the  door-step,  amongst  these 
the  customer,  whom  the  former  had  treated  so 
unceremoniously.  **  You  al'ays  was  a  shrewd, 
tough  one,  Dick  Forsyth,"  muttered  Ketcham ; 
**  sure  to  come  out  top  'o  the  heap.  Yet  who'd 
ha'  believed  it  forty  years  ago  I" 

"You  knew  him  Uien,  did  you,  Ketcham?*' 
said  the  customer,  a  lean,  lank  man,  gulping 
down  a  first  feeling  of  injured  dignity  in  his 
curiosity. 

"  I  should  think  I  did.  We  was,  both  of  his, 
bom  just  beyond  the  old  Bopewalk  Bridge, 
not  half  a  mile  apart ;  and  Til  take  my  oath 

,(108) 
Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


104 


ABTHUB'8   LADY'S    SOME   MAGAZINE. 


on  it  any  day,  the  chances  that  I  should  ride 
in  a  grand  carriage  like  that  'un  yonder, 
seemed  a  mighty  sight  better  than  his'n  at  the 
beginning." 

"  Yon  don't  say,  now  P'  said  some  Toice  in 
the  crowd,  through  its  nose,  the  original  com- 
pany having  enlarged  itself  by  slow  accretions. 
There  are  always  plenty  of  people,  in  the  grand 
rush  and  scramble  of  this  world,  who  find  time 
to  stare  at  any  novel  sight,  or  listen  to  any 
Btrange  story, 

Eetcham  was  a  prompt,  energetic  sort  of 
man,  bat  the  chance  of  bein^  orator  to  a 
small  crowd  was  a  temptation  that  eren  his 
business  habits  could  not  resist,  so  he  wiped  his 
hands  again  on  his  greasy  apron,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  commenced. 

''It's  more  than  fifty  years  ago  since  Dick 
Forsyth  saw  the  light  down  there  beyond 
Bopewalk  Bridge.  He  had  a  hard  scramble 
of  it,  for  his  father  died  just  after  Dick's  birth, 
and  his  mother  only  lived  to  set  him  well  on 
his  feet.  Whewl  but  he  had  rough  times 
fightin'  his  way  up.  He  lived  round,  sort  o^ 
loose,  here  and  there,  among  the  £Eirmers,  doin' 
chores  and  sellin'  berries,  and  keepiu'  life  in 
him  by  hook  or  by  crook.  He  was  a  bright 
'un,  though.  If  the  school  was  tough,  Dick  was 
a  sharp  learner.  He  got  up  somewhere  into 
his  teens,  and  then  Thomley  wasn't  big  enough 
for  my  man,  and  he  sot  out  for  the  city,  and,  by 
George,  when  it  came  to  sink  or  swim,  Dick 
Forsyth  wasn't  the  fellow  to  go  down — he  was 
bound  to  feather  his  nest  by  fair  means  or 
foul." 

"How  did  the  man  make  his  money?" 
inquired  the  lank  customer,  while  the  rest  of 
the  audience,  composed  mostly  of  small  shop- 
keepers, errand-boys,  and  clerks  from  the 
adjoining  stores,  listened  in  all  sorts  of  awk- 
ward, intent  attitudes. 

"  He  made  it  by  gambling.  Kept  a  grand 
saloon  for  years  in  New  York.  I  tell  ye,  Dick 
Forsyth  wasn't  the  fellow  to  be  squeamish 
about  ways  and  means  when  money  was  in  the 
question." 

There  was  a  murmur  amid  the  gaping  crowd, 
partly  of  approval,  partly  of  dissent.  Those 
salient  evideopes  of  prosperity  which  make  so 
strong  an  appeal  to  one  side  of  our  natures — not 
the  highest  and  noblest— bad  just  passed  before 
the  eyes  of  the  crowd.  It  was  a  Tery  powerful 
argument  on  the  side  of  gain  against  principle. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ketcham,  with  a  respect  for  the 
successful  man,  which,  however,  was  not  with- 
out serious  detractions  in  his  own  mind.  "  If 
you  want  to  make  money  in  this  world,  it  don't 


do  to  stick  at  trifles.  Do  you  s'pose,  if  Forsyth 
had  done  that,  he*d  stand  where  he  does  to-day  ? 
The  way  is  to  go  right  in  and  shonlder  your- 
self through.  It's  a  grab  game  anyhow,  and  if 
you  don't  look  out  sharp  for  number  one,  you'll 
come  out  at  the  little  end  o^  the  horn.  It's  all 
well  to  talk  about  honesty's  pay  in*,  and  the  par- 
son's bound  to  preach  it  o'  Sundays,  but  I  tell 
you,  my  friends,  'twant  any  too  much  honesty- 
went  into  the  getting  of  that  are  carriage  or 
them  are  bays." 

These  sentiments  were  greeted  by  a  loud 
hoot  and  laugh,  and  cries  of—"  That's  so  T' 
among  the  crowd. 

Eetcham  felt  that  he  had  made  his  climax, 
and  that  his  peroration  could  not  be  improved. 
He  returned  to  his  scales  and  his  best  cus- 
tomer. 

Just  as  he  was  taking  oat  the  meat,  the 
butcher,  glancing  out  of  his  store,  saw  a  boy 
dragging  by  a  pale-faced,  thread-bare,  stunted 
little  being,  with  that  old,  pinched,  hungry 
look  which  in  young  faces  tells  its  own  pitifal 
story,  and  is  its  own  terrible  witness  to  the 
Heavens  of  awful  wrong  somewhere. 

"Humph!  there  he  goes  again,"  growled 
the  butcher,  as  he  rolled  up  the  meat  "  I  say 
there  ought  to  be  a  law  ag^ainst  poor  folks  bein' 
in  this  world" — taming  to  his  customer — 
"  They've  no  business  here.  We  ought  to  treat 
'em  jest  as  they  do  the  old  and  infirm  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world,  among  the  Turks  and 
Chinese,  and  that  class." 

"  How's  that,  Eetcham  f  taking  up  his  mar- 
ket basket. 

**  Why,  they  jest  get  'em  quietly  one  side,  and 
then  take  their  heads  off,  clean  and  smooth,  no 
words  about  it — ^think  no  more  of  it  than  I  do 
of  laying  out  a  nice,  fat  steer.  I  tell  yoa,  sir, 
it's  doin'  them  and  mankind  too  a  &vor,  put- 
tin'  them  ont  of  the  way  and  leavin'  room  for 
their  betters.  This  world  has  rather  too  mndt 
to  do,  tugging  along  the  shiftless,  and  lazy,  and 
good-for-nothin'  generally.  It's  too  much  to 
Mk  of  it,"  and  the  butcher  glanced  in  a  dread- 
fully savage  way  at  the  big  knife  which  lay  on 
the  bench,  as  though  he  would  like  to  use  it  on 
some  other  kind  of  flesh  than  that  of  mminaat 
quadrupeds. 

"  What's  set  you  off  on  that  tack,  Eetcham  ?" 
inquired  the  customer,  with  a  ladgh,  slinging 
the  market  basket  on  his  arm. 

"There's  that  Billings  now.  Just  saw  hia 
boy  crawlin'  by ;  thin  as  a  weasel  nine-tenths 
starved.  Father  a  poor,  drunken  dog;  wife 
sick  at  home,  abused  and  starved.  Such 
men  as  he^  is  precisely  the  sort  which  needs 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAT. 


105 


tbe  old  Turk's  pronin'  knife  round  tHeir 
neck?." 

The  cnstomer  went  off  laughing,  and  think- 
ing that  Ketcham  was  an  original  in  his  way. 

Then  the  butcher  went  to  the  front  door 
again,  and  sent  his  voice  with  a  loud  shout  far 
down  the  street:  "What,  hoi  you  young  Bil- 
lings, I  say." 

The  boy  turned  and  trotted  back ;  pinched^ 
meagre,  ragged,  he  stood  a  forlorn  spectacle 
enough  before  the  butcher's  window.  Ketch- 
am*8  gaze  went  over  him.  The  sight  was  elo- 
quent and  pathetic,  if  it  made  its  way  to  that 
soft  itreak  which  I  suppose  we  all  have  some- 
where in  our  souls. 

"What  you  in  such  a  confounded  hurry  for, 
boy?  Not  likely  to  find  any  better  pickin'a 
than  round  here,  I  reckon." 

"Mother's  wuas,"  said  the  shivering  boy, 
hoarsely  and  sententiously,  wiping  bis  nose  on 
his  coat  sleeve. 

"S'pose  80.  No  particular  reason  why  she 
should  be  any  better,  as  I  can  see.  Got  a  few 
bones,  odds  and  ends,  lyin'  around,  that  Pd  be 
glad  to  be  lightened  of." 

The  eyes  glittered  out  of  the  widened  face 
greedily.  Ketcham  saw  it  The  sight  did  not 
make  his  movements  any  slower.  He  hunted 
op  an  old  basket,  and  the  ''odds  and  ends" 
proved  to  be  savory  cuts  of  beef  and  lamb,  and 
nice  joints  for  broth,  and  some  mealy  potatoes, 
tnd  a  bunch  of  onions,  and  a  dozen  nice  roast- 
ing apples  to  boot 

"  There,  boy,  I  reckon  thaf  s  about  as  much 
IS  such  a  pipe-stem  as  you  can  sail  under." 
Ketcham's  metaphors,  you  see,  were  as  open  to 
criticism  as  his  grammar.  "Trot,  now  I  There, 
never  mind  about  the  thanks — they'll  keep. 
Only,  when  that  are's  gone,  and  you  happen  to 
be  paasin'  by  here  again,  it  may  be  worth  your 
vhile  not  to  be  in  too  big  a  hurry.  Mind  that 
now,  will  you  ?" 

''Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  witb  a  pleased  flush 
all  orer  the  pinched  face,  at  the  thought  of  the 
good  meals  in  that  basket 

Eetcham  turned  ofi)  muttering  to  himself: 
"So  that's  the  way  it  goes.  Hang  it,  I  say. 
Somebody's  got  to  take  care  of  these  lazy, 
drunken  dogs'  wives  and  brats.  Might  as  well 
be  me  as  anybody,  I  s'pose." 

Ah  I  Ketcham  might  hold  forth  to  a^ping, 
ihouting  crowd  about  honesty's  not  paying,  and 
Huff  of  that  sort,  but  I  believe,  in  the  long  run, 
the  butcher  would  find  that  morning's  deed  to 
the  woman  who  was  worse  than  a  widow,  and 
to  the  boy  worse  than  an  orphan,  paid ;  yes, 
"good  measure,  pressed  down  and  flowing  over." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Meanwhile,  the  owner  of  the  handsome  car- 
riage and  his  young  family  had  reached  their 
home.  It  was  a  new  house,  the  handsomest  in 
Thornley,  having  been  finished  less  than  a  year 
ago  by  its  owner,  who,  being  obliged  to  go 
abroad  for  his  health,  had  offered  the  place  for 
sale. 

Bichard  Forsyth,  happening  to  be  in  his 
birthplace  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  had 
"  snapped  up  the  place,"  to  us^  his  own  words, 
"  at  a  bargain." 

What  influenced  this  man  to  settle  down  in 
such  a  place  as  Thornley,  I  cannot  tell.  Very 
likely  he  could  not  himself.  Perhaps  there 
was  some  lurking  tenderness  for  the  old  home 
of  his  boyhood,  and  tlie  scene  of  his  early  strug- 
gles, sliarp  and  tough  enough.  They  would 
have  taken  breath  and  courage  out  of  many  a 
soul ;  but  Kichard  Forsyth's  was  made,  at  the 
beginning,  out  of  tough  fibre,  and  the  kicks 
and  bruises,  and  the  long,  hard  pull  with 
poverty,  had  not  crushed  him. 

He  had  made  his  own  way  in  the  world,  and 
he  was  vividly  conscious  of  that  fact.  Ketcham 
had  told  the  honest  truth  about  Forsyth.  He 
had  amassed  his  wealth  by  keeping  a  hand- 
some gambling  saloon  in  New  York.  He  was 
a  shrewd,  sharp  man,  of  course,  always,  to  use 
his  own  words,  "  lying  low,  and  knowing  the 
time  to  spring  upon  his  game." 

Forsyth  always  kept  himself  out  of  the 
clutches  of  the  law.  He  had  necessarily  seen 
a  great  deal  of  the  worst  side  of  human  nature, 
and  had  a  pretty  low  estimate  of  his  kind.  It 
is  only  saying  the  truth  of  Bichard  Forsytli  to 
say  that  he  was  a  coarse,  selfish,  unprincipled 
man ;  lie  could  swagger,  and  bluster,  and  swear; 
yet  he  knew  when  to  refrain  firom  doing  all 
this,  and  in  the  company  of  gentlemen  could 
be  on  the  surface,  and  to  a  degree,  one  himself. 

Then,  too,  there  is  this  to  be  put  to  the  credit 
side  of  the  man — ^aiid  I  hope  ^yqtj  human  being 
has  one — he  had  not  been  an  unkind  husband, 
and  was,  in  a  good  many  ways,  an  indulgent 
father.  He  loved  his  boys  and  that  girl  of  his, 
the  latter,  probably,  since  her  mother  died, 
better  than  anything  in  the  world;  and  al- 
though, if  he  had  been  a  better  man,  the  love 
would  have  been  wiser  and  more  thoughtful, 
still,  with  all  his  faults,  Bichard  Forsyth  would 
have  been  a  far  worse  man  without  the  love  at 
the  core  of  him. 

The  house  whicli  he  had  purchased  stood 

on  a  high  river  bank,  -quite  remote  from  the 

centre  of  the  town.    It  was  a  wide,  pleasant 

stone  house,  with  a  fine  view  of  Thornley  itself, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


106 


ARTEUB^a   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


and  the  ootljing  hills  and  farm-houses.  In- 
side the  stone  wall  which  encircled  the  grounds 
were  pleasant  walks  and  promising  joung  fruit 
treeS)  making  altogether  an  attractive  home. 
And  here  Bichard  Forsyth,  well  among  liis 
fifties,  and  beginning  to  feel  a  little  hankering 
for  rest  and  home  quiet — ^albeit  he  was  not 
much  the  worse  for  the  hurry  and  noise  of  the 
life  in  which  he  had  shoved  and  elbowed  his 
way — had  planted  his  vine  and  fig  trees,  and  set 
up  his  household  gods. 

*'  You'll  be  sick  of  it  in  a  month,  Forsyth. 
You'll  never  be  able  to  stand  it,  browsing  in  a 
dull,  one-horse  town  like  that  down  below," 
said  some  of  the  man's  old  cronies,  with  whom 
he  had  been  finger  and  glove  at  hotel  dinners 
and  wine  suppers,  and  whom  he  had  now  in- 
vited out  to  survey  his  new  premises. 

Forsyth  was  not  at  all  certain  himself;  but 
the  property,  he  reflected,  could  go  into  the 
market  any  time  at  a  handsome  advance.  Then 
he  was  not  so  young  as  he  had  been  ten  or 
twenty  years  ago ;  and  the  strain  and  wear  of 
life — ^such  a  life  as  his — told  on  him  a  little 
more. 

He  need  not,  it  is  true,  have  stepped  so  far 
aside  from  it  as  Thornley;  but  the  air  was 
healthy,  and  would  suit  those  growing  boys 
and  that  girl  of  his.  Then,  as  I  said,  the  old 
place  had  been  the  home  of  his  childhood,  the 
theatre  of  the  roughest,  hardest  scrambles  of 
Bichard  Forsyth's  life.  What  a  tough,  bitter, 
frost-bitten  rind  of  a  youth  he  had  had  I  It 
was  pleasant  now  to  lounge  back  on  the  silken 
cushions  of  his  elegant  carriage  as  it  rolled 
along  the  very  highways  where  his  pinched 
toes  had  carried  him,  ragged,  and  hungry,  and 
wretched,  in  his  boyhood.  When  the  picture 
rose  up  before  him,  with  its  sharp  contrasts  of 
then  and  now,  it  gave  the  man  a  most  comfort- 
able feeling  of  self-complacency,  to  see  how  he 
had  fought  his  way,  by  dint  of  cunning  and 
shrewdness,  to  the  place  where  he  stood  to-day. 

They  had  been  home  half  an  hour  from  the 
ride  which  had  called  forth  such  a  display  of 
eloquence  from  the  butcher  that  morning. 
The  boys,  Bamsey  and  Proctor,  were  loung- 
ing about,  joking  each  other,  and  Cressy — she 
wore  her  mothet^s  name  when  she  worked  it  on 
a  sampler  or  wrote  it  in  her  copy-books,  but  the 
stately  heirloom  had  been  defrauded  of  its 
vowels,  and  worn  down  into  the  crisp  little 
diiwy liable  which  slipped  so  easy  and  home- 
like off  one's  lips — Cressy  was  bnsy  with  some 
autumn  leaves,  bits  of  gold  and  fire,  which  she 
had  just  gathered  outside. 

The  young  family  were  all  in  the  sitting- 


room,  that  had  a  aonthem  exposure,  which 
helped  set  out  the  handsome  furniture  inside; 
the  carpet  was  rich,  and  there  were  brackets  at 
the  proper  angles,  and  a  new  piano,  which  just 
fitted  an  alcove  on  one  side. 

I  want  to  take  you,  without  further  pre&ce^ 
right  into  the  heart  of  the  house-life  of  these 
people;  and  perhaps  the  talk  and  the  scene 
which  occupied  the  next  ten  minutes  will  serve 
my  purpose  as  well  as  any  more  elaborate  draw- 
ing would. 

Bamsey,  lounging  about  in  a  lazy,  indefinite 
way,  anything  but  good  for  a  youth  of  sixteen, 
if  the  lounging  confirmed  itself  into  habit,  sud- 
denly broke  into  a  loud,  short  laugh,  ending  up 
with,  "That  was  jolly  r 

"  What  was  ?"  asked  Proctor,  looking  up,  his 
eyelids  going  at  their  usual  speed. 

"  The  way  the  folks  stared  at  us  this  morn- 
'  ing.     One  would  have  thought  we  were  kanga- 
roos and  Polar  bears  straight  out  of  a  mena- 
gerie." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Proctor,  laughing  a  little 
in  his  turn,  but  less  noisily  than  his  brother. 
"I  don't  s'pose  these  savages  round  liere  ever 
'  set  eyes  on  a  carriage  like  ours,  or  on  hoite- 
flesh  like  those  buys." 

"  It's  a  rum  team,  that's  a  £Eict,"  said  Bamsey. 

Cressy  put  in  now :  "  It  never  seemed  any- 
thing very  wonderful  to  me  on  Broadway,  bat 
here  in  Thornley  it's  quite  another  thing." 

"  I  should  think  it  was,"  replied  her  eldest 
brother,  with  a  sneer.  "  Anything  decent  would 
be  wonderful  in  this  old  fox-hole  of  a  town. 
People  never  saw  anything  better  than  ox 
teams  and  farmers'  carts." 

Bamsey  had  a  strong  hankering  after  the 
city,  with  its  sights  and  shows,  and  all  its  noisy, 
objective  life,  and  by  no  means  approved  of  his 
father^s  burying  them  all  alive  in  that  jumping^ 
off  place,  and  let  no  opportunity  escape  of 
villifying  the  town  of  Thornley  and  the  in- 
habitants lhereo£ 

"I  don't  think  it  so  bad,  really,  now,"  said 
Cressy.  "  There's  a  good  deal  of  fun  here,  and 
I'm  sure  the  sky  and  the  trees  are  pleaaanter 
than  great  rows  of  brick  houses." 

Bamsey  Forsyth  had  a  strong  will  of  his  own, 
which  had  never  been  curbed ;  indeed,  when 
yon  came  to  the  moral  training  of  this  family, 
the  neglect  had  been  sad  and  pitiful  enough ; 
no  high  ideals  had  ever  entered,  no  lofty  senti- 
ments had  ever  penetrated  its  atmosphere.  On 
this  subject  of  the  new  home,  too,  Bamsey  was 
particularly  sensitive,  having  a  feeling  that  if 
he  could  only  bring  the  family  sentiment 
strongly  on  his  side,  his  father  might  be  in* 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAT, 


107 


daoed  to  shnt  up  the  house  fpr  the  winieri  his 
doizig  this  now,  remaining  in  suspense. 

''Ah  though  you  could  throw  dust  in  my 
ejes,  Greasj  Forsyth  I  As  though  I  oould  not 
•ee  well  enough  what  you  take  on  oountiy 
milkmaid  airs  of  a  sudden  for/' 

"  I  haven't  taken  on  any  country  milkmaid 
aixsy"  said  Cressy,  hristling  ap  at  once.  ''Hare 
I  now,  Proctor?" 

"  I  haven't  seen  any/'  answered  the  younger 
hoy,  who  was  not^  however,  too  much  inclined 
to  the  office  of  peacemaker,  as  he  rather  en- 
joyed a  sharp  tilt  between  the  two.  *<What 
do  you  mean,  Bamsey  ?" 

''All  that  stuff  about  pleasant  skies  and 
trees.  I  can  see  through  it.  She  means  to 
eome  it  round  dad — has  an  eye  on  his  pocket— 
waata  a  new  doll,  or  a  set  of  jewelry,  or  some 
girl's  gimcrack  or  other." 

**  You  know  better,"  said  Gressy,  flushing  all 
over  her  iace^  the  insinuation  that  she  could 
play  with  dolls  being  the  arrow  tipped  with 
venom  in  her  brother's  remark,  although  she 
would  not  even  condescend  to  notice  it  ''You 
know  better,  Bamsey  Forsyth.  I  never  went 
about  in  my  life  to  get  anything  out  of  papa  in 
that  way,  and  when  I  say  I  like  Thornley,  it's 
lost  because  I  honestly  do." 

Bamsey  langhed  a  disagreeable,  sceptical 
bngh,  which  was  particularly  irritating.  Thu 
boy  had  a  great  many  faults,  as  you  will  find 
out  before  I  get  through  with  him ;  one  of  the 
worst  of  which  was,  the  malicious  pleasure 
which  he  took  in  aggravating  people  inamall 
wayfc 

For  a  wonder,  considering  the  fiery  little 
mortal  she  was,  Cressy  made  no  reply  to  this 
laugh.  She  was  busy  ''  gumming  "  her  leaves, 
as  ahe  called  it,  which  meant  painting  the 
flane  and  gold  with  some  glossy  substance. 
She  held  some  of  these  up,  in  a  minute  or  twa 
"  lx)ok,  Proctor  I    Aren't  they  lovely  ?" 

"They're  pretty  enough,"  with  a  oonde* 
•eending  glance.  ''  But  what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  all  those  old  leaves." 

**  To  call  them  old  leaves  1"  repeated  OraBsy, 
admiringly  surveying  her  work.  ''What  a 
shame !  You'll  see^  one  of  these  days^  what 
pretty  things  I  shall  make  out  of  them ;  a  round 
frame  for  my  picture  of  the  Flower  Girls,  and 
wreaths  above  the  brackets,  and  trimmings  for 
the  vases." 

"What  trash  r  broke  in  Bamsey's  sneer 
again.  "Making  such  a  fuss  over  old  dead 
leaves  I  That's  a  part  of  the  country  milk- 
BAid's  plan,  too,  I  s'poae." 

By  this  time  the  peppery  little  temper  was 


quite  roused.  It  broke  out  in  a  hot  rush  of 
acljectives.  "  You  are  the  meanest,  most  dis- 
agreeable, hatefullest  boy  in  all  the  world, 
Bamsey  Forsyth,  and  I  just  abhor  you." 

The  boy  came  and  stood  still  before  the  girl, 
with  that  look  of  cool  contempt  on  his  face 
most  calculated  to  aggravate  her.  "  Can't  you 
pile  it  on  a  little  thicker  than  that?"  he  asked. 

The  small  angry  face  looked  as  though  it 
would  like  to  annihilate  the  big,  overbearing 
fellow  standing  there;  and  perhaps  anybody 
witnessing  this  scene  would  have  felt  that  the 
strong  moral  tonic  of  a  good  thrashing  was 
precisely  what  the  boy's  insolence  and  self- 
conceit  most  needed,  although  hide-correctives 
are  always  the  last  remedies  for  human  souls — 
that  rod  of  Solomon's  working  a  great  deal  of 
harm,  if  taken  often  otherwise  than  metaphor- 
ically, 

"If  I  could  think  of  any  worse  words— you 
mean,  hateful,  horrid  old  thing — ^yon  should 
have  the  benefit  of  them.  I  wish  you'd  just 
get  out  of  my  sight;  and  I  never  want  to  see 
you  again  as  long  as  I  live  and  breathe^  Bam* 
sey  Forsyth." 

Cressy  stood  right  up  as  she  said  these  words, 
her  eyes  ablaze  with  the  stormy  wrath  at  work 
in  the  head  beneath.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
sight;  but  the  big  bullying  boy,  rather  than 
the  foolish  angry  girl,  would  have  received,  as 
he  well-merited,  the  larger  share  of  your  in- 
dignation. 

Proctor,  who  had  rather  relished  the  com- 
mencement of  this  foolish  quarrel,  came  up  now 
to  the  rescue. 

"  Do  let  Cress  alone,  Bamsey.  What  do  you 
want  to  be  always  nagging  her  for?" 

"  I  haven't  done  anything,  I  say.  What  do 
you  want  to  pitch  on  me  for  ?  She  needn't  be 
such  a  spitfire,  and  she  wouldn't,  either,  if  it 
wasn't  for  her  old  red  hea^." 

Now  Creasy  had  taken  the  absnrdest  notion 
that  her  hair  was  her  great  misfortune ;  the 
foolish  child  actually  regarded  the  soft  auburn 
glow  which  struck  through  it  in  certain  lights, 
as  she  would  a  personal  infirmity.  Her  sen- 
sitiveness OB  this  subject  was  as  morbid  as  it 
was  unaccountable;  and,  of  course,  all  Cressy 's 
family  were  fully  conscious  of  this  weakness 
of  hers,  and,  even  with  Bamsey,  any  allusion  to 
the  color  of  his  sister's  hair  formed  the  great 
gun  which  he  only  fired  off  in  their  stormiest 
quarrels. 

Cressy  sprang  up ;  that  pretty  girlkh  face  of 
hers — how  it  shook  and  quivered,  and  was 
transformed  with  rage !  She  made  a  blind  dive 
and  rush  at  her  brother,  probably  at  his  hair. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


i08 


ARTHUR' 8    LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE, 


"  Oh !  I  wish  I  oeuld  kill  joq  T'  she  cried  ;  but, 
in  her  mad  plunge,  the  girl  fell  against  her 
work-cabinet,  a  daintf  piece  of  rosewood  carv« 
ing  which  had  been  a  Christmas-gift  from  her 
fiither,  and  which  filled  all  sorts  of  misoellar 
neous  offices,  as  writing-desk,  work-box,  and 
omnium-gatherum;  and  this  now  wentdown  with 
its  owner,  one  of  the  brackets  snapping  sharply 
of^  while  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  spools,  wax, 
papers,  and  leaves  rolled  on  the  floor. 

Cressy's  tumble  bruised  her  a  little,  and 
shocked  her  nerves  a  good  deal  more.  She 
burst  into  H  loud  flood  of  tears,  and  hurt,  angry, 
mortified,  rushed  sobbing  stormily  out  of  the 
room. 

Proctor  turned  angrily  upon  his  brother. 
He  was  slower  than  either  of  the  others,  but  he 
had  the  family  temper  when  it  was  roused. 

"  I  hope  you  are  satisfied  now,"  he  said,  his 
cheeks  puffing  out.  "  I  wish  I  was  a  man  five 
minutes,  to  give  you  just  the  thrashing  yon 
deserve." 

"  You  better  go  in  and  try  it  then,"  answered 
Barasey,  whistling  and  trying  to  look  uncon- 
cerned at  the  broken  rosewood  and  the  debris 
scattered  upon  the  floor. 

Before  Proctor  could  answer,  a  new  actor 
appeared  upon  the  scene.  It  was  the  head  of 
the  house  himself,  who,  in  a  distant  room,  had 
been  roused  by  the  fall  and  Greasy's  cries. 

"  Now  whaf  8  to  pay  here  V*  he  asked,  glano- 
ing  at  his  sons  and  at  the  strewn  carpet. 

**  Oh,  Ramsey  and  Gretsy  have  been  having 
one  of  their  fights,"  answered  Proctor. 

"  She  needn't  have  made  such  a  fool  of  her- 
self," exclaimed  the  elder  boy,  feeling,  by  this 
time^  that  the  matter  b^an  to  look  serious,  and 
he  must  make  the  best  deftnce  the  circum- 
stances admitted. 

"  Now  Ram,  you  know  it  was  mostly  your 
fault.  You  always  must  needs  be  nagging  and 
aggravating  her." 

"  Well,  she  needn't  be  such  a  lightning-bug ; 
I  only  meant  it  for  a  joke,"  answered  Ramsey, 
trying,  rather  ignobly,  to  get  his  neck  out  of 
the  scrape,  for  he  knew  on  which  side  hb  fath- 
er's sympathies  would  naturally  incline,  and 
standing  in  more  or  less  fear  of  rousing  him. 

**  You  young  rascal,  I  don't  doubt  you  were 
rt  the  bottom  of  the  mischief.  Big  as  you  are» 
I  ought  to  give  you  a  sound  horsewhipping. 
Now  let's  have  tlie  facts,  Proctor.  Not  a  word 
from  you,  at  your  peril,  Ramsey." 

Of  course  no  boy  who  had  rounded  the 
hemisphere  of  his  teens,  would  require  to  be 
talked  to  in  this  style  without  terrible  antece- 
dent fiiultB  on  the  parentis  part. 


Proctor  went  over  the  main  features  of  the 
story  we  have  related.  They  made  etrongly 
against  Ramsey,  it  must  be  admitted,  yet  when 
it  came  to  the  origin  of  the  quarrel,  the  bov 
was  utterly  befogged,  and  probably  the  chief 
actors  in  it  would  have  been  equally  so. 

Possessed  of  the  main  features,  Forsyth 
stormed  awhile  at  his  elder  son — no  matter 
here  to  repeat  his  invectives,  which  had  more 
or  less  oaths  in  them. 

The  ultimatum,  however,  was,  that  if  Ram- 
sey did  not,  in  future,  cease  from  tormenting 
his  sister,  he  should  be  packed  oflj  hide  and 
hair,  to  some  rigid  boarding-echool,  with  strict 
orders  to  themasterto  hold  a  high  hand  over  him. 

Richard  Forsyth,  as  his  son  was  aware^  was 
not  a  man  of  many  idle  threats,  and  bad  as 
Thomley  was,  Ramsey  infinitely  preferred  it 
to  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture. 

The  boy  also  was  to  pay  for  the  mending  of 
the  broken  cabinets  out  of  his  own  allowance^ 
and  with  some  more  noisy  bluster,  but  with 
meaning  at  the  bottom  of  it,  which  his  soa 
dared  not  defy,  Forsyth  took  himself  oat  of 
the  room. 

I  have  introduced  this  family  to  you— oe^ 
talnly  its  younger  portion — on  their  worst  side, 
which  seems,  after  all,  hardly  the  fair  thing  to 
do,  at  least  I  suppose  none  of  us  would  fancy 
being  dealt  with  in  this  way  in  real  life. 

Happily,  before  I  get  through,  I  shall  bavo 
other  sides  to  show  you.  Here  is  a  bit  which 
lightens  the  picture. 

Returning  to  his  letteis— for  Forsyth  was 
still  a  man  of  business — he  heard  a  smothered 
sob  from  a  small  ante-room  on  his  right.  He 
pushed  open  the  door  and  looked  in.  Hifl 
daughter  lay  stretched  on  a  lounge,  her£ioe 
buried  in  a  cushion,  some  sighs  shaking  her 
occasionally,  the  final  heavings  of  the  tempest 
which  had  passed  over  her.  Terrible  as  Cres- 
sy's  tempers  were,  they  came  like  thonderbolti 
and  passed  as  swiftly. 

"  Gome  now,  Cressy,  never  mind ;  cheer  op 
and  be  a  woman,"  said  her  fatlfer,  in  a  loud, 
kindly  voice,  stopping  a  moment  in  the  door. 
Cressy  lifted  up  her  face,  flushed  and  plaintive 
still,  but  the  tears  were  almost  dried. 

*' You  know  all  about  it,  pa?" 

"Oh, yes.  Proctor's  been  telling  me.  Fve 
given  the  rascal  a  good  trimming  down.  Bat, 
Cressy,  whaf  s  the  use  of  getting  so  mad--goiog 
ofiT  like  such  a  pop-gun  yourself?" 

"I  can't  help  it,  pa,"  in  a  half-ashamed, 
half-pleading  tone.  "You  don't  know  how 
hateful,  and  outrageous,  and  aggravating  Bsm- 
sey  ig." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


CERISTMAa-TIDE^ANECDOTE    OF   LVTHER. 


109 


*  Yes  I  do.  He  deserves  a  good  cudgelling ; 
but  if  70a  weren't  such  b  little  pepper-box  he 
wonldn't  tiy  it  on  yoa  so  often.  What  good 
DOW  has  all  this  storm  done?" 

CresBj  drew  a  long,  long  sigh.  She  looked 
80  prettj,  and  ashamed,  and  troabled,  sitting 
there ;  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  gased, 
die  was  a  little  dearer  than  anything  else  in  the 
world. 

She  rose  up  and  went  to  her  &ther,  and  laid 
her  soft  young  cheek  against  his  sleeve. 
'^Papa,"  she  said,  "I  shall  always  be  getting 
mad  and  going  ofi^  as  yoa  say,  like  a  pop-gun. 
It^sla  me." 

"Foolish  little  girl,"  patting  the  beantifol 
iiair,  which,  in  Creesy's  eyes,  was  such  a  dread- 
£il  ofifence,  "  not  to  see  she  is  her  own  worst 
eoemy.  There  goes  the  bell.  After  lanch  I 
shall  drive  over  with  my  letters,  and  you  may 
go  along,  and  we'll  hear  no  more  about  this 
miserable  business." 

She  went  away  from  him,  her  face  all  cleared 
np^  humming  some  light  ditty  to  herselfl 
{To  heecnUinw^.^ 


/h^. 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

BY    BBV.  H.   HASTIKGS  WSLD. 

Glory  be  to  God  on  High ! 

When  shall  echo  back  from  earth, 
That  angelic  minstrelsy, 

Which  proclaims  a  Satioub'b  birth  ? 

Peace  on  Earth  I  Oh,  when  shall  Feaoe 
Wave  ber  banner  o'er  the  world  ? 

When  the  olang  of  Warfare  cease  ? 
When  her  baleful  flag  be  furled? 

Good  Will  to  Men  !  Oh,  when  shall  Love 
Close  the  scenes  and  Toices  dread. 

Where  the  death-shriek  soands  above 
The  silence  of  the  ghastly  dead  ? 

When  Man's  faith-enlighteaed  eye 
Shall  disoera  the  Heavenly  mom. 

Glory  beaming  in  the  sky 
Ever  since  the  Chbist  was  bom — 

When  the  deaf,  who  still  have  ears,* 
Hear  the  angel's  happy  song, 

Snng  through  God's  etemal  years, 
Throagh  the  ages  all  along — 

When  the  Kingdom  of  the  Lord, 

By  Man's  inner  heart  is  owned. 
Then,  by  all  the  world  abroad, 

Shan  the  Prince  of  Peace  be  throned. 
Then  to  God  shall  Glory  be ! 

Then  on  earth  shall  Discord  cease. 
And,  as  waters  fill  the  sea, 

Chbist  shall  fill  the- earth  with  Peaoe. 

'  Isaiah  zun.  S. 


ANECDOTE  OF  LUTHEB, 

BY  MBS.  M.  O.  JOHNSON. 

IT  is  well  known  that  the  parents  of  Martin 
Luther  were  exceedingly  severe — more  than 
this,  for  their  ponishments,  even  for  slight 
offences,  were  absolutely  cruel.  But  all  may 
not  be  familiar  with  the  following  anecdote, 
which  illustrates  his  own  character  as  a  father. 

One  day  while  he  was  conversing  with  a 
friend,  his  little  boy  was  brought  by  thenur^ 
into  the  room  in  a  fdrious  passion.  Luther, 
taking  little  apparent  notice,  quietly  rose, 
crossed  the  room  to  the  piano,  and  began  play- 
ing some  grand  old  minor  melody.  Li  a  few 
moments  the  boy  was  calmed  and  could  be  rea- 
soned with  gently  and  effectually. 

Perhaps,  with  a  child  of  different  tempera- 
ment, just  this  course  might  not  succeed — per- 
haps not  always  with  the  same  child.  But  the 
father's  action  evidenced  two  things :  that  he 
tried  earnestly  to  understand  his  boy's  dispoai- 
tion  and  adapt  his  management  to  it ;  andthat 
he  songht  to  govern,  as  £eur  as  possible,  by 
gentle  means. 

Not  every  father,  not  every  mother,  thua 
knows,  or  makes  the  efiR}rt  to  know  the  child. 
Not  every  one  rules  his  or  her  own  spirit  suffi- 
ciently to  meet  anger  with  calmness  and  gentle- 
ness combined  with  resolution. 

"Like  cures  like,"  is  all  very  well  in  medi- 
cine and  some  other  things,  but  we  are  apt  to 
practise  it  in  a  perverted  form.  Passion  may 
be  temporarily  snppressed  by  fear — shat  in, 
hidden  from  sight,  like  the  flames  of  baming 
coal  with  fresh  fuel  cast  npon  it  But  not  iHJIX 
fire  qtuiMhn  fire  will  the  child's  temper  be  im- 
proved by  a  counter  irritation  on  the  part  of 
father  or  mother. 

The  main  thing  needed  is  to  bring 
another  and  different  feeling  into  play,  as  in 
this  case,  as  may  sometimes  be  cdOTected  by 
turning  the  child's  attention  to  some  ludicrous 
object,  (for  anger  and  mirth  •cannot  coexist,) 
and  in  various  ways. 

No  single  method  will  serve  at  all  tlmes^  but 
a  common-sense  use  of  this  general  principle 
in  love  and  patience,  will,  sooner  or  later,  sac- 
ceed. 

Sheltok,  in  one  of  his  sermons,  says:— 
''An  apright  is  always  easier  than  a  stoop> 
ing  postnre,  because  it  is  more  natural, 
and  one  part  is  better  supported  by  an- 
other; so  it  is  easier  to  be  an  honest 
man  than  a  knave.  It  is  also  more 
graoefuL" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   HOME    CIRCLE. 


EDITED    BT  A  LADY. 


HOW  TO  AMUSE  CHILDEEN.     * 

A  MOTHER  of  a  growing  f&mily  of  boyi  and 
girli  has,  perhaps,  no  harder  trial  than  that 
inrolFed  in  keeping  little  hands  and  raindi  bnij, 
and  at  the  same  time  out  of  misohief.  In  the  sum- 
mer  It  is  not  so  difficult  The  children  can  be  dis- 
missed-to  some  out-door  region,  and  onlj  require 
occasional  soperrision.  But  when  winter  comes, 
and  colds  and  threatened  croup  are  the  consequen- 
ces of  too  much  out-of-door  play,  then  the  poor 
distracted  mother  is  sometimes  at  her  wit's  end. 

The  boys  are  noisy ;  the  girls  are  reitless  and 
teasing;  the  perpetual  cry  of  both  is:  "I  want 
something  to  do."  They  quarrel  among  them- 
selyes;  they  ''wake  the  baby;"  they  set  poor  mo- 
ther's  nerves  all  of  a  qnirer ;  while  grandmother 
moralises  on  the  degeneracy  of  the  times,  and  won- 
ders why  children  are  so  much  more  unruly  now 
than  they  were  when  she  was  young. 

There  are  rarious  ways  in  which  to  amuse  chil- 
dren, if  one  will  give  a  little  thought-  to  the  matter. 

Sets  of  paper  dolls  and  paper  furniture  are  not 
ezpensiTc,  and  are  invaluable  to  keep  little  girls 
busy  and  quiet. 

A  quantity  of  beads  of  different  colors,  with 
needle  and  thread,  will  serve  until  the  last  bead  is 
lost 

Some  paper,  a  pair  of  scissors  and  a  cup  of  paste, 
with  the  corner  of  the  room  to  make  a  litter  in,  is 
another  ingenious  device  for  occupying  the  fingers 
and  thoughts  of  the  little  ones,  and  has  never  been 
known  to  fail. 

A  slate  and  pencil  we  have  found  of  infinite 
ralue.  Also  pieces  of  waste  paper  and  a  lead- 
pencil. 

A  cheap  box  of  paints  and  a  book  of  pictures, 
with  full  liberty  to  "paint,"  we  have  also  found 
a  success. 

It  is  well  to  give  children  sets  of  carpenter's  tools, 
and  let  them  learn  to  use  them.  But  this  necessi- 
tates their  banishment  to  another  apartment,  un- 
less one's  nerves  are  very  strong,  and  chips,  shay- 
ings,  and  sawdust  on  the  carpet  can  be  borne 
without  a  murmur. 

One  of  the  prettiest  occupations  for  children  is 
furnished  in  a  box  of  building-blocks.  They  are 
not  only  tolerably  quiet,  but  cleanly  playthings,  as 
when  the  child  is  done  playing  they  can  be  gath- 
ered ap  and  packed  away  in  their  box,  leaving  no 
dirt  OP  litter  behind  them. 

The  little  ones  never  get  tired  of  these,  as  they 
oonstantly  tax  their  ingenuity,. and  in  their  oom< 
binations  are  continually  presenting  new  forms  and 
(110) 


suggesting  new  ideas.  They  also  develops  the 
faculty  of  constructiveness. 

These  blocks  a  man  may  make  himself  for  his 
children,  if  he  have  a  little  spare  time  and  is  handy 
in  the  use  of  tools ;  or  he  can  obtain  them  already 
made  at  the  toy  stores,  at  prices  ranging  from  one 
dollar  to  three  dollars,  according  to  quality  and 
number  of  blocks.  These  latter  are  preferable; 
and  the  money  laid  out  for  them,  even  by  a  poor 
man,  is  well  spent  and  will  never  be  regretted. 

If  there  are  no  toy  stores  convenient,  send  te 
Orange,  Judd  A  Co.,  2-46  Broadway,  New  York. 

A  box  of  blocks  should,  in  a  family  of  young 
children,  be  considered  as  indispensable  as  the 
cradle  or  the  picture  book.  They  will  scrva  their 
purpose  longer  than  any  other  plaything ;  for  the 
little  child,  as  soon  as  it  is  able  to  creep  about  the 
floor  and  use  its  hands,  finds  pleasure  and  amuse- 
ment in  turning  them  over;  while  the  older  ones 
never  seem  to  outgrow  them.  Even  papa,  when 
he  comes  in  from  his  day's  work,  now  and  then 
builds  a  castle  or  a  church — **  to  amuse  the  chil- 
dren," ho  says,  but  we  know  that  it  does  him  good 
to  relax  his  brain  and  muscles,  and  that  he  takes 
as  much  delight  in  it  as  though  he  were  a  boj  him- 
self. Even  mamma  sometimes  thinks  she  would 
like  to  try  her  hand  at  building,  if  she  ''  could  ever 
find  the  time." 


MES,  STOWE'S  NEW  STOBY. 

MRS.  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE  is  writ- 
ing a  serial  for  the  Chn$tian  Union ,  called 
"  My  Wife  and  I;  or,  Harry  Henderson's  History." 
It  is  so  interesting — so  full  of  beautiful  and  noble 
thoughts  that  we  take  the  liberty  to  make  a  few 
extracts  from  it  for  the  benefit  of  our  readers.  In 
the  number  of  December  3d,  she  touches  incident- 
ally the  ''Woman  Question"  in  the  following 
manner : 

**  It  has  often  seemed  to  me  a  fair  question,  on  a 
review  of  the  way  my  mother  ruled  in  our  family, 
whether  the  politics  of  the  ideal  state  in  a  millennial 
community  should  not  be  one  equally  pervaded  by 
motherly  influences. 

"  The  woman  question  of  our  day,  as  I  under- 
stand it,  is  this :  Shall  Mothbrhood  ever  be  felt 
in  the  public  administration  of  the.aflairs  of  state? 
The  state  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  collection 
of  families,  and  what  would  be  good  or  bad  for  the 
individual  family  would  be  good  or  bad  for  the 
state? 

"^ch  as  our  family  would  have  been,  ruled 


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TEE   SOME    CIRCLE. 


Ill 


0DI7  bj  my  father^  withoot  my  mother,  laoh  the 
politieal  state  is  and  has  been ;  there  have  been  in 
it '  eonscript  fathers,'  but  no  '  conscript  mothers  / 
yet  is  not  a  mother's  influenoe  needed  in  acts  that 
relate  to  the  interests  of  collected  families  as  much 
as  in  individnal  ones  ? 

**  The  state,  at  this  yery  day,  needs  an  inflnenoe 
like  that  which  I  remember  oar  mothers  to  have 
bc«n,  in  one  groat,  vigorous,  growing  family — an 
inflaence,  qniet,  calm,  warming,  purifying,  unit- 
ing— it  needs  a  womanly  economy  and  thrift  in 
husbanding  and  applying  its  material  sources.  It 
needs  a  divining  power,  by  which  different  sections 
and  different  races  ean  be  interpreted  to  each  other, 
and  blended  together  in  love.  It  needs  an  educat- 
ing power,  by  which  its  immature  children  may  be 
trained  in  virtue.  It  needs  a  loving  and  redeeming 
power,  by  which  its  erring  and  criminal  children 
may  be  borne  with,  purified,  and  led  back  to 
virtue." 
Referring  to  the  training  of  boys,  bhe  says : 
**  I  was  what  is  called  a  mother's  boy,  as  she 
taught  me  to  render  her  all  sorts  of  household  ser- 
vices, sueh  as  is  usually  performed  by  girls.  This 
association  with  a  womanly  nature,  and  this  disci- 
pline in  womanly  ways^  I  hold  to*  have  been  an 
invaluable  part  of  my  early  training. 

^  There  is  no  earthly  reason  which  requires  a 
man,  in  order  to  be  manly,  to  bo  unhandy  and 
ehimsy  in  regard  to  the  minntisB  of  domestic  life ; 
and  there  are  quantities  of  occasions  occurring  in 
the  life  of  every  man,  in  which  he  will  have  occa- 
sion to  be  grateful  to  hia  mother,  if,  like  mine,  she 
trains  him  in  woman's  arts  and  the  secrets  of  mak- 
ing domestic  life  agreeable." 
Again  she  says: 

'*  In  our  days  we  have  heard  much  said  of  the 
impertance  of  training  women  for  wives.  Is  there 
not  something  to  be  said  on  the  importance  of 
training  men  to  be  husbands?  Is  the  wide  lati- 
tude of  thought,  and  reading,  •and  expression  which 
has  been  accorded  as  a  matter  of  course  to  the  boy 
sod  the  young  man,  the  conventionally  allowed 
fansiliarity  with  coarseness  and  indelicacy,  a  fair  pre- 
parfttion  to  enable  him  to  be  the  intimate  compan- 
iom  of  a  pure  woman  ?  For  how  many  ages  has  it  i 
been  the  doctrine  that  man  and  woman  were  to  ) 
Beet  In  marriage,  the  one  crystal -pure,  the  other 
foal  with  the  permitted  garbage  of  all  sorts  of  un- 
eimnv>d  literature  and  license." 

She  says  much  more  on  this  important  topic,  but 
we  have  not  room  to  quote  further.  We  will  make 
hmt  one  more  extract.  It  should  give  a  hint  to  all 
mothers  how  to  deal  with  their  boys,  so  that  they 
Wbmy  become  pure  and  noble  men. 

*<  Bhe  (the  mother  of  the  hero)  wisely  laid  hold  of 
the  little  idyl  of  my  ohildhood,  as  something  which 
g»^e  her  the  key  to  my  nature,  and  opened  before 
see  the  hope  in  my  manhood  of  such  a  friend  as 
'mj  little  Daisy  had  been  to  my  childhood.  This 
wifo  sf  the  future  she  often  spoke  of  as  a  motive. 


I  was  to  make  myself  worthy  of  her.  For  her 
sake  I  was  to  be  strong,  to  be  efficient,  to  be  manly 
and  true,  and  above  all,  pure  in  thought  and 
imagination,  and  in  word. 

"  It  was  to  my  mother's  care  and  teaching  I  owe 
it,  that  there  always  seemed  to  be  a  lady  at  my 
elbow  when  stories  wore  told  such  as  a  pure  woman 
would  blush  to  hear." 

A  POETIC  GEM. 

A  CORRESPONDENT  of  the  Kew  York  Oh- 
tervtr  says : — ''I  found  the  enclosed  gem  in  the 
eomer  of  an  old  newspaper,  several  years  ago.  I 
am  ignorant  as  to  its  authorship,  and  also  whether 
these  four  verses  constitute  the  entire  poem. 
Will  you  do  me  the  personal  kindness  to  publish 
them,  also  to  make  inquiry  for  the  author,  and  te 
request  the  additional  verses,  if  any  there  be  ? 

"  I  feel  that  this  exquisite  Mosaic  should  not  be 
'  lost  to  sight,'  or  forgotten,  but  should  be  laid 
upon  the  heart  of  every  sorrowing  reader  of  your 
precious  paper.  I  am  suro  it  would  calm  and 
soothe  their  pain,  as  it  does  mine. 

"  *  One  of  the  sweet  old  chapters, 
After  a  day  like  this ; 
The  day  brought  tears  and  trouble, 
The  evening  brings  no  kiss. 

No  rest  in  the  aims  I  long  for— 

Rest  and  refuge  and  home ; 
Grieved  and  lonely  and  weary, 

Unto  the  Book  I  come. 

One  of  the  sweet  old  chapters — 
The  love  that  blossoms  through 

His  care  of  the  birds  and  lilies. 
Out  in  the  meadow  dew. 

His  evening  lies  soft  around  them ; 

Their  faith  is  simply  to  6«. 
Oh  I  huphed  by  the  tender  lesson, 

My  God  t  let  me  rest  in  Thee  P  *• 

SELF-X»NSCIOUSNESS  IN  CHILDREN. 

MAKE  tlfQ  child  self-conscious,  and  you  have 
established  an  enduring  feud  between  him 
and  his  capabilities.  Henceforth  his  feet  are  an 
embarrassment  to  him,  and  no  number  of  pockets 
is  adequate  to  the  satisfactory  bestowal  of  his  hands. 
He  fancies  that  all  eyes  are  upon  him,  and  his  very 
blood  turns  mutinous  and  flies  in  his  face  without 
just  cause  or  provocation. 

It  is  his  right  to  bo  unconscioiA,  to  develop  flrom 
within  outwardly  as  sweetly  and  unostentatiously 
as  a  flower ;  not  to  be  thrust  into  notice  by  having 
his  sayings  and  doings  repeated  In  his  presenoe, 
nor  snubbed  into  silence  and  conscious  inferiority 
by  being  constantly  reminded  that  "children  should 
be  seen  and  not  heard." 

Hardly  anything  is  more  essential  in  the  man- 
agement of  children  than  the  kindly  ignoring  eye 
that  does  not  see  too  much.    I  pity  the  child  that 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


112 


ABTRUB'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


is  the  centre  of  a  blindly  doting  or  injudicioasly 
critical  familj,  where  erery  saying  is  repeated, 
every  act  commented  upon,  and  wherCi  in  conse- 
quence, naturalness  is  impossible. 

We  all  know  how  it  fared  with  tho>bean,  that, 
after  being  planted,  was  dug  up  every  morning  to 
see  if  it  had  begun  to  grow,  and  which,  after  get- 
ting its  head  above  ground,  was  declared  out  of 
order,  and  ruthlessly  pulled  up  and  turned  upside 
down.  Much  ot  our  interference  with  children  is 
no  loss  impertinent,  and  in  its  resists  not  less  mis- 
chievous. Nature  abhorff  meddling;  to  reverent 
co-operation  she  yields  her  happiest  results,  but 
she  will  not  be  diverted  from  her  purpose  by  your 
homilies,  nor  submit  her  plans  for  your  revision. 
Handmuden  oi  the  Great  Architect,  she  never 
loses  sight  ot  the  original  intention.  If  you  thwart 
her  It  is  at  your  peril,  and  she  leaves  oi^  your  hand< 
the  work  you  hare  spoiled.       Cilia  BuBXiBiaH. 


HINTS  TO  NIGHT-WATCHEES. 

A  person  who  is  sick  enough  to  need  night- 
watchers  needs  rest,  and  quiet,  and  all  the  undis- 
turbed repose  he  can  get.  If  one  or  more  persons 
are  in  the  room  reading,  talking,  or  whispering,  as 
is  often  the  case,  this  is  impossible.  There  should 
be  no  light  burning  in  the  room,  unless  it  be  a  very 
dim  one,  so  placed  as  to  be  out  of  sight  of  the 
patient.  Kerosene  oil  should  never  be  used  in  the 
sick-room.  The  attendant  should  quietly  sit  or 
lie  in  the  same  room,  or,  what  is  usually  better,  in 
an  adjoining  room,  so  as  to  be  within  call  if  any- 
thing is  wanted.  In  extreme  oases,  the  attendant 
can  frequently  step  quietly  to  the  bedside  to  see  if 
the  patient  is  doing  well,  but  all  noise  and  light 
should  be  carefully  excluded.  It  is  a  common 
practice  to  waken  patients  occasionally  for  fear 
th^  will  sleep  too  soundly.    This  should  never  be 


done.  Sleep  is  one  oi  the  greatest  needs  of  the 
sick,  and  there  is  no  danger  of  their  getting  too 
much  of  it.  All  evacuations  should  be  removed  at 
once,  and  the  air  in  the  room  kept  pure  and  sweet 
by  thorough  ventilation.— iTeraW  of  Health, 

THE  LOVE  OP  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

Place  a  young  lady  under  the  care  of  a  kind- 
hearted,  graceful  woman,  and  she,  unconsciously 
to  herself,  grows  to  be  a  graceful  lady.  Place  a 
boy  in  the  establishment  of  a  thorough-going, 
straightforward,  business  man,  and  the  boy  becomes 
a  self-reliant,  practical  business  man.  Children 
are  susceptible  creatures,  and  circumstances,  scenes 
and  actions  always  impress  them.  As  you  influ- 
ence them,  not  by  arbitrary  rules,  not  by  stera 
example  alone,  but  in  the  thousand  other  ways 
that  speak  through  bright  smiles,  soft  utter- 
ances, and  pretty  scenes,  so  will  they  grow. 
Teach  your  children  to  love  the  beautiful.  Give 
them  a  comer  in  the  garden  for  flowers;  encour- 
age them  to  put  in  shape  the  hanging  baskets; 
allow  them  to  have  their  favorite  trees; 
lead  them  to  wander  in  the  prettiest  woodlsnd; 
show  them  where  they  can  best  view  the  sunset, 
rouse  them  in  the  morning,  not  with  the  stem, 
'Himo  to  work,"  but  with  the  gentle,  "see  tbi 
beautiful  sun-rise  f  buy  for  them  pretty  picture^ 
and  encourage  them  to  decorate  their  rooms,  each 
in  his  or  her  childish  way.  This  instinct  is  in  them. 
Allow  them  the  opportunity,  and  they  will  msks 
your*homes  lovely. 

It  is  the  type  of  an  eternal  truth,  that  the  soul's 
armor  is  never  well  set  to  the  heart  unless  a 
woman's  hand  has  braced  it,  and  it  is  only  when 
she  braces  it  loosely  that  the  honor  of  manhood 
falls.  RUBKIH. 


MOTHERS'   DEI>A.RTMEN^T. 


BABY  BLOOM'S,  MAMMA. 

BT  FBAKCE8  L». 

A  DIMPLE,  a  handful  of  spun  gold,  a  pansy, 
an  apple  blossom,  and  a  sunbeam :  this  was 
what  Baby  Bloom  was  made  of. 

And  there  she  was  on  the  side-steps  in  the  pink 
piqu£  that  mamma  sat  up  last  night  so  late  to  fin- 
ish, kicking  her  Utile  bronze  boots  against  the 
granite  steps,  and  looking  sweeter  than  a  bowl  of 
strawberries  and  a  vase  of  violets. 

"  Hallee  I  What  you  dot  a  doin,  HaUee  ?"  said 
•be. 

"Hallee"  was  baby's  brother.  He  was  a  big 
boy,  almost  four  years  old ;  so  there  were  a  great 
many  things  he  oould  do  beside  keeping  out  of  the 


fire  when  the  fender  was  up.  Hs  was  down  now 
in  the  back  court  pounding  lumps  of  coal  with  a 
piece  of  broken  brick.  When  baby  called  to  him, 
he  answered  without  looking  up. 

"Making  nuts,"  he  said.  "Baby  want  little, 
tiny  bits  ?" 

"Um,"  replied  baby.  "Baby  do.  Baby  want 
to  make  nuts,  too." 

So  down  came  the  dainty  bronse  boots  and  pink 
piqu6. 

"Don't  not  make  no  more  nuts  to-day,"  she 
pleaded,  after  she  had  smeared  her  face  and  hands 
and  dress  with  the  coal  and  briokdust.  "Make 
hat  up  for  tupper." 

Kow, "  hash  vp"  in  baby's  language  meant  oyster 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


MOTHEJRff    DEPARTMENT. 


113 


aovp,  or  jellj,  or  milk  toast,  or  anything  yom  oonld 
eat  with  a  spoon.  And  to  make  that,  it  was  noees- 
sary  to  get  aome  fragmonts  of  lime  from  a  heap 
somobody  hswl  carted  from  a  cellar  near  by  and 
dumped  on  the  sidewalk.  Also  some  ashes  from 
\tbe  coal- box  that  stood  just  outside  the  basement 
door.  Then  Harry  mixed  and  stirred  it  with  a 
half-burnt  stick,  and  baby  helped  him. 

"Ni^I"  eaid  baby,  pretending  to  taste,  and 
daubing  some  on  her  chin.  ''  I  have  to  kneel  up 
tike  I  do  at  a  party.  I  kneel  up  to  eat  my  party, 
and  one  nigbt  I  put  my  nose  in  the  butter." 

"  Yar  V*  oried  Harry,  making  up  a  face.  "  This 
hash  up  isn't  good.  It  smells  like  Eng'ish  b'eak'as* 
tMi,and  I  don't  like  that  kind:  I  Uke  good  tea. 
CoSee.tess  I  like." 

''Kor  I  don't  like  Eng'is*  Veak'as' tea,  ncFer," 
sthoed  baby. 

**  And  don't  play  tupper  any  more.  You  had 
your  tapper.  Now,  IVe  mussed  my  o'ean  d'ess," 
the  added,  looking  down  oyer  herself.  "  My  pitty 
boo  d'ess  !  P'ease  tnke  it  oflT  with  your  hanchoo. 
Bailee." 

Harry  drew  out  his  little  pink-edged  handker- 
ebief,  that  was  about  big  enough  to  carpet  a  fly^ 
house,  and  began  to  brush  in  the  briek,  and  ooal, 
and  lime. 

"It  don't  come  off,"  cried  baby.  "You  mus' 
was'  it     Panny  do." 

^  Yes,  I  must  was'  it,"  said  Harry,  dipping  his 
handkerchief  in  a  saucer  of  water,  that  stood  by 
Shotto's  kennel. 

Still  the  *'  muss"  didn't  come  off;  what  oonld  the 
I        nason  be  ? 

"  Harry  !  Baby  1"  called  Fanny  from  the  nur- 
sery window.  "  Your  mamma  wants  you  to  oome 
ia.    She  has  a  letter  from  your  papa." 

At  the  sound  of  Fanny's  Toioe  the  children  started, 
looked  at  their  olothes,  and  felt  something  as  their 
eld  Grandfather  Adam  did,  the  first  time  he  ever 
wore  an  apron. 

"  Bailee,  mamma  say  yon  Telly  naughty  boy  to 
yonr  c'ean  d'ess,"  said  little  Ere,  in  a  guilty 


But  Harry  ran  behind  the  pump. 

"  I  ean't  come,  Panny.    I  busy  now,"  he  cried. 

"  I  busy,  too,  Panny !"  shouted  baby. 

*0h!  but  you  must,"  returned  Fanny.  "It  is 
time  to  come  in,  and  your  mamma  wants  you." 

So  the  small,  forlorn  figures  climbed  up  the  steps 
tad  pattered  in  through  the  hall. 

"  You  naughty,  naughty  children !"  oried  their 
Buunma,  when  they  appeared  at  the  chamber  door. 
•*  What  haTO  you  been  in  ?  Why,  your  olothes  are 
entirely  spoiled !  Yon  knew  better,  you  naughty 
children !  Now  you  must  go  right  straight  to  bed, 
sod  I  shall  not  let  you  go  out  of  doors  to-morrow ; 
not  once !  Fanny,  yon  may  take  them  away  and 
indress  them." 

Harry  breathed  a  long  breath,  and  a  tear  stood 
ii  baby's  eye,  as  they  disappeared  within  the  nur- 
Mcy.    For  awhils  after  they  had  gone,  Sirs.  Bloom 


sat  sewing,  with  yery  quick  fingers  and  a  bright 
spot  on  her  cheek.    Then  she  put  down  her  work. 

*' What  a  wicked  woman  I  am!"  said  she.  "  I 
am  not  fit  to  hare  the  care  of  those  children.  Only 
think,  Mary,  what  I  said  to  them !" 

Miss  Deering  looked  up  from  her  embroidery 
and  smiled  a  little. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  felt  disturbed,"  said  she, 
"to •have  these  dresses  ruined  the  first  time  they 
were  worn,  after  you  had  worked  so  to  finish 
them." 

I  know  it,"  repUed  Mrs.  Bloom.  "But  I  had 
no  right  to  speak  so  hastily,  and  tell  them  they 
couldn't  go  out  of  doors  to-morrow.  They  ought 
to  go  out;  it  is  necessary  for  their  health,  and  I 
want  them  to  go,  of  course.  Spoiling  their  clothes 
has  nothing  to  do  with  that.  Why  did  I  make 
such  an  unreasonable  promise  ?" 

Mrs.  Bloom  sat  awhile  longer  with  her  work 
lying  on  her  lap,  and  the  bright  spot  in  her  cheek 
growing  brighter.  Then  she  got  up  and  went  to 
the  nursery. 

The  children  were  lying  in  their  cribs,  looking 
as  wretched  as  two  wilted  rosebuds,  and  their 
mamma  went  straight  up  to  them. 

"  Children,"  said  she.  "  You  were  very  naughty 
to  play  with  that  dirty  stuff  and  spoil  your  nice 
dresses.  You  knew  it  was  not  right,  and  you  were 
yery  naughty,  indeed.  But  mamma  was  naughty, 
too.  I  was  angry,  and  I  said  something  I  oughtn't 
to  say.  Of  course,  I  want  you  to  go  out  of  doors 
eyery  d%y.  Yon  would  be  ill  if  you  didn't,  and  I 
ought  not  to  hare  said  that.  So  I  came  in  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  sorry  I  was  naughty,  and  that  I  shall 
let  you  go  out  of  doors  to-morrow  just  the  same." 

The  two  rosebuds  brightened  and  reached  up 
their  mouths  for  a  kiss. 

"  Harry  is  sorry  he  was  naughty,  I  won't  do  so 
any  more,  mamma,"  said  the  little  boy. 

"  Baby  solly,  too.  Baby  won't  do  so  any  more, 
too,  mamma,"  echoed  his  sister. 

"  I  thought  that  was  splendid  in  Mrs.  Bloom," 
said  Miss  Beering,  afterward.  "  I  respected  her 
more  than  oyer,  and  I  know  the  children  did." 

oO?»»» 

Btbrt  day  brings  forth  something  for  the  mind 
to  be  exercised  on,  either  of  a  mental  or  external 
nature ;  and  to  be  faithful  in  it  and  acquit  our- 
scWes  with  the  adrantage  designed  thereby,  is 
both  wisdom  and  duty. 

NoTHivo  exists  in  yain,  either  in  outward  cre- 
ation, in  outward  concerns,  or  in  human  minds. 
All  the  wisdom  lies  in  extracting  the  use  and  sweet 
out  of  ererything,  so  that  it  may  assist  in  the  per- 
fections of  our  minds. 


pROTTDENCi  cutors  ittto  the  most  minute  partle- 
nlars  of  man's  life  of  will  and  thought;  and  mar- 
yellously  oyerrules  all  of  external  action  and 
being,  in  agreement  with  the  states  the  man  is  ia 
and  passing  through. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


EVENINQS  -WITH   THE   POETS. 


THE  BROOK, 

BT  nmiTSON. 

I  GOME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 
I  make  a  sudden  .sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hiUs  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  Join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  gfi, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  tn^ 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter  as  I  flow. 
To  Join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go^ 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  hero  and  tliere  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel. 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  Join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go» 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hasel  covers, 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  T  gloom,  T  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  danoe 
Against  my  sandy  sh.iliows. 

I  mnrmnr  under  moon  and  stan 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  shingly  bars ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  Join  the  brimming  rirer, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

(U4) 


THROUGH  Baca*s  vale  my  way  hath 
Its  thorns  my  feet  hav«  trod. 
But  I  have  found  the  well  at  last, 
And  quenched  my  thirst— in  Qod. 

My  roof  is  but  an  humble  home. 

Bid  in  the  wilderness. 
But  o*er  me  bends  the  eternal  dome, 

For  He  my  dwelling  is. 

How  scanty  is  my  table  spread  I 
My  cup  with  tears  o*ei-flows. 

But  He  is  still  my  daily  bread. 
No  want  my  spirit  knows. 


My  raiment  rude  and  hom^  i 

All  travel-stained  and  old, 
But  with  His  brightest  morning  beams. 

He  doth  my  soul  enfold. 

Hard  is  the  rocky  pillow  bed-* 

How  broken  is  my  rest  I 
On  Him  I  lean  my  aching  head. 

And  sleep  upon  His  breast 

For  fUth  can  make  the  desert  bloom, 
And  through  the  vistas  dim. 

Love  sees,  in  sunlight  and  in  gloom, 
AUpathwagft  lead  to  Him. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

BT  J,  T.  nSLDB. 

WE  were  crowded  in  the  cabin. 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleeps 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters. 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

*Ti8  a  fearftil  thing  in  winter 

To  bo  shattered  in  the  blast. 
And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 

Thunder,  **  Cut  away  the  mast  r 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  sileno»— 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness. 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers— 

**  We  are  lost!*'  the  captain  shouted. 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered. 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
**  Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?** 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden. 
And  we  spoke  in  better  eheer. 

And  we  anchored  safe  Sn  harbor 
When  the  mora  was  shining  olsar. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


EVENING S    WITH    TEE   FOETB. 


115 


BACKWARD  GLANCEa 

BT  BOLAM  TORRIT. 

r)-NIGHT  I  tarn  to  trace  the  years 
That  lead  me  bock  to  childhood's  day; 
Tet  I  bat  faintly  see  the  way, 
With  eyes  made  dim  by  &lUng  team. 

As  distant  hills  throagh  aatnmn  air, 
Aglow  in  sunset's  golden  shine, 
Do  seem  to  touch  the  world  divine, 

And  its  transfigured  glory  shore : 

So  Time,  with  Memory's  mellow  light, 

Has  colored  all  the  past  for  me; 

And  through  my  horoscope  I  see 
37or  cloady  day  nor  stormy  night. 

Oh !  years,  roll  back,  that  I  may  see 
That  moss-roof'd  house  on  meadow-rant 
With  walls  made  brown  by  storm  and  son, 

Which  then  was  all  the  world  to  me  I 

Xy  seal  cries  out  for  that  home-band. 
Its  well  belov'd  ones,  severed  wide  I 
Ah !  some  have  cross'd  the  darksome  tide 

To  £ur  off  shores  of  summer  land  1 

Ho  minstrel's  dream  nor  limner's  art» 
In  amber  tints  of  mystic  light, 
Coald  paint  the  picture  that  to-night 

Ess  lit  old  hearth-fires  in  my  heart! 

Why  come  these  dreams  this  Now  Tear's  eve, 
Of  soenes  long  past,  and  ranish'd  Joy  t 
Sweet  dreams,  that  daylight  will  destroy, 

And  leave  my  heart  to  sigh  and  grieve. 

Oh !  could  I  tread  that  backward  way- 
Unwind  the  slack'ning  thread  of  time- 
Restore  the  lost— youth's  flow'ry  prime— 

Xy  life  would  bo  one  golden  day  I 


KINGDOM  COME. 

BT  OTWAT  CUBBT. 

I  DO  not  believe  the  sad  story 
Of  ages  of  sleep  in  the  tomb, 
I  shall  pass  far  away  to  the  glory 

And  grandeur  of  "  Kingdom  Come." 
The  paleness  of  death  and  its  chillness 

May  rest  on  my  brow  for  awhile, 
And  my  spirit  may  lose  in  its  stillness 
The  splendor  of  Hope's  happy  smile. 

But  the  gloom  of  the  grave  will  be  transient^ 

And  light  as  the  slumbers  of  worth. 
And  then  I  shall  blend  with  the  ancient 

And  beontiibl  forms  of  the  earth  I— 
Thro*  the  climes  of  the  sky  and  the  bowers 

Of  bliss  evermore  I  shall  roam. 
Wearing  crowns  of  the  stars  and  the  flowers 

That  glitter  in  "  Kingdom  Come." 

The  friends  who  have  parted  before  me. 

From  Life's  gloomy  passion  and  pain. 
When  the  shadow  of  death  passes  o'er  me, 

Will  smile  on  me  fondly  again  I— 
Their  voices  are  lost  in  the  soundless 

Retreats  of  their  endless  home. 
Bat  soon  we  shall  meet  in  the  boandlees 

Effblgenoe  of  **  Kingdom  Gome.** 


CJOMETH  A  BLESSING  DOWN. 

BT  XABT  A  TTLIB. 

NOT  to  the  man  of  dollars; 
Not  to  the  man  of  creeds, 
Not  to  the  man  of  canning. 
Not  to  the  man  of  deeds ; 
Not  to  the  one  whose  passion 

Is  for  the  world's  renown. 
Not  in  the  form  of  fashion- 
Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

Not  unto  land's  expansion, 
Not  to  the  miser's  chest, 

Not  to  the  princely  mansion, 
Not  to  the  blnsoned  crest, 

Not  to  the  sordid  worldling. 
Nor  to  the  knavish  down, 

Not  to  the  haughty  tyrant- 
Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

Not  to  the  folly-blinded. 

Not  to  tlie  steeped  in  shomoy 
Not  to  the  carnal  minded, 

Not  to  unholy  fame, 
Not  in  neglect  of  duty. 

Not  in  the  monarch's  crown, 
Not  at  the  smile  of  beauty — 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

But  to  the  one  whose  spirit 

Yearns  for  the  great  and  good; 
Unto  the  one  whose  store- house 

Yieldoth  the  hungry  food; 
Unto  the  one  who  labors 

Fearless  of  foe  or  firown : 
Unto  the  kindly  hearted 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 


W 


BABY  DEAREST. 

BT  OBO.  MAC  BOXILD. 

HERE  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 


Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  T 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  Ktcle  tear? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  f 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

Wlmt  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm,  white  rose  t 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-comer'd  smile  of  biles  ? 
Tliree  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  airr 
God  spoke,  and  it  come  out  to  heoi 

Where  did  you  get  those  arras  and  hands  ? 
Leve  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  tbhigs? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  Just  come  to  be  you! 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  I 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 


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HOUSEKIEEPEIIS'  DEPARTMENT. 


TOO  MANY  KINDS. 


A  LETTER  is  before  as— a  private,  familiar 
letter— in  which  ia  detailed  the  doings  of 
Chriatmafi,  even  to  the  bill  of  fare  of  the  Christ- 
mas dinner.  The  writer  adds,  in  comment  on  the 
last :  "  I  will  never  again  get  so  many  kinds  on 
such  an  occasion.  We  do  not  want  them.  It  makes 
lots  of  work.  Wo  have  not  done  eating  the  frag- 
ments yet" 

Too  many  kinds — ^that  Is  the  secret  of  half  the 
work  and  worry  of  housekeepers.  The  daily 
fare  is  often  too  profusC,  while  occasions  of  festival 
or  hospitality  are  always  made  the  excuse  for  a 
lavish  display  of  viands  which  is  not  justified  by 
any  good  reason.  Neither  we  nor  our  guests 
"want  them."  Why  should  turkey,  roast  beef, 
chicken,  and  oysters  be  all  included  in  one  dinner? 
No  one  can  eat  them  all,  and  either  one  is  good 
enough  and  sufficient.  Then,  in  addition,  imagine 
all  the  vegetables  of  the  season,  with  appropriate 
sauces  and  pickles,  and  a  dessert  of  plum-pudding, 
mince  and  other  pies,  and  various  kinds  of  cake. 
Think  of  the  labor  involved  in  the  preparation  of 
such  a  dinner !  If  one  has  plenty  of  servants, 
and  chooses  to  do  this  thing,  we  do  not  wish  to 
interfere.  But  we  are  writing  for  those  house- 
keepers to  whom  **  style  "  is  secondary  to  comfort 
And  there  is  no  law  of  hospitality  which  requires 
such  a  show,  at  the  oost  of  so  much  labor,  and  tt 
much  money.  When  the  income  is  limited,  and  li 
the  work  of  the  household  is  performed  by  one  or 
two  pair  of  hands,  there  is  a  folly  and  extrava- 
gance in  this  that  is  simply  reprehensible. 

No  woman  has  a  right  to  complain  that  honse- 
work  is  breaking  her  down,  when  she  wilfully  and 
needlessly  adds  to  it  in  this  manner. 

A  plain  dinner  of  a  few  carefully  cooked  and 
tastefully  served  dishes,  will  be  found  quite  as 
aooeptable  and  quite  as  tempting  to  the  appetite 
as  such  a  profusion. 

The  guest  who  sits  down  to  a  Christmas  dinner 
of  roast  turkey,  with  cranberry-sauce,  two  kinds 
of  vegetables,  plum-pudding  or  mince-pie,  will 
<Une  as  satisfactorily  as  though  the  dishes  were 
more  numerous,  and  will  be  subject  to  no  tempta- 
tions to  overeating  which  mast  erer  attend  an 
over-filled  table. 

SPIRITS  OF  AMMONIA. 

A  CONTRIBUTOR  to  Hearth  and  HomtinitM  as 
follows :  "  Sisters  in  household  labors,  have  yon 
any  idea  what  a  useful  thing  ammonia  is  to  have  in 
the  house?  If  not,  give  your  maid-of-all -work  lifteen 
cents  and  an  empty  pint-bottle  at  once,  and  send 
her  to  the  first  drug-store  for  a  rapply.  Tell  her 
(116) 


to  be  sure  to  get  the  spirits  of  ammonia ;  it's  tht 
same  as  hartshorn;  but  if  she  asks  for  that  tbejH 
give  her  for  the  fifteen  cents  a  few  drops  in  a  smell- 
ing-bottle not  as  big  as  her  thumb.  While  sbe'i 
gone  111  tell  you  how  to  use  it.  For  washing  paint, 
put  a  tablespoonfui  in  a  quart  of  moderately  hot 
water,  dip  in  a  flannel  cloth,  and  with  this  simplj 
wipe  off  the  wood-work ;  no  scrubbing  will  bt 
necessary.  For  taking  grease-spots  from  any  fab- 
ric, use  the  ammonia  nearly  pure,  then  lay  whiti 
blotting-paper  over  the  spot  and  iron  it  ligbtlj. 
In  washing  laoes,  put  about  twelve  drops  in  a  plat 
of  warm  suds.  To  clean  silver,  mix  two  toaspoon> 
fuls  of  ammonia  in  a  quart  of  hot  soap-suds.  Pat 
in  your  silverware  and  wash  it,  using  an  old  nsil- 
brush  or  tooth-brush  for  the  purpose.  For  cleta- 
ing  hair-brushes,  etc.,  simply  shake  the  brushes  up 
and  down  in  a  mixture  of  one  teaspoonful  of  am- 
monia to  one  pint  of  hot  water ;  when  they  are 
eleaned,  rinse  them  in  oold  water  and  stand  them 
in  the  wind  or  in  a  hot  plaoe  to  dry.  For  washing 
finger-marks  from  looking-glasses  or  windows,  pat 
a  few  drops  of  ammonia  on  a  moist  rag  and  make 
quick  work  of  it.  If  you  wish  your  house-plants 
to  flourish,  put  a  few  drops  of  the  spirits  in  eveiy 
pint  of  water  used  in  watering.  A  teaspoonful  io 
a  basin  of  cold  water  will  add  much  to  the  refresh- 
ing effects  of  a  bath.  Nothing  is  better  than  am- 
monia-water for  cleansing  the  hair.  In  every  case, 
rinse  off  the  ammonia  with  clear  water." 


DKY  BEDS  AND  DAMP  BEDS. 

IT  is  not  sufficiently  known  that  almost  all  tab- 
stances  have  the  property  of  absorbing  moisture 
from  the  atmosphere.  Linen  is  remarkable  for  this 
property;  the  same  may  be  said  of  feathers,  and  in 
a  less  degree  of  wool;  hence  the  difficulty  of  keep- 
ing a  bed  dry,  unless  it  is  constantly  used  or  exposed 
to  warmth  from  a  fire.  Merely  covering  a  bed  up 
with  blankets  and  oonnterpane  will  no  more  keep 
it  dry  than  a  pane  of  glass  will  keep  oat  light :  the 
atmospheric  moisture  will  pass  through  every  woven 
fabric.  Damp  beds,  unfortunately,  are  generally 
found  in  the  spare  or  visitor's  room;  hence  the pe^ 
sons  often  most  welcome  in  a  house  suffer  from  this 
terrible  aril.  Spare  beds  should  never  have  any- 
thing but  a  slight  coverlet  to  keep  them  clean,  and 
it  should  be  put  upon  them  when  not  in  actual  use. 
People  often  fancy  that  damp  is  only  in  the  sheets, 
but  it  is  in  aU  the  other  olothes.  A  bed  wiU  be 
much  dryer  by  itself  than  with  blankets  and  ooud- 
terpane  upon  it  Every  spare  room  that  is  at  all 
likely  to  be  used  by  visitors,  should  have  a  good  firs 
in  it  at  least  every  third  or  fourth  day  'during  the 
winter,  and  the  bed  should  be  well  tamed  in  the 


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HOUSEKEEPERS'    DEPARTMENT. 


117 


iDterraL  Blaakets  and  oounterpiuie  thoald  be 
dri«d  Mdd  folded  up  hot,  and  pat  away  till  wanted; 
if  tbey  are  left  opaa  upon  a  bed  they  qniokly  ab- 
sorb damp,  whieh  eannot  be  qniekly  dried  ont  It 
if  erael  and  ungeneroas  to  pat  a  riritor  friend  to 
deep  in  a  flreleaa  oold  room,  with  damp  clothes  to 
«*f«r  him,  when  a  UtUe  ooal  would  hava  made  all 
bnlthy  and  eomfortabla.  It  ii  a  good  and  iimple 
pha,  to  keep  beds  dry,  to  change  them  from  one 
wm  to  another  every  week,  lo  that  all  may  be 
Bare  or  leaa  in  neo. 


POISON. 

rS  inetant  a  panon  ii  known  to  hare  fwallowed 
p<ri«on,  by  design  or  aeoident,  giro  water  to 
driik,  cold  or  warm,  as  fast  as  possible,  a  gallon  or 
■an  at  a  time,  and  as  fast  as  vomited  drink  more. 
Tepid  water  is  best,  as  it  opens  the  pores  of  the 
ikia  and  promotes  romiting,  and  thus  gives  the 
^siAieA  core  to  the  poisonoas  artlele.  If  pains 
begin  to  be  felt  in  the  bowels,  it  shows  that  part  at 
ktst  ef  the  poison  has  passed  downward ;  then 
krxe  sad  repeated  injections  of  tepid  water  should 
be  giren,  the  object  in  both  oases  being  to  dilute 
tbe  poison  as  qniokly  and  as  largely  as  pouible. 
Do  not  wait  for  warm  water— take  that  which  is 
wsrsst  at  hand,  cold  or  warm,  for  every  second  of 
time  fla?ed  is  of  immense  importance — ^at  the  some 
time  send  instantly  for  a  physician,  and  as  soon  as 
be  eomes  tarn  the  case  into  bis  hands,  telling  him 
what  yoa  have  done.  This  simple  fact  cannot  be 
too  videly  published ;  it  is  not  meant  to  say  that 
^naUag  a  gallon  or  two  of  simple  water  will  cure 
^r«ry  csM  of  poiaonang,  but  it  will  cure  many,  and 
b«no&taU  by  its  rapidly-dilating  qoality.— ^o^s 
*e»»a*  0/  H€^Uh. 


OONTBIBUTED  BECEIFTa 

5«w  Btbak A-Poand  nicely,  have  ready  a  good 
iieand  hot  spider,  with  a  little  batter,  lay  the 
■•St  in  and  hold  over  it  a  hot  store-oover,  and 
*^  oieely  browned  turn  and  again  hold  a  hot 
WTsr  over  it  When  done,  immediately  take  oat 
^tbe  spider  and  lay  it  on  the  platter.  Then 
triDldo  on  salt  and  lay  on  batter,  then  cairr  to 
tbe  table. 

^AST  Bear  .—Put  the  roast  in  a  dripping*pan, 
1>nnkle  on  salt,  then  dredge  with  flour,  put  soma 
^tter  in  tho  pan  and  set  it  into  a  hot  oven.  Bake 
^*o  or  three  hours,  aoeonting  to  taste->whether 
^^  VMt  it  rare  or  well  done.  When  half  dona 
^  orer  and  repeat  the  prooass  of  sprinkling  with 
^  eed  aour,  and  if  aeoessavy  add  more  Wjater, 
|nien  done,  Uke  the  meat  on  to  a  plattar  aad  thiokea 
^ravy.    Then  it  is  ready  for  the  table. 

'xn  Cofrvna.— Kub  w^  with  silt  on  both 

▼OU  XXXVII.— « 


sides,  then  roll  it  in  Indian  meal.  Have  ready. a 
hot  spider  with  a  very  little  lard  and  butter.  Put 
the  fish  in  and  let  it  cook  until  nicely  browned  be- 
fore turning.  Then  brown  the  otfa^er  side,  take  up, 
and  melt  more  lard  and  batter  for  gravy,  then  it  is 
ready  for  the  table. 

Potato  Soup. — Pare  your  potatoes,  slice  them 
(crosswise  and)  thin,  wash  and  put  in  a  kettle  with 
some  cold  water.  If  yon  have  a  dosen  small  pota- 
toes you  will  need  two  quart  dippers  of  water  and 
two  ounces  of  salt-pork  eut  in  snail  pieces.  Wh«n 
the  potatoes  are  done,  then  mix  two  tablespeonfols 
of  wheat.floar  witk  a  UtOe  sweet  milk— or  «old 
water  will  answer— beat  well,  (so  to  have  no  lumps,) 
put  in  some  pepper  and  stir  into  the  soup.  Let  it 
boily  stirring  it  mcanwhilo,  and  it  is  done.  Some 
like  to  put  pieces  of  bread  in  the  soup-dish — a  good 
way  to  eat  bread  whioh  is  dry. 

GmcKnir  Pib. — Joint  the  chickens,  which  should 
be  young  and  tender,  Xoil  them  in  just  safficient 
water  to  cover  them.  When  nearly  tender,  take 
them  out  of  the  liquor  and  lay  them  in  a  deep  pud- 
ding-dish lined  with  pie-crust  Add  a  little  of  the 
liquor  in  which  they  were  boiled,  and  a  couple  of 
ounces  of  butter  cut  into  small  pieces.  Sprinkle  a 
little  flour  over  the  whole  and  cover  with  nice  crust 
Your  chicken  should  be  salted  and  peppered  before 
you  cover  it.  Some  like  a  little  salt  pork  with  the 
chicken — in  that  case  the  pork  will  salt  it  sulH- 
oiently.    Bake  one  hour  in  a  quick  oven. 

CHioKnr  PoT-Pn. — Joint  and  wash  the  chick- 
en, boil  until  it  begins  to  be  tender.  Salt  and 
gppper  it  Add  a  piece  of  butter.  Be  sure  and 
have  liquor  enough  to  oover  the  chicken  welL 
Now  drop  in  your  light  dough,  (with  a  knife  or 
spoon.)  Cover  your  kettle  closely,  and  let  it  boil 
slowly  and  steadily  one  hour.  Ton  m%H  noi  un- 
cover yonr  kettle  liler  your  dough  is  in  until  it  has 
boiled  an  bovr,  so  it  is  essential  that  yon  have 
liquor  enough  over  the  fowl  so  that  it  may  not  boil 
di7.  After  it  has  boiled  an  hour,  take  out  the  crust 
and  thicken  your  liquor  with  a  little  flour,  (and  if 
yon  have  it,  a  litHe  sweet  eream.)  The  crust  for 
pot-pie  is  made  thus  s—4ttahe  as  fbr  bread,  only 
knead  it  stiff,  very,  set  in  a  warm  place  to  rise — 
when  light  it  is  ready  for  use.  Do  not  let  it  get  so 
light  as  to  be  sour. 

Brvnswtcx  Stew. — Take  a  tender  bare,  sqairrel, 
or  fat  chicken,  and  cut  it  op  in  small  pieces.  Put 
it  in  a  stew-pan  with  one  and  a  half  quarts  of 
water.  A  tcaspoonful  of  black  pepper,  one  of 
salty  and  a  small  portion  of  Cayenne.  Add  half  a 
pint  of  tomatoes — eteisefll  (iire«</jr— the  com  of  two 
roasting-ears  out  off,  half  a  pint  of  Lima  beans, 
one  Irish  potato  cut  in  thin  sKoes.  Simmer  gently 
for  one  and  one-half  hoars,  and  just  before  taking 
it  up  add  two  teaspoonftUi  of  flour  and  a  table- 
spoonful  ef  bntter  rubbed  together.  It  is  a  deli- 
eions  dish. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


FRUIT   OTJLTXJBE   FOR   lij^IJIES. 

BT  THS  AUTBOB  OF  "OABBBNINa  TOK  LADISi." 


THE  GBAPE. 

TO  give  the  detaili  of  tbe  metbods  fbroaHiratlnf 
the  grape  pnraiied  bj  Ibe  groweni  of  our  day, 
woald  recpiire  a  TOhUDOb  Wot  mj  own  part,  I  bare 
liUle  Mth  in  the  tyfteB  of  oloie  prantng,  with  aU 
ito  eompHeate^  operatioBi,  now  ift  irogM.  A  thrifty' 
rine^  I  should  allow  to  grow  freely,  with  no  more 
pruning  than  I  found  absolntely  seoeteaTj  to  pre- 
vent its  wandering  where  it  was  not  wanted,  and 
to  remore  dead  or  diseased  branches.  To  raise  a 
large  nnmber  of  Tarieties  In  a  small  space,  the  sjs* 
tern  of  dose  pruning  found  in  the  books  will  be 
nesessary. 

For  field  cnlliyation  on  a  large  scale,  the  plan 
of  training  vines  on  trees,  as  practised  in  Italy  for 
ages,  is  one  that  should  be  tried.  In  no  other.way, 
I  think,  will  the  raising  of  grapes  ultimately  jbuo* 
oeed  in  our  climate. 

The  grape  will  thrive  in  any  good  ^oil,  from  a 
stiff  clay  to  a  light  sand.  A  southern  exposure  is 
desirable,  and  a  location  welKdraincd,  either  nat- 
urally or  artificially,  is  absoluUly  essential. 

As  regards  the  Tarietics  of  grapes  to  be  culti- 
rated,  I  can  only  speak  from  my  own  knowledge 
of  a  fhw  of  the  older  and  well-estahlMhed  onee.  If 
I  oonld  have  only  one  rine^  I  should  plant  an  Isa- 
bella, as  being  the  most  certain  to  eooeeed.  If  tt\a. 
Catawba  were  not  so  nife^^eot  to  rot,  I  wenld  prefer 
it  to  the  Isabella;  bnt,  as  things  are^I  donot  think 
U  adTisable  to  plant  the  Catawba  at  all.  For  early 
fnut,  the  Delawars,  IsraeUa,  Hartford  ProUfio,  and 
last,  bat  not  least,  the  Oonoerd^  an  all  deeiiable 
rarifltiee.  The  Coneord,  indeed,  ia  one  ef  our  best 
grapes,  an  abundant  bearer,  hardy,  and  reliable^ 
For  later  TarietieB,  the  Diana,  the-CUnton  and  tha 
Xenia,  may  be  seleoted.  Tbe  Clinton  ie  a  tart 
grape  that  ie  all  the  better  for  a  little  froet.  Tbei» 
are  a  great  many  more  kindaof  grapee  adrertised; 
but  these  are  tbe  most  reliabls^  and  magr  be  said  ta 
be  established  Tarietiea. 

Two  SiMPLU  Modes  of  CvLTxvATnra  QnAran. 

The  two  folbwing  simple  plans  for  raising  grapes 
are  recommended  by  a  praotioal  fruit-grower : 

For  Field  Culture,— T?\a.ut  the  roots  six  feet  apart 
each  way,  setting  a  stake  six  feet  high  by  each 
root  Cut  baek  to  two  eyes  or  buds,  and  as  these 
grow,  trtoin  them  up  to  the  sUkes.  If  in  loealitlee 
where  they  are  apt  to  be  damaged  by  winter,  take 
them  down  and  corer  them  with  dirt  or  any  eoarse 
litter.  Late  in  spring  take  them  up  and  out  back 
to  about  three  feet  in  height,  and  tie  them  up  to 
tbe  stakes.  Allow  two  new  rines  to  grow  out  near 
the  MrftMsey  and  in  the  Ihll  eat  out  tiie  old  riiies, 
and  the  next  spring  tmim  np  the  new  rinet  to  the 
stake,  cutting  them  back  so  that  they  wiM  be  Jnft 

(118) 


aa  high  as  the  stake;  or  tbe  eldrineoan  be  trained 
up  for  two  or  three  years  and  new  shoots  cot  efi^ 
ontil  they  get  too  large  to  handle  well,  when  thi^ 
can  be  cut  off  and  new  vines  trained  up  that  have 
been  allowed  to  grow  the  previous  season.  When 
the  yearly  renewal  system  is  practised,  it  is  a  good 
plan  to  have  two  atakes,  set  a  foot  apart,  trainisf 
the  old  fruiting  vines  to  one,  and  the  new  vines  as 
they  grow  to  the  other. 

For  Garden, — Plant  twelve  feet  each  way.  Put 
up  good  strong  costs  half  way  between  one  way, 
six  feet  high,  ana  fasten  on  three  slats.  Allowtwe 
vinee  to  grow  at  an  angle  of  about  forty^ive  d^ 
grees,  fastening  them  to  the  trellis  with  bass  hvfc 
or  coarse  twine.  The  next  year  allow  three  side 
shoots  to  grow  each  way  from  the  main  vines  and 
tie  along  the  slats  or  wire,  keeping  the  balance  of 
the  shoots  that  may  start,  trimmed  Off  each  fall ; 
before  latying  down,  cut  these  side  shoots  baek  to 
within  one  eye  of  the  main  vine,  and  allow  the  new 
shoots  to  grow  from  these  eyes  the  next  spring, 
training  them  and  tyin^  them  in  the  eiune  way. 
This  can  be  followed  until  the  old  three  main  viim 
get  too  old  and  large,  when  three  new  vines  caa  be 
allowed  to  grow  out  near  the  crown  to  take  tbeir 
phioe.  Strawberries  oan  be  grown  between,  nst 
setting  them  nearer  than  three  or  four  feet  to  ths 
grapes,  and  keeping  them  well  supplied  with  rotted 
compost. 


THE  CUKRAKT. 

TO  giww  currants  to  perfection,  a  well-drafaied 
elay  and  loam  soil  is  required.  In  light  saody 
solle  they  do  not  eoeeeed  welL  By  planting  ia 
shady  places,  liberal  mulchings^  and  tbe  ase  of 
liquid  manures,  however,!  have'obtained remuner- 
ative crops  even  in  the  lightest  of  sandy  soili. 
Tet  my  bashes  do  not  grow  as  they  ought  to,  and 
do  not  bear  so  long  as  they  would  in  a  heavier 
»U. 

When  the  ground  is  rich,  onrrants  sueeeed  beit 
where  they  oan  obtain  plenty  «f  sunshine  and  fresh 
air.  Set  yeur  plants  out  where  you  can  work  all 
around  them. 

The  currant  is  grown  from  suckers  and  euttiogfl. 
Plant  four  feet  apart,  in  heavy  land ;  in  light  soib^ 
say  three  feet 

The  currant  is  subject  to  the  ravages  of  a  slug  or 
worm,  whioh  devours  the  leaves  )ust  before  the 
fhiit  begfaie  to  ripen,  thus  euttlng  off  the  crop,  and 
seriously  injuring,  if  not  killing  the  entire  bush. 
To  destroy  tMs  pest,  sift  over  the  bushes,  after  a 
rain,  or  when  the  dew  is  on,  white  hellebore  in  fins 
powder.  Or  hellebore  ean  be  steeped  la  water,  and 
the  decootlotk  sprinkled  upon  the  bushes.  Helle- 
bere  ie  n  deadly  poleen,  and  preeantlons  must  be 
taken  aooordtagly.  Bqoal  patts  of  slaked  Kne,  wood 
•ih«,  and  groiwd  piMler  of  Pari*,  mixed  tsgelher 


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FkUlT   CULTURE   FOB    LADIES. 


119 


•ad  sprinkM  OT«r  tli«  bii4i«fy  •wW],  it  !•  ■add,  sn- 
Bwer  nearly  as  well  as  the  powdered  hellebore. 

The  best  Tarieties  of  the  enrraot  are^  the  Cbeny, 
the  VenaUles,  the  Bad  Dvtoh,  and  the  White  Grape. 
The  flnt  three  ara  red.  The  Cherry  is  a  large,  fine 
berry,  and  produced  in  great  abundance.  The  bed 
Dateh  is  t^a  okl  comaion  variety.  The  YenaiUefl 
k  cf  comparatively  recent  introduction.  The 
bonehes  are  large,  as  are  also  the  berries,  which 
ars  not  so  taii  as  the  other  two  red  kinds.  The 
White  Grape  is  the  finest  white  currant  grown— 
frait  lai^e,  besntlfnlly  transparent,  hanging  in 
frape-lihA  dosters^  and,  when  folly  ripe,  rich  and 
nset 


THE  GOOSEBEREY. 

AS  grown  in  Earope,  and  especially  in  England, 
the  gooseberry  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  finest  of 
fnits.  Tho  English  growers  seem  to  have  carried 
its  ooltivatioii  to  perfection.  With  ns,  however, 
the  finer  sorts,  so  far,  have  been  failures,  except  in 
rare  instances.  Even  the  one  solitary  variety 
whieh  aione  suceeeds  in  our  climate,  sometimes 
Biildews.  The  viiriety  to  whieh  I  refer  is  the 
Houghton  Seedling.  It  is  the  only  one  I  can  un- 
hesitatiagly  recommend.  A  moro  recent  acquisi- 
tion is  the  Mountain  Seedling.  It  is  said  not  to 
mildew,  and  to  bear  abundantly.  The  Hoaghton 
is,  in  the  words  of  a  Jersey  neighbor,  an  **  ever- 
lastia'  bearer."  In  my  light  ground,  however,  it  is 
diScnIt  to  keep  it  from  mildewing.  I  find  gener- 
on  mulchings  in  hot  weather,  and  a  liberal  use  of  ' 
soapsuds,  of  great  benefit  in  warding  off  this  dis^ 
ease.  The  gooseberry  is  also  subject  to  the  attacks 
•f  the  currant-worm. 

The  gooseberry  is  raised  from  cuttings.  Set  the 
plants  along  the  fence,  four  feet  apart.  Keep  the 
ground  free  of  weed^  manure  well,  thin  out  and 
•borten  the  branches  in  the  fall  or  spring,  and 
Matter  fino  mulch  over  the  surface  of  the  soil 
sroond  the  bushes.  The  gooseberry  is  a  lover  of  \ 
the  shade,  and  thrive!  in  a  cool,  somewhat  moist, 
bat  not  wet,  soiL 


THE  QUINCE. 

WHBTHBB  grown  for  market  or  for  home  nse^ 
the  quince  is  one  of  the  best  paying  fruits. 
The  quince  is  grown  from  suckers  and  cuttings. 
A  warm,  rich  clay  loam  is  the  best  soil  for  it; 
though  fair  returns  may  be  had  by  carefiil  manage- 
nent  even  on  lighter  ground.  Mulch  in  hot  weather, 
onless  your  soil  is  deep  and  rich,  so  as  to  keep  the 
ground  cool.  The  tree,  however,  loves  a  sunny 
litaation,  while  at  (he  same  time  it  requires  shelter 
from  cold  winds.  The  ^ashings  of  the  barnyard 
is  a  good  manure.  To  go  over  the  ground  every 
spring  Vith  a  spading-fork»  and  scatter  a  peck  of 
coal  ashes  around  each  tree,  has  been  found  ser- 
viceable.   Salt  is  also  recommended  M  a  manure; 


say  a  quart  to  each  tree,  after  the  spring  spading, 
and  another  when  the  quinces  are  about  half  grown. 

The  quince  does  not  require  much  pruiting;  just 
enough  to  keep  an  open  head,  and  to  prevent  the 
crossing  of  branches,  so  as  to  chafe.  Remove  all 
suckers.  Keep  the  branches  as  low  as  possible* 
This  injunction,  indeed,  is  applicable  in  the  man- 
agement of  ftnit  trees  generally.  Low  branches 
secure  shade  for  tlie  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  this,  in 
oar  climate,  is  desirable* 

The  great  enemy  of  the  quince  is  the  homr*  The 
best  way  to  get  rid  of  this  pest,  when  it  is  one* 
lodged  in  the  tree^  is  to  cut  it  out  with  a  strong, 
sharp  knife.  On  thie  subject,  however,  I  shall 
speak  in  detail  at  another  time. 

For  ordinary  cultivation,  tho  best  variety  of  thn 
quince  is  the  Orange. 

THE  PLUM. 

THERE  are  many  varieties  of  good  plums;  so 
many,  indeed,  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
enumerate  or  describe  them.  If  you  wish  to  gmw 
good  plums,  go  or  send  to  a  reliable  nurseryman, 
and  ask  him  for  a  selection  from  his  best "  bog- 
proof*  varieties.  Not  that  there  aro  any  entirely 
"bug-proof,"  but  there  are  some  really  exempt  in 
a  marked  degree  from  tlic  attacks  of  the  curculio. 

Generally,  plum  trees  are  set  from  sixteen  to 
twenty  feet  apart.  Thoy  will  do  well  in  any  ordi- 
nary soil,  though  a  strong  clay  loam  is  the  beat. 

The  two  great  obstacles  to  the  successful  cultiva- 
tion of  the  plum  are  the  black  knot  and  the  cur- 
culio. 

The  first  of  these  is  a  dark,  woody  fungus,  which, 
breaking  through  the  bark  of  the  trunk,  branches, 
and  twigs,  makes  itself  visible  in  the  shape  of  large 
black  swellings  or  knots,  whieh,  if  suffered  to  re- 
main, soon  destroy  the  productiveness  of  the  tree. 
Every  such  branch  or  twig  should  be  cut  ofi"  at  once 
and  burned. 

The  cnrculio  is  a  small  beetle.  It  is  sometimes 
called  the  "LitOe  Turk,"  in  allusion  to  the  orescent- 
shaped  soar  it  leaves  on  the  fhiit  it  selects  as  a 
place  to  deposit  its  eggs.  This  deposition  is  made 
in  die  young  plnmis  soon  after  the  withering  of  the 
blossoms.  All  fmit  thus  stung,  sooner  or  later  falls 
off.  The  ODtim  orop  of  an  orchard  is  frequently 
thfM  deetre^ed.  Vartous  plans  have  been  tried  to 
put  a  stop  to  the  ravages  of  this  peat.  Last  seaeon 
I  obtained  my  first  good  crop  of  plumsb  The 
previous  yei^  I  set  all  my  plum  trees  together  in  a 
'^ patch"  \rf  themselves — twelve  feet  apart  eaeh 
way.  At  one  comer  of  this  "  patch "  I  buiH  a 
cbieken-house.  Then  I  inclosed  the  wholes—there 
were  twelve  trees,  large  and  small,  all  toM~r-with  a 
neat  fence  of  laths,  aAd  put  into  the  inolosare  a 
doseto  Bramah  ofaickeas.  Result:  ao  enreulios  to 
speak  of,  and  trees  laden  with  plnms^  and  thie  in  a 
light  soil,  composed  ehiefly  of  yellow  sand,  with  a 
light  dressSag  of  ashes  Iw  manorey  in  addition  to 


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120 


ABTSUB'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


what  WM  obtained  hj  an  oeoasSooal  cleaning  ont 
of  my  chioken-hooae.  I  liad  noTor  before  obtained 
more  than  a  doxen  or  lo  ploma  £rom  theae  trtea, 
though  they  set  abandantly  evety  spring. 

Where  the  ohioken  remedy  is  not  practicable,  the 
smoke  of  rotten  wood  burned  nnder  the  tree  when 
in  blossom  will  sometimes  moderate  the  ravages  of 
the  euroulio.  Salt  sprinkled  around  the  tree  in 
spring  is  also  said  to  be  benefloial.  The  most  com- 
mon method,  however,  is  to  thread  whole  cotton- 
sheets  on  the  ground  underneath,  and  then  to  sud- 
denly jar,  not  shake,  the  tree,  the  insect  falling  off 
on  to  the  cloths,  which  are  immediately  gathered 
up  and  plunged  into  hot  water.  This  is  to  be  done 
every  morning,  while  the  inseots  are  yet  stiff  with 
eold,  tiU  the  fmit  is  pretty  well  advanced. 


HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

Prunikg. — Finish  pruning  apples,  apricots, 
peaches,  and  fruit  trees  generally.  Do  not  prune, 
however,  when  the  branches  are  frozen.  Goose- 
berries and  currants  may  also  be  pruned  during 
this  month,  though  the  fall  is  a  better  season. 
Qrapevines,  too,  may  be  trimmed  this  month.  In 
ray  own  experience  I  find  that  my  grapes  do  better 
when  pruned  in  February  than  when  pruned  in  the 
fall,  as  is  generally  recox mended.  I  have  given 
the  two  plans  a  fair  trial  and  shall  hereafter  prune 
in  February.  While  pruning,  it  would  be  well  to 
give  the  trunks  and  branches  of  your  trees  a  good 
wash  with  a  mixture  composed  of  one  pound  of 


either  whale-oil  soap  or  awrbolio  soap^  diuolved  in 
a  gallon  of  water. 

M AKUftiHo. — Febmary  is  a;  good  time  to  top- 
dress  the  ground  aronnd  frpit  trees,  onrrant  basher, 
etc.,  with  manmre.  A  slight  sowing  of  gnano  on 
the  strawberry  beds  will  be  benefloial.  Wood-ashes, 
bene-dvst,  and  sueh  like  f^rtiiiiers  mako  a  good 
»p-dressing  for  grape  Tines,  especially  in  low 
grounds. 

Settiko  oft  Plahtb.— Raspberries  and  black- 
berries may  be  planted  toward  the  end  of  the  month. 
The  underground  shoots,  whieh  wilt  form  the  canes 
of  the  next  season,  start  very  early,  and  are  likely 
to  be  injured  if  the  setting  is  left  until  late.  The 
plants  should  be  cut  down  to  within  a  foot  of  the 
ground  at  setting  ont.  They  will  not,  of  course, 
bear  the  first  season,  nor  should  they  be  allowed  to 
do  so.  This  rule  applies  to  all  fruits,  not  even 
strawberries  being  an  exception 

Strawbcrribi  may  be  planted  in  those  localities 
where  the  frost  is  out  of  the  ground. 

Irsbcts.— Those  which  need  particular  attention 
at  this  time  are  the  tent-oaterpillar  and  the  canker- 
worm.  The  first  named  is  still  to  be  attacked  in 
the  eggs,  which  will  be  found  attached  in  bands  to 
the  twigs,  near  their  ends.  The  oanker-worm  is- 
sues  from  the  ground  in  spring,  and  often  in  warm 
days  this  month.  The  females  are  wingless,  and 
can  only  ascend  the  trees  to  deposit  their  eggs  by 
climbing.  Some  obstacle  must  be  presented  to 
their  sscent  The  simplest  is  a  band  of  stout  psk- 
per  tied  around  the  tree  and  covered  with  tar. 
This  must  be  looked  to  every  few  days,  and  renewed 
if  the  surface  has  become  hard. 


■^-EW   PUBLIO^TIOlSrS. 


Claxxs's  Nxw  MiTHon  wa  Bixd  Oboaits.  By  William 
H.Clarke.  Boston:  OhboerDUxn  4t  Oo^  ^Ol  Wash- 
kigton  rtreet.  New  York :  C.  B.  DUmou  tf  Co, 
This  is  a  book  we  can  heartily  and  conscien- 
tiously recommend.  It  eomes  nearer  to  our  pre- 
conception of  what  such  a  work  should  be,  than 
any  method  of  musical  instruction  we  have  yet  had 
occasion  to  use.  For  clearness,  simplioity,  and 
thoroughness,  we  do  not  believe  that  it  has  been 
excelled.  The  studies  and  exercises  are  progresa- 
ive  in  their  character,  and  more  pleasing  than  is 
usual  in  books  of  iU  class.  Most  of  the  studies,  as 
well  as  the  recreative  pieces,  which  form  a  com- 
mendable feature  in  the  method,  have  been  adapted 
especially  for  the  work,  from  favorite  themes,  by 
the  best  and  most  popular  classic  composers.  The 
letter-prees  includes  brief  but  comprehensive 
Instruetion  in  the  elemento  of  music,  as  well  as 
'explanatory  notes  and  remarks  throughout  the 
•tudies,  whcMver  vam  matter,  tequiriBgeliwidatios, 


is  introduced.  The  musical  typography  is  remark- 
ably dear  and  open — even  the  most  involved  pas- 
sages being  readily  legible.  For  sale  In  Philadel- 
phia by  Lee  k  Walker,  922  Chestnut  street  Price, 
in  boards,  $2.50.  Ben^  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
price. 

Loer  EH  ns  Foe.  By  James  de  Mille,  antiior  of  "  Tho 
Boys  of  Grand  Pr6  School/'  etc  Illustrated.  Bos- 
ton :  Le%  d  Shepard. 

This  is  the  third  of  the  "  B.  0.  W.  C."  series. 
It  details  the  various  adventures  of  party 
spirited  boys  during  an  exploring  expedition  along 
tike  coast  of  Nova  Scotia.  Mr.  de  Mills  is  s.  lively 
story-teller,  and  the  present  volume,  which  con- 
tains much  instructive  matter  with  regard  to  th« 
geography,  topography,  and  natural  history  of  tho 
region  explored  by  the  youthful  voyagers,  is  writ- 
ten in  his  happiest  vein.  It  is  a  healthy,  cheerful^ 
and  amusing  book.  Lippincott  A  Co.,  of  Phila,- 
delphia  have  it  for  sale. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


NEW   PUBLICATIONS. 


121 


PivvT  KurniQ  Houas.  By  Sophie  May,  aathor  of 
*"  Little  Prudy  Stories/'  eto.  Illastrated.  Boeton: 
LmdShepani. 

Tbi«  18  the  second  of  "Little  Prudy's  Flyaway 
Ssries."  It  is  designetl  for  the  smaller  children, 
who  will  be  delighted  with  its  oomicalities.  For 
•ale  In  Philadelphia  by  Porter  A  Coates. 

Thi  Ton  Mastxbs.  A  Musical  Series  for  Yoong  Peo- 
ple. By  Charles  Barnard,  author  of  "^Moeari  and 
Mendelssohn,**  etc  Illustrated.  Boston:  Lt6  dt 
Hhepard. 

This  promises  to  be  a  yeiy  entertaining  series, 
especially  for  young  people  who  have  musical 
twtcs.  The  subjects  of  the  present  volume  are 
Hsndel  and  Hadyn,  the  more  interesting  incidents 
•f  whose  lives  are  neatly  interworen  with  a  pleasant 
little  story  of  the  present  time.  It  also  gi\'os  very 
H?ely  critical  descriptions,  in  a  famiiiax  style,  free 
from  technicalities,  of  some  of  the  master-pieces  of 
those  eminent  composers,  which  will  be  found  both 
interesting  and  profitablo  by  grown«up  readers. 
For  sale  by  Clazton,  Remsen  A  Haffelfinger,  Phil- 
adelphia. 

DouBLB  Plat;  or,  How  Joe  Hardy  Choee  his  Friends. 
By  William  Everett,  author  of  "  Changing  Base,** 
**0n  the  Cftm,"  etc.  Illustrated.  Boston:  Xm  <« 
Shepard, 

A  healthful  story  of  school-boy  life,  the  pains, 
pleasnres,  faults,  foibles,  and  varying  incidents  of 
which  it  depicts  in  a  hearty,  honest  style,  that  gives 
evidence  of  its  author's  warm  appreciation  of  his 
•abject,  and  loving  regard  for  the  boyish  charac- 
ter. Mr.  Everett's  preface  is  a  unique  specimen 
of  playful  oomposition,  and  quite  a  curiosity  in  its 
way.    For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Lippincott  A  Co. 

Matou's  Austocract;  or,  Battles  and  Wounds  in  Tlnoe 
of  Peace.  A  Plea  for  the  Oppressed.  By  Miss  Jen- 
nie Collins.  Edited  by  Russell  H.  Conwell. 
Miss  Jennie  Collins  Is  tolerably  well  known  as 
an  earnest  advocate  of  "woman's  rights,"  her 
labors,  however,  being  principally  directed  toward 
the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  working 
classes  of  her  own  sex.  Her  book  is  a  somewhat 
rambling  production,  in  which  servant  girls,  fac- 
tory life,  charitable  institutions,  labor  reform,  wo- 
flian's  suffrage,  and  other  questions  of  the  day,  are 
discussed  with  considerable  force,  freedom,  and 
•riginality,  and  in  a  plain,  praotical,  common-sense 
manner.  What  she  means  by  "nature's  aristoc- 
racy," however,  if  not  very  clear  to  our  minds,  and 
where  this  is  her  theme  she  se«ras  to  us  to  lose,  to  a 
certain  extent,  her  general  Inoidity.  Nevertheless, 
her  book  is  one  that  will  set  people  to  thinking, 
and  in  that  way,  no  doubt,  do  good.  For  sale  in 
Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 

Etirt  Day.  By  the  Aathor  of  *•  Katharine  Mnrrls." 
*' Striving  and  Oaining,**  eto.  Boeton:  KijyetjHoUmu 

A  pleasantly  told  story  of  New  Enicland  life, 
health  f,  in  tone  and  full  of  qniet  interest  The 
title  forms  th«  watchword  of  one  of  th*  «faaraQt«ts 


in  the  story,  Dr.  John  Lee,  who  thus  explains  it: 
"  It  means,"  said  he,  "  that  if  yon  wish  to  be  good 
and  nseful  in  the  future,  yon  must  begin  to  be  good 
and  useful  now,  tfoery  day  that  you  live.  •  •  • 
Day  by  day  we  are  to  do  our  appointed  work,  be 
it  great  or  small,  pleasant  or  disagreeable ;  never 
once  thinking  we  can  omit  it,  and  make  up  for  the 
defloienoy  by  doing  some  great  thing  or  things  by 
and  by.  For  sale  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  k  Co.,  of 
Philadelphia. 

Tbs  Wordbrtul  Bao,  ksm  VfuAt  was  is  It.  By  the  Au- 
thors of  "The  Fairy  Egg."  Illustrated  by  C.  O. 
Bush.  Boston:  Loring,  Publisher, 310  Washington 
Street 

This  is  the  third,of  the  "  Fairy  Folk  Series,**  by 
the  same  authors.    It  is  made  up  of  quite  a  num- 
''  her  of  pretty  little  fairy  tales,  in  which  instruction 
for  the  little  folks  is  happily  united  with  amuse- 
ment   Fer  sale  by  Porter  A  Coates,  Philadelphia. 

,  Chakrt  Hublbui.    ^y  C  OL    Boston :  Smry  Boyt^  No. 
9,  Comhill. 

A  beautiful  and  touching  story,  teaching  noble 
lessons  of  love  and  patience,  and  showing  the 
happy  results  of  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  divine 
precept  embodied  in  tho  golden  rule.  The  book 
oan  be  obtained  in  Philadelphia^  of  Claxton,  Bamsen 
A  Haffelfinger. 

Isrro  TBI  HianwATs.   By  Mrs.  C.  E.  K.  Davis.   Boston: 

Htnry  ffoyt.  No.  9,  Comhill. 

Like  the  volume  noticed  above,  this  is  a  story 
inculcating  lessons  of  practical  Christianity.  It  is 
more  especially  designed  for  the  reading  of  the 
young,  though  persons  of  mature  age  will  find  in 
it  both  profit  and  entertainment  Both  books  are 
well  suited  for  Sunday-school  libraries.  The  goo^ 
ness  they  hold  np  for  imitation  is  not  of  that  In- 
practicable  kind,  so  often  placed  before  us  in  works 
of  their  class.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Clax- 
toB,  Remsen  A  Haffelfinger. 

SwAOfSBiLL  Hakbob.     By  J.  B.   LangiHe.    Boston: 

Hmry  Hoyt,  Mo.  9,  ComhilL 

Snail-shell  Harbor  is  the  name  given  by  the 
••rly  settlers  to  a  beantifol  and  romantio  cove  on 
the  north- wesfere  coast  of  Michigan.  It  is  of  this 
place,  and  of  its  inhabitants,  and  of  their  ways  of 
life,  that  the  story  before  us  tells.  The  book  is  an 
interesting  one,  moral  in  its  tone,  and  suitable  for 
Snnday-sohools.  Claxton,  Remsen  A  Haffelfinger, 
of  Philadelphia,  have  it  for  sails.. 

BAnuB  AT  Hon.     By  Mary  6^  Darling.     Boston: 
Jloraet  B.  Puller,  14  Brooinfield  Street. 
As  the  leading  story  in  Merry**  Mnttum  daring 

tho  past  year,  "Battles  at  Home"  proved  to  he 

the  most  popular  serial  for  the  young  of  the  season. 

For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 

Ht  Svmm  iw  a  OAmmnr.    By  CHarliss  Dudley  Warner. 

Boston :  Fieid$,  (kgood  i*  €b. 

Any  one  who  has  had  a  gardbn  of  liis  own,  will 
appreotatn  the  httmov  oi  this  hoolt.    The  anthar 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


123 


ARTHUR' a   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


hM  niMioubtedlj  handled  the  spftde  and  the  hoe, 
and  fought  weeds,  and  moraUxed,  and  anatbema- 
tixed  his  neighbor's  ohickens,  and  enjoyed  that  wn- 
alloyed  satisfaetion  which  the  gardener  ezperieoees 
in  the  early  spring,  whilst  anticipating  the  result 
of  his  labors.  The  book  Is  a  capital  one,  and  con- 
tains a  great  deal  more  truth  on  the  sul^ject  of  am- 
ateur gardening  than  we  have  ever  found  in  thoee 
gravely  written  yolumes  which  have  become  so 
popular  of  late,  and  in  which  inexperienced  men 
perform  such  prodigies  in  the  gardening  line.  To 
be  obtained  in  Philadelphia  of  J.  B.  Lippincett 
k  Co. 

Tbx  Shadow  or  Moloch  MouirTAnr.  By  Jane  O.  Austin, 
author  of  "  Cipher,"  etc.  New  York :  Shddon  rf  Cb. 
"  The  Shadow  of  Moloch  Mountain,"  is,  in  many 
respects,  superior  to  "  Cipher/'  Mn.  Austin's  first 
novel.  From  its  very  opening,  It  is  a  story  of  ab- 
sorbing interest.  The  characters  are  drawn  with  a 
great  deal  of  power,  and  the  style  is  graphic  and 
forcible.  For  sale  in  Pbihbdelpfaia  by  J.  B.  Lip- 
pincott  A  Co. 

Ooa  Poetical  Fatorrbs.    A  selection  from  the  beet 
Minor  Poems  of  the  English  Language.   By  Asahel 
G.  Kendrick,  Professor  in  the  University  of  Roch- 
ester.   New  York :  SfteUen  dt  Ox 
There  are  certain  poems  whfch  one  loves  and 
which  one  can  never  read  too  often.    Yet  it  is  only 
people  of  largo  means  who  can  collect  in  their 
libraries  all  their  favorite  authors,  each  in  a  sepa- 
rate volume.    But  in  this  book,  whose  typography 
and  binding  are  worthy  of  it,  will  be  found  many 
of  the  choicest  poems  of  the  best  English  and 
American  poets.    It  should  have  a  place  in  every 
small  library.    J.  6.  Lippincott  k  Co.,  of  Philadel- 
phia, have  it  for  sale. 

How  Gould  Hi  Esoapb?  A  Temperance  Tale.  "By 
Mrs.  Julia  McNair  Wright,  author  of  "John  and  the 
Demyohn,"  " Jug-or-not,"  etc.,  etc.  New  York: 
Th6  National  Thnperance  Sod^y  ami  Publication 
HouUy  172  William  street 
An  effectively  written  story,  which  deserves,  and 

we  hope  will  obtain,  a  wide  circulation. 

Tm  I>Bsntom  ov  vm  dnxmn  Kspxniuc ;  beini;  Napoleon 
the  Little.  By  Victor  Huro.  Translati^d  by  a  Gler^ 
g3rman  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Chnreh,  from 
tne  Sixteenth  French  Edition.    New  York :  SMdm 

This  work  was  first  published  early  in  1852.  Its 
translator  says : — "  When  judged  on  its  own  mer- 
its, without  a  comparison  with  other  works  by  the 
author,  it  may  be  said  that,  notwithstanding  its 
oeeasional  extravagance  of  style,  *  *  *  its 
enormous  French  vanity,  occasionally  swelling  to 
Sjftored  allusions,  which,  in  another  would  be  called 
blasphemy,  the  book  is  of  value  in  an  artistic 
and  scientific  point  of  view,  as  containing  passages 
of  incomparable  eloquence,  as  being  graphic  and 
readable  throughout,  and  as  affording,  in  its  later 
portions,  a  masterly  analysis  of  crime.  As  to  its 
moral  tone,  notwithstanding  an  occasional  coarse 
SUnaion,  it  may  be  said  to  be  everywhere  high.  *  * 


Many  of  its  predictions  have  been  lingnlariy 
although  tardily  verified,  and  we  can  read  in  the 
light  of  1870  many  prophesies  with  wonder,  which 
in  1869  would  have  provoked  a  smile."  With 
regard  to  the  work  of  the  translator,  we  would  ex- 
press our  opinion  that  it  has  been  well  done— sin- 
gularly well  done,  in  fact  For  sale  by  J.  B.  Lip- 
pincott A  Co.,  PhiUuielphia. 

Wrra  Fati  Aoaiitst  Him.  By  Amanda  M.  Douglas, 
author  of  ••  In  Trust,"  •*  Stephen  Dane,"  ••  CUudis," 
etc.    New  York :  SkOdon  dt  Co. 

An  interesting  but  somewhat  morbid  novel, 
from  the  pen  of  a  lady  who  ranks  among  the  most 
popular  of  our  woman  writers  of  fiction.  For  sale 
by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co.,  Philadelphia. 

WoKDKis  or  BoDar  Strenoth  akd  Skill,  in  all  ages  sad 
countries.  Translated  and  enlarged  from  the  French 
of  Guillaume  Depping.  By  Charles  Russell.  With 
numerous  illustrations.  New  York :  CharUa  SeriXmtr 
4tCo, 

Thx  Bottom  ov  na  Sia.    By  L.  Bonrel.    Translated 

and  edited  by  Elihu  Rich,  translator  of  Cagin's  pop* 

ular  treatise  on  **The  Phenomena  and  Laws  of 

Heat," etc.    New  York:  Charlta  Seribner  dt  Oa, 

We  have  here  two  more  volumes  of  the  <'  Dlas- 

trated  Library  of  Wonders.*'     Of  the  interesting 

character  of  the  volumes  composing  this  series  of 

books,  in  which  physioal  science  and  antiquarian 

lore  are  placed  before  the  reader  in  a  popvlar  and 

attractive  form,  it  seems  hardly  neoessary  for  ni  to 

speak.    The  subjects  treated  of  in  the  two  present 

volumes  are  sufficiently  indicated  by  their  titles, 

which  we  have  given  in  full.    They  are  books  is 

which  both  young  and  old  can  derive  instruction 

and  entertainment    For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J. 

B.  Lippincott  A  Co.    Price  $1.50  a  volume. 

Tn  ADVKRTisEa'B  Hand-Boox.  New  York :  &  M.  Pd' 
HngUl  <»  Cb.,  Newspaper  and  Advertising  Agents,  37 
Park  Row. 

This  volume  comprises  a  complete  list  of  all  the 
newspapers,  periodicals,  and  magaaines  published 
in  the  United  States  and  British  Possessioni, 
arranged  by  counties,  with  the  population  of  coisn- 
ties  and  towns.  In  it  will  also  be  found  separate  lliti 
of  the  daily,  religious,  and  ag ricultoral  newspa- 
pers. It  is  prefaced  by  a  brief  but  interesting  his- 
tory of  the  newspaper  press. 

Thx  Viotoxt  op  « hi  VAnQnunn.    A  Stoxy  ef  the  First 
Century.    By  the  author  of  the  "  Chronicles  ef  the 
Schonberg-Cotta  Family,"  etc.,  etc.     New  York: 
Dodd  <#  Mead,  762  Broadway. 
In  her  peculiar  line,  the  authorof  the ''Chronicles 
of  the  Schonberg-Cotta  Family"  stands  without  a 
rival.    No  other  writer  in  the  English  language 
has  so  vividly  depicted  the  peoples,  the  manneri, 
and  the  customs  of  past  ages.     One  can  almost  im- 
agine that  she  mutt  have  lived  In  the  various 
epochs,  the  interior  life  of  which  she  describes  so 
minutely  and  with  such  graphic  vigor.    Her  pres- 
ent volume  carries  the  reader  back  to  the  days  of 
Tiberins  Cnsar,  at  one  time  placing  him  in  the 
sarage  forests  of  the  Germania  of  Jacobus;  at 


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EDITORS'    DEPARTMENT. 


123 


uothcr,  setting  him  d<mn  amid  the  epiendon  of 
fanperiftl  and  pagan  Rome,  the  then  eentre  ot  the 
world ;  and  itill  again  bearing  him  in  imagination 
to  tbe  green  hills  of  Antioch,  where  **  the  strange, 
tweet  story"  of  the  Man  of  Gaiilee  was  yei  to  be 
beard  in  ail  its  freshness. 

J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.  hare  published  RanaXd 
Banmeman^B  Boyhood}  by  George  Mackdonald, 
editor  of  "  Good  Words  for  the  Young,"  a  juvenile 
bo«k  of  rare  ezcellenoe. 

Tke  Monittona  of  the  Un»een,  and  Poemt  of  Love 
smI  Childhood,    Bj  Jean  Ingelow,  from  the  press 


of  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  is  a  Tolnme  of  ool- 
leeted  poems  of  a  high  order.  The  author  has  long 
since  taken  rank  among  the  purest  sjid  best  of 
English  poets. 

Fields,  Osgood  &  Co.  have  issued  in  a  neat  volnme 
Miriam  and  other  Poema,  by  John  Greeley  Whittier. 
The  lovers  of  that  true  poetry  which  appeals  to  the 
highest  and  noblest  instincts  of  our  nature,  will  be 
glad  to  have  gathered  up  and  put  in  an  enduring 
form  the  fugitive  utterances  of  the  Quaker  bard 
during  the  past  year.  Here  they  are,  worthily  en- 
shrined in  a  beautiful  volnme. 


EDITORS'  DEPARTMENT. 


•FHB  OAliAXr. 

The  Jannaiy  number  of  the  QmU^nf  promises 
well  for  1871.  Among  the  writers  who  will  eon- 
tribute  artioles  daring  the  year  are  Ik  Marrel, 
Psrke  Goodwin,  Justin  MeOarthy,  Richard  Grant 
Wbfts^  Mrs.  Edwards,  author  of  "Steven  Law- 
raise,"  who  begins  a  novel  in  the  January  nvmber, 
Porte  Crayon,  who  is  to  furnish  a  series  of  sketches 
of  American  life  and  adventure,  and  Mark  Twain, 
who  continues  his  "department"  A  new  depart- 
Bont  is  also  opened — a  department  of  science — 
which  is  under  the  oharge  of  a  distinguished  writer 
io  that  field.  Altogether  the  Galaxy  is  one  of  the 
Boit  brilliant  and  readable  of  ear  American  maga- 
liae^  and  deeervea  the  most  unqualified  sncoess. 

BVBKT  SATURDAY. 

ISrsiy  Saturday  was,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
pnsent  year,  enlarged  to  twenty-four  pages  of  tbe 
ttme  tise  as  last  year.  It  is  consequently  half  as 
Isrge  again  as  last  year,  whilo  the  price  is  unal- 
tered. The  publishers  say  "  they  do  net  intend  to 
wly  for  their  main  attractions  upon  foreign  pic- 
tares  alone,  but  have  made  arrangements  with  the 
W  American  artists  for  original  drawings,  which 
will  represent  American  life,  scenery,  and  character 
to  an  extent  never  before  attempted."  Other  fbatures 
*re  also  introduced,  with  the  intention  of  making 
it  the  leading  illustrated  weekly  of  America.  It  is 
*  inperb  publication,  and  every  lover  of  first-class 
Art  or  literature  should  consider  their  list  of  read- 
ing for  the  year  incomplete  without  this. 

WHAT  THB   JLADfKS   THINK  OF  OUR 
XAGAKINI&. 

That  oor  magazine  meet«  the  wants  of  the  intel- 
"gsnt  portion  of  tbe  oommnnity,  letters  which  we 
»weoB«t«ntly  receiving,  testify.    One  lady  writes  : 

*'AIter  a  long  acqnaintanee  with  Peterson,  Godey, 
*^ft  Friend,  Ballou's,  and  other  magazines  of 
«>•  elass,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  yowr  book 
'^  H  ealls  itself—'  Queen  of  the  Monthlies.'  I 
^^^  the  stories  of  a  Utter  elass  than  most  of  the 


ethers,  more  ■ubstantial  and  not  so  sensational ;  and 
the  patterns  really  useful,  of  which,  as  I  oeonpy 
many  of  my  Msare  home  in  fancy  work,  I  am 
somewhat  prepared  to  judge.  And  the  '  cook  book' 
is  the  only  one  I  know  of  which  is  of  muoh  praeti- 
oal  value  to  plain  housekeepers  like  us  of  small 
towns,  beeanse  its  materials  axe  simple  ones,  such 
as  we  can  readily  obtain." 

Hero  is  «  tribute  to  onr  mnsio : 

"  Jnst  let  me  say  here  that  you  mast  have  a  tasty 
mnsioal  editor,  for  the  pieces  are  nearly  all  good; 
and  magazine  mnsio  is  generally  nothing  but 
traeK" 

MISS  GARRETT,  M.  D. 

Miss  Garrett,  the  first  lady  medical  graduate  of 
England,  was  recently  nominated  by  the  working- 
men  as  one  of  the  candidates  for  the  now  school 
boards,  which  are  to  form  a  common  school  system 
for  England.  As  the  nomination  was  made  with- 
out her  knowledge  and  consent,  she  was  about  to 
withdraw  her  name,  but  her  friends  urged  her  to 
let  it  remain.  She  was  elected  by  a  majority  of 
47,000.  Prof.  Hncley,  whe,  «sa  belfeve,  had  the 
b  fa&glMst  vote^  collated  a  cmjority  of  17.000. 


▼IOK*B    IbltUSTRATlED  €ATA1><M^UB 
AND  FJLORAIi  GUIDB. 

Vfck's  catalogue  fbr  18T1  is  now  ready  to  send 
out.  It  is  undeniably  the  most  beantifal  book  of 
Its  class,  and  aside  frotn  its  use  to  the  florist  and 
gardener,  it  is  a  Taluable  addition  to  the  parlor 
table.  It  contains  two  handsomely  colored  plates 
of  petnnias,  and  there  are  three  hundred  illustra- 
tions of  flowers  and  vegetables.  This  plan  of  illus- 
tration is  an  ezeellont  one,  as  it  enables  the  pur- 
ohaser  of  seeds  to  decide  at  onee  which  are  the 
desirable  ones.  The  plants  grown  from  seeds  we 
onrselves  obtained  from  Mr.  Viek  last  year  were 
in  every  way  satisfaetory.  Tiie  petunias  were 
magnificent,  and  the  balsams  the  ku-jtrest  and  finest 
we  ever  saw.  This  oatalogne  and  guide  is  tent  to 
all  who  desire  it  for  ten  cents. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


184 


ARTHUR'S   LADT'8   HOME   UAGAZINE. 


u  THB  1¥AKATU  OF  IM  JIOATKLt.l&8.< 

This  lo7oIy  picture,  we  arc  pleased  to  know,  is 
giving  the  highest  satisfaetion.  A  lady  in  the 
West  writes  : — 

''Will  please  accept  my  thanks  for  the  lovely 
picture,  '  The  Wreath  of  Immortellen,'  which  came 
safely  to  hand  with  the  Dooember  number  of  Homb 
MAaAziN£  and  Childitu*»  Hour,  I  bad  thought 
the  '  Angel  of  Peace  *  could  not  be  surpassed,  but 
this,  to  mo,  is  oven  more  beautiful." 

And  from  a  lady  in  Kew  Hampshire  comes  this 
hearty  praise : — 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  and 
enjoy  the  beautiful,  picture,  '  The  Wreath  of  fm- 
mortelleM,*  T  was  prepared,  by  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  the  pictaro  previously  sent,  to  expect 
something  rare  and  lovely,  but  this  proved  far 
more  beautiful  than  I  had  anticipated.  I  am  never 
weary  of  looking  at  the  sweet  and  tender  faoe«  of 
the  motherless  children,  and  the  caressing  attitude 
of  the  elder  seems  to  say — 'You  shall  never  want 
for  love  and  oaro  as  long  as  I  live,  dear  little 
brother.' 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  beautiful  pic- 
ture, and  hope  it  may  brighten  many  homef  as  it 
has  done  that  of  mine." 

Another,  from  Massaofansetts,  says: — 

''I  thank  you  very  much  for  sending  me  the 
new  picture,  '  Th^  Wreath  nf  ImmorUUu*  It  is 
very  lovely ! 

''  The  faces  of  the  children  are  beautiful,  from 
the  living  expression  they  put  forth.  I  feel  almost 
that  if  I  were  to  look  behind  I  should  find  the  soul 
animating  them.  I  am  never  weary  of  studying 
the  face  of  the  eldest — so  full  of  sweet,  tearful  ten- 
derness— and  upon  looking  closely  there  seems 
playing  through  it  a  radiant  light,  as  if  reflected 
from  the  bright,  trustful  face  of  the  boy  at  her 
side. 

"^  It  is  a  beautifol  picture  1" 


VOMSJI  AHD  WIKB*. 

Under  this  head,  iS'oH&fisr'a  Manthlf  for  Janvary 
says  some  things  in  a  plain  and  forcible  way,  that 
an  women  should  read  an4  ponder.  Among  them 
is  this : — 

"Of  the* worst  foes  that  woman  has  ever  had  to 
encounter,  wine>  stands  at  the  head.  The  appetite 
for  strong  drink  in  man  Has  spoiled  the  lives  of 
more  women — ^ruined-  more  hopes  for  them,  soat- 
tered  more  fortunes  for  them,  bronght  them  more 
shame,  sorrow,  and  bftrdship— 4han  any  other  eidl 
that  lives.  The  eomtry  oonnts  tens  of  thonsaods — 
nay,  faundreda  of  thouands— of  wome«  who  are 
widows  to-day,  aad  sit  in  hopeless  woods,  becftose 
their  bnsbands  have  been  slain  by  stroag  drink. 
There  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  homes,  scat- 
tered all  over  the  land,  in  which  women  live  lives 
•f  torture,  going  through  all  the  ehanges  of  suflfer- 
faig  thst  lie  between  the  extremes  of  fear  and 
despair,,  because  thjose  whom,  they  love^Iovs  wine 


better  than  they  do  the  women  they  have  sworn  to 
love.  There  are  women  by  thousands  who  dread 
to  hear  at  the  door  the  step  that  onoo  thrilled  them 
with  pleasure,  because  the  step  has  learned  to  reel 
under  the  influence  of  the  seductive  poison.  There 
are  women  groaning  with  pain  while  we  write  thfse 
words,  from  bruises  and  brutalities  inflicted  by 
husbands  made  mad  by  drink.  The  sorrows  snd 
horrors  of  a  wife  with  a  drunken  husband,  or  a 
mother  with  a  drunken  son,  are  as  near  the  rssli- 
sation  of  hell  as  can  be  reached  in  this  world  at 
leasL" 

The  article  then  remonstrates  with  woman 
against  her  too  frequent  encouragement  of  men  to 
drink  on  festive  occasions,  saying : — 

"  (Ai,  woman !  woman  I  Is  it  not  time  this  thing 
was  stopped  ?  Bave  yoa  a  husband,  a  brother,  or 
a  son  ?  Are  they  stronger  than  their  neigfabon, 
who  have,  one  after  another,  dropped  into  the  graves 
of  drunkards  ?  Look  around  you  and  see  the  des- 
olation that  drink  has  wrought  among  year 
acquaintanoes»  and  then  decide  whether  you  havs 
a  right  to  place  temptation  in  any  man's  way,  or 
do  aught  to  make  a  social  custom  respeetable 
which  leads  hundreds  of  thousands  o£  men  ists 
bondage  and  death  7" 


CBCBT  OR  CBUMB- 
BT  mam  a.  stiixDior. 
(Sm  Mngravfmg.) 
Sapper  t   1  hear  eveir  word  you  are  saying, 

Though  Flanagen  Ponahoe  sr^s  you  are  dumb^ 
But  /understand  you  I  donH  I,  my  darlings? 
And  which  shall  it  be  now— the  crust  orthecmnbr 

Thecrustl   Let  me  see..  Were  you  happy  together, 

All  the  day  long  in  the  sunny  old  hallT 
And  what  did  you  talk  about?  me  or  the  weather?' 

Tell*  me  the  truth  now,  or  nothing  at  al?. 

He  ?   And  the  honso  w«s  too-lonesome  without  me  t 
And  leaving  you  here  was  a  dreadful  abuse  ? 

And  whenever  you  slept  you  were  dreaming  abani 
me?— 
Sly  little  rogues  I  do  you  thitak  Tm  a  goos^r 

I  oan*t  Just  believe  ev«ry  word  that  you  utter ;. 

You  love  me  a  little,  and. miss  roe,  I  know ; 
But,  better  than  me  oh  you  love  a  good  supper,— 

Tell-  me,  old*  Btinabfe-puff,  Is  it  not  so  ? 

And  whHe  I  wa»  gone  you  were  dreaming  of  butttr 
flies,  I 

Left  in  the  lap  of  the  leafy  old  June ; 
And  Kitty— the  dartingi— if  once  she  but  shut  her     , 
eyee. 
Hunted  for  mice  by  the  Ught  of  the  moon. 

I  fenow  you,  my  pets !'  Do  not  thlhk  t»  deceive  me  I 
Better  by  far  yoir  were  evermore  dumb ; 

And  better  be  dead' than  dishonest,  believe  me.-^ 
So  here'a  the  crust  for  you,  and  many  a  orumbb 


^m^Wtttnd  "Turn  Hohv  MA«AziirB"  ni 
**  Qodst's  Last's.  Book  "  one  yeac  fbr  $4*00. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


EDITOEB'    DEFAETMENT. 


126 


CULDJWH  AMOH«  THB  AHCUBNT 
ROMAH8. 

AitOHkt  SngKih  writer,  spei^ng  partionlalrly 
tf  8«MM»  Md  of  th*  Romi^  people  is  the  dsye  of 
fio— whieh  were  «lio  the  days  of  PmiI  —  and 
ipMkiBf  generallj  of  aneient  heathen  loeietj, 
■ikM  tlMM  auggeetiTe  remarki : — 

^TheaaeieBt  writersy  ejen  the  anoient  poeto, 
tenraly  referi  eyen  in  the  most  oanory  manner, 
totkeir  early  yeart.  The  eanee  of  thia  retiovnee 
(Ana  •■rioiu  problem  for  oar  inqairy,  bat  the 
CKlifmdispatabla.  Whereas,  there  is  searoely  a 
ngl«  Bodem  poet  who  has  not  lingered,  with  an- 
filgiised  feelings  of  happiness,  over  the  gentle 
uories  of  his  ohildhood,  not  one  of  the  anoient 
pMti  kss  systematioally  tonohed  upon  the  theme 

italL How  is  it  that  to  the  Greek 

ud  Roman  poets^  that  morning  of  life,  whioh 
iMd  hayo  been  so  filled  with  <' natural  blessed- 
BM^**  teems  to  hare  been  a  blank  ?  How  is  it  that 
vriton  so  rolaminons,  so  domestie,  so  affectionate 
M  Ciosro,  Virgil,  and  Horace,  do  not  make  so  mach 
H  ft  single  allusion  to  the  existence  of  their  own 

ao<h«n  ? The  explanation  rests  in 

t&i  fiet  that  in  all  probability  childhood  among 
&•  aaeients  war  a  disregarded^and  in  most  cases 
t&r  less  happy — ^period  than  it  is  with  us.  The 
kirth  of  a  child,  in  the  house  of  a  Greek  or  Roman, 
*ii  not  necessarily  a  snbjeot  for  rejoicing.  If  the 
&tlMr,  when  the  ofailf  was  first  shown  to  him, 
itoopid  down  and  took  it  fn  his  arms,  it  was 
nerived  as  a  member  of  the  family ;  if  he  left  it 
nootiesd,  then  it  was  doomed  to  death,  and  was 
uposed,  in  some  lonely  or  barren  place,  to  the 
aeny  of  the  wild  beasts,  or  of  the  first  passer  by. 
Aad  sren  if  a  ohild  escaped  this  fate,  yet,  fbr  the 
Int  Nren  or  eight  years  of  life,  he  was  kept  in  the 
giCMMi,  or  women's  apartments,  and  rarely  or 
swir  saw  his  father's  face.  Ko  halo  of  romance 
tt  poetry  was  shed  over  those  early  years.  Until 
iWehild  was  full  grown,  the  absolute  power  of  life 
•rieath  rested  in  his  father's  hands ;  he  bad  no 
&Mdom,  and  met  with  little  notice.  Fbr  individual 
&&,  the  ancients  had  a  very  slight  regard ;  thei^ 
■u  nothing  antobiographic  or  introspective  in 
t^  temperamont  With  them,  publio  life,  the 
lift  of  the  State,  was  everything ;  domestic  life,  the 
Eft  of  the  individual,  occupied  but  a  small  share 
of  th«r  consideration.  All  the  innocent  pleasures 
«f  infancy,  the  joys  of  the  hearth,  the  charm  of  the 
doaestie  circle,  the  flow  and  sparkle  of  childish 
gft7*ty»  were  by  them  but  little  appreciated.  The 
7«n  before  manhood  were  years  of  prospect,  and 
ia  Bost  eases  they  offered  bat  littte  to  make  them 
verth  the  retrospect 


old  cobwebs  there.  If  yon  want  to  ruin  your  sons, 
let  them  think  that  all  mirth  and  social  enjojmcnt 
must  be  left  on  the  threshold  without,  when  they 
oome  home  at  night.  When  once  a  home  is  re- 
garded as  only  a  plaoe  to  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  in, 
the  work  is  begun  that  ends  in  gambling- houses 
and  reoklesB  degradation.  Young  people  must 
have  fun  and  relaxation  somewhere ;  if  they  do  not 
find  it  at  their  own  hearth-stones,  it  will  be  sought 
at  other  and  perhaps  less  profitable  plaoes.  There- 
fore, let  the  fire  bum  brightly  at  night,  and  make 
the  homestead  delightful  with  all  those  little  arts 
that  parents  so  perfectly  onderstaud.  Don't  repress 
the  buoyant  spirits  of  year  ohildrea.  Half  an 
honr  of  merriment  round  the  lamp  and  firelight  of 
a  home  blots  out  the  remembrance  of  many  a  care 
and  annoyance  during  the  day ;  and  the  best  safe- 
guard they  can  take  with  them  into  the  world  is 
the  unseen  infiaenoe  of  a  bright  little  domeftio 
sanctum." 

fie  says  the  editor  of  the  Cmada  Farmer,  and 
we  not  only  endorse  his  beautifully  worded  senti* 
ttenta,  but  pass  tbeA  to  our  readers. 


COLORBD  VASHIOH  PI^ATBS. 

An  old  subscriber  thinks  the  colored  fashion  en- 
gvaringt  out  of  place  in  "  Thb  Homb."  She  doee 
not  like  to  have  it  classed  with  mere  fashion  mag^ 
atines.  We  respond,  that  it  is  not  our  intention  to 
issue  the  colored  fashion  plate  oflener  than  once  a 
quarter,  nor  in  anything  to  ohange  the  high  char- 
acter of  our  magasine.  As  we  said  in  January, 
referring-  to  our  varied  and  costly  illustrations : — 
"  These  will  not  always  be  given  in  the  same  nam> 
her,  as  in  the  present,  bat  sometimes  together  and 
sometimes  in  alternation,  so  as  to  give  to  each 
number  as  it  appears  a  beauty  and  variety  pecu- 
Uarly  its  own." 

The  chief  attraction  of  our  magasine  lies,  as  it 
should,  in  the  interest  and  excellenoe  of  its  reading, 
while  its  varied  illustrations  give  it  a  beauty  second 
to  none  of  its  class.  We  endeayor  to  meet  all  pore 
tastes,  bat  never  pander  to  the  vitiated. 


HOMK  MIRTH. 

"Dent  be  afraid  of  a  little  fun  at  home,  good 
pw^le.  DonH  shut  op  yonr  houses  lest  the  ion 
AsoU  fade  yenr  eorpeta  and  your  hearti,  lest  a 
hsHty  laaglk  should  shake  dowa  some  of  the  maatf 


THB  UrORKlN GMAH • 

Send  a  stamp  and  get  in  return  a  specimen  oopy 
of  this  oarefuUy  edited  and  richly  illustrated  pie- 
torial.  It  is  a  temperanee  paper,  and  its  wide  eir- 
oulation  among  working  people  cannot  ful  to  do 
much  good.  It  is  only  sixty  cents  a  year— so  cheap 
that  the  poorest  can  afford  a  copy. 

As  a  paper  for  family  reading,  where  young  peo- 
ple are  growing  up  and  daily  forming  opinions  and 
habits  of  thinking,  its  intreda#tion  would  be  of 
great  oee.  Its  temperanee  feature  is  not  obtratiTc, 
but  s»  addressed  to  the  reason  and  eommon  aense 
at  to  carry  great  weight.  The  moral  tone  is  of  the 
highest  and  purest  quality,  white  the  reading  ia 


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126 


ARTEVR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


TAKB    SOTIOIB. 

RBSiTTAircEfl. — Send  po8t>effioe  order  or  a  draft 
on  Philadelphia,  New  York,  or  Boston.  If  you  ea& 
not  get  a  P»  0.  order  or  draft,  then,  if  the  Bum  be 
ive  dollars  or  upward,  have  jo«r  letter  registered 
at  Che  post-offioe. 

If  yon  eend  a  draft,  see  that  it  is  drawn  or  en- 
dorsed to  order  of  T.  8.  Arthar  A  Sons. 

Always  give  name  of  your  town,  eoanty  and 
fltate. 

When  yo«  want  a  magasine  ehanged  from  one 
olBoe  to  another,  be  sure  to  eay  to  what  poet-offiee 
it  goes  at  the  time  yon  write. 

When  money  is  sent  for  any  other  pnblioation 
Chan  our  own,  we  pay  St  over  to  the  publisher,  and 
there  our  responsibility  ends. 

Subseriptions  may  eommenoe  with  any  nvmber 
of  the  year. 

Let  the  names  of  the  snbseribera  and  yonr  own 
fignature  be  written  plainly. 

In  making  up  a  olub,  the  snbsoribers  may  be  at 
diiferoat  post-offioes. 

Canada  subseribers  must  eend  twelre  oenta  In 
addition  to  subscription,  for  postage. 

Postage  on  "The  Lady's  Home  Magazine"  is 
twelve  oents  a  ytat^  payable  at  the  oflioe  where  the 
magasine  is  received. 

In  sending  a  olab  in  which  our  different  maga- 
lines  are  inolnded,  be  careful  to  write  eaeh  list  of 
names  by  itselL  This  will  make  our  entry  of  the 
names  in  the  different  subfloription  books  easier 
and  prevent  many  mistakes. 

Before  writing  us  a  letter  of  inquiry,  examine 
the  above  and  see  if  the  question  you  wish  to  ask 
ii  not  answered. 


OTTRPRBlinVM  KVGRiLVXSGS. 

These  are  all  expressly  engraved  for  us  at  a  large 
ooet,  and  afford  a  rare  opportanity  to  those  who 
love  good  pictures  to  obtain  them  at  less  than 
•one- fifth  the  price  at  which  the  foreign  copies  are 
sold. 

For  1871,  all  who  make  up  clubs  will  have  the 
choice  of  four  premium  plates,  vis : — 

The  Wreath  of  Ih]iobtsi.le8, 

The  Angsl  of  Peace, 

Bed-Tiue, 

Rice's  Large  and  Five  Stesl  Portrait  or  T. 
8.  ARTHnn. 

One  of  which,  as  may  he  desired,  will  be  sent  to 
the  getter-up  of  each  einb.  And  every  subscriber 
to  ^  The  Hove  Maoaziive  "  will  be  entitled  to 
order  one  or  all  uf  them  at  a  dollar  each. 


IVAftHlHO   DAT0. 

We  clip  the  following  from  Th€  Pirovidm^^  (J2. 
/.)  AdveHiur,  The  toap  referred  to  Is  the  (Mun»— 
heretofore  mentioned  in  our  knagasine — as  patented 
by  Alexander  Warfldd :— 

**  With  those  who  have  the  sagacity  to  ne  tin 


Cold  Water  g^lf- Washing  Soap,  washing  dsiTs  have 
ceased  to  possess  any  terrors.  Since  we  have  intro- 
duced this  remarkable  coap  in  «ur  own  hooaebold, 
the  utiaioet  harmony  has  prevailed.  The  good  old 
colored  woman  who  performs  for  ns  th«  duties  of 
laundress,  executes  her  work  with  the  ntaaoet  oheer- 
fulnoss  and  alacrity ;  in  fact,  fVom  the  oommenee> 
ment  of  her  weekly  task  to  its  eenol«aion,  her 
<hining  ooontenanee  is  '  as  smiling  at  a  bsiekek  of 
chips.'  She  said  to  ns,  the  other  day :  '  I  iMrsr 
need  snoh  soap  before.  Blessed  be  the  man  whs 
Invented  it  I'  That  the  Cold  Water  Self-Washing 
Soap  is  altogether  superior  to  anything  of  the  kind 
•erer  introduced  to  the  public,  all  will  aulmiit  whs 
give  lt>  fair  trial." 


BARLY  HABRIAGBS. 

"  Buy  your  cage  before  you  catch  jonr  bird.* 
On  this  old  adage  Mrs.  H.  W.  Boecher,  writing  for 
The  Chrittian  C/titoa,  says  some  very  sensible  thinp. 
Among  them  the  following : — 

**  This  old  proverb  sounds  very  wise,  and  if  takta 
literally,  may,  for  aught  we  know,  be  correct  d*e- 
trin'b ;  but  when  used  as  a  warning,  in  the  connec- 
tion which  our  friend  suggests,  we  don't  more  thsa  » 
half  believe  in  it.  We  are  no  advocate  for  veiy 
long  engagements,  or  unreasonably  earlj  marriages, 
but  we  do  believe  that  the  happiest  marriages  are 
of  those  between  whom  the  love  was  early  plighted, 
and  that  dose  observation  will  prove  that  such  are 
the  most  likely  to  stand  the  test  of  time,  and  pass 
through  the  many  rough  and  hazardous  paths  of 
married  lifb  with  the  most  cheerful  fortitude. 
Those  who  have  delayed  marriage  till  their  habits 
>  have  become  too  firmly  established  to  yield  kindly 
to  another's  wishes  or  peculiarities,  have  not,  we 
think,  so  sure  a  prospect  of  a  pleasant  and  hsr- 
monious  life." 

She  does  not  believe  that  an  engagement  should 
be  protracted,  after  the  lover  has  entered  upon  his 
business  or  profession,  until  he  has  accumulated 
BuflSoient  wealth  to  keep  his  bird  in  a  golden  cage. 

''  Begin  real  life  together.  That  is  the  true  way, 
all  the  sweeter  and  happier  if  yon  begin  smalL 
The  less  style  and  display  there  is,  the  more  time 
each  will  have  to  study  the  home-character  of  the 
one  they  have  accepted  as  a  companion  for  life, 
and  the  better  opportunity  to  learn  easily  how  to  \ 
'  bear  and  forbear,'  to  tone  down  such  peculiarities 
as  are  not  conducive  to  mutual  confidence  and  har- 
mony. In  all  characters  there  will  be  such  pees- 
liarities — it  is  (][uite  right  there  should  be — ^bnt  bj 
carrying  the  same  gentleness  and  courtesy  iato 
domestic  life,  which  was  so  easily  and  natnranj 
given  in  the  days  of  conrtship,  yielding,  a  little, 
'  giving  up '  one  to  the  other,  the  early  wedded 
become  assimilated,  and  find  in  their  lUiien  as 
erer-inoreasing  joy,  which  a  later  aoarriage,  whea 
the  habits  become  fixed  tad  unyielding,  leldcsK 


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Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


GUESS  WHO   IT   (S. 


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Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


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I 

8 


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COVER 

This  eoT< 
beonpMffhtl; 
part  of  the 
Pfiwn  on  all 
Ven  inches 
lino  tho  coj 
iUustration 
plain  netiin| 
(laming  tilf 
a  row  of  hei 
a  similar  ro' 
wj9e  edged  RAM, 
of  the  cover 
other  sides, 


CRAVAT    EJND    IN    MUSLIN    AND    GUIPURE    EM- 
BROIDERY. 


litl 
err 
»it 
ooi 
ith 

r« 


fi 


BMBROIDBRT  OOBNBB  BOBDKB. 
il«  for  tablo-«ov0ra,  sotk-oathiotm,  tqaar*  foototoola,  ela,  and  li  mMnt  for  ombroider. 
.  OB  doth,  eMhrneifs  or  thiok  silk,    it  ia  ozeoatod  in  ndae4  Mtia-atiteh  and  oraroavt. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


\ 


PARTY  DRESSES. 

bish  deaifcns  are  approprite  for  girls  aged  from  eight  to  fifteen. 

ETTA"  makes  up  handsomely  in  a  delicate  rose-colored  tafTeta?,  with  the  ruffles  and  flonnoes  boand 
jrith  narrow  black  velvet.  The  fltylo  of  the  skirt-trimming  can  ba  easily  copied  from  the  illtia- 
corsago  ia  low.  trimmed  foand  the  nock  with  a  pointed  ruffle,  and  in  to  be  worn  over  a  thin  whitn 
'th  slmrt,  pntfed  sJeevej^.  Rose-colored  ribbun-sash,  and  rose-colored  and  black  bows  In  th« 
ed  hair.  Pink  shoes.  This  de»ign  could  be  very  effectively  made  in  white  mohair,  cashmere, 
bmed  with  a  bright  color,  or  in  a  becoming  color  trimmed  with  white,  thus  forming  a  very  pretty 
be  dress. 

feixB,"  in  light-blue  taffetas,  has  the  skirt  encircled  by  two  rows  of  feathered  rnchlng,  the  low^r 
kuince  from  the  bottom,  and  disposed  in  broad  scallopa  over  a  fall  of  white  silk  fringe,  and  th» 
[•rtight  around,  just  below  the  edge  of  the  short  round  tunic,  which  ia  scalloped  and  trimmed  to 
Jrnist  has  the  neck  square,  back  and  front,  quite  high  on  the  shoulders,  with  scalloped  bretelles, 
[fringe,  falling  from  under  the  ruching.  Between  the  ruchings,  both  back  and  front,  the  waist  is 
Vrrow  plaits.  A  very  small  cap  falls  over  a  short,  puffed  sleeve  of  organdy  or  Swi^a.  Blue  ribbon- 
ler  blue  or  white  shoes.  iJair  thrown  loosely  back  and  ourled.  White*  foulard  or  poplin,  with 
kgs,  may  be  si^bstituled  for  Uie  taffetas. 


«  va 


»ith  m©    b« 

bottom  ^»^ 
laaoda,  <i»«R<' . 
ofgro»-|J«2^ 
trimm««  r**  fl 
caria  k>ebi     ^ 
No.  2- — 
9i  white  grc 
Is  s  deiTii-trmt 
Tel  rot.      A^'""" 
nrnitare 
^e  o^ex-»i 

graeefal 


THE  EDNA  DRESS. 


economical  design  for  a  dress,  which 
propriately  arranged  by  combining  two 
trastinK  colors,  blue  and  gray,  scurlet, 
tio.  with  black,  or  plnid,  with  a  color, 
n  be  easily  copied  without  further  de- 
tlisp  B  squares  to  be  outlmed  with  narrow 


VIENNA  SLEiAi::. 

This  la  decidedly  one  of  the  most  stylish  sleeves  of 
the  season.  It  is  especiallv  appropriate  for  a  poplin 
suit,  with  trimmings  of  silk  and  velvet  of  the  same 
shade— the  lower  ruffle  to  be  of  poplin,  lined  with 
silk  ;  the  second  one  of  silk,  trimmed  with  yelyet,  ilia 
standing  one  of  velvet,  and  the  ptaittngs  of  poplin  It 
would  l>e  eqaally  as  handsome  m  silk,  trimmed  with 
Telvet  or  satin. 


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HION   DEPAJBTMENT. 


FASHIONS  FOB  MABCH. 

Ddeeidad  at  Ihii  period  of  the  jeac  It  is  not  Iftte  enoagh  fbr  spriaf  CmUob^ 
or  winter  onee. 

•7  seemi  to  be  ooming  more  deotdodly  into  favor,  poMibly  a  little  larger  than 
aoMOD.  The  earlj  spring  models  will  probablj  be  gypsies  of  Snglish  straw 
and  llowen.    These  will  possess  the  adTaotage  that  they  oao  be  worn  with  aaj 

)  rery  long.  The  bottom  is  ont  straight  all  around,  and  looped  np  into  irrsgn- 
mI  very  plainly  in  front,  and  all  the  fulness  and  trimming  massed  at  thebaek. 
more  fashionable  than  floaneet.  A  Tery  pretty  eifeet  is  prodnoed  by  using 
terialy  and  edging  them  on  both  sides  with  narrow  doubled  folds  of  satin  or 

(pressed  amongst  the  sensiblo  elass  of  Ameriean  ladies,  lest  there  shovld  be  an 
isei  in  favor  of  trains.    We  wish  it  were  possible  to  make  them  anderstaad 

with  themselves.     If  they  do  not  choose  to  pnt  on  long  walking  suits,  no 
them  do  iL    And  if  they  do  not  do  it,  in  America,  at  least,  they  will  not  be 
.ime  when  American  ladies  have  an  opportunity  afforded  ihsm  fbr  deolaring 
go  rule  in  the  matter  of  fashions, 
mity  slip  they  should  forever  after  hold  their  peaoe. 
78  on  this  point: 

lake  Amenoan  women  understand  how  entirely  it  is  in  their  own  power  lo 
short  walking  drerscis.  While  they  oontinue  to  wear  it,  and  demand  it,  it  will 
'  they  are  so  Ibolish  as  to  oopy  carriage  costumes  for  promenade  purposes,  and 
I  to  do  the  same,  the  fault  is  their  own. 

•ssiblo  to  make  some  of  oar  readers  understand  that  three  distinct  styles  of 
Jl  equally  fashionable  for  the  proper  time  and  occssion :  the  street  .or  walking 
ears  the  ground ;  the  carriage  cof  tame,  which  is  demi- trained — that  is  to  say, 
1;  and  the  evening  dress,  the  skirt  of  which  is  cut  from  sixty-five  inches  to 
»ses. 

lakes  a  suitable  risiting  or  dinner  dress  at  home,  for  ladies  who  require  te 
ordinary  people  are  content  with  seasonable  walking  suits,  a  few  neat  honss 
Ik^sses  as  may  meet  their  requirements." 

•  street  and  promenade  wsar  are  cut  **  walking  length," — that  Is,  Just  to  elear' 
I  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  because  some  ladies  wear  long  dresses  for 
stepping  to  and  from  their  carriages,  therefore  long  dresses  are  to  be  worn  in 
;  be  a  greater  error  than  this.  No  lady  would  now  wear  a  long  dress  to  walk  in, 
he  streets  it  would  be  justly  supposed  that  that  the  wearer  was  either  a  "fMt** 
M88  in  which  to  make  a  display. 

V  says  Demortt^*  M'mtkly,  **  hare  had  walking  dresses  made  so  that  they  fie 
jaartcr  of  a  yard.  The  long,  slinky,  draggled  appearanoe  of  these  toilets  is  a 
I  their  silliness.     The  condition  in  which  they  plaoe  a  handsome  material  asay 

t  after  one  or  two  days  of  trial,  ssToral  snoh  costumes  haTo  been  iwnanded 
iortenod." 

WALKING  COSTUMES. 
Se$  Firtt  DoubU^J^g*  BngravUi0, 

stume  in  chestnut-brown  relours,  garnished  wttk  bias  teids  of  plntfi  iC  * 
cl  fringe.     The  skirt — of  a  comfortable  walking  length — is  bordered  ^iSh^ui 
[^position  of  which  can  tie  easily  copied  from  the  illustration.    The  oversk^ 
Dg  and  very  bouffant  at  tlie  back,  with  the  sides  draped  hi){h  under  the  long,  ' 
hey  aro  ornamented.     The  stylish  postillion  basque  is  square  in  front,  wiUi 
the  Rhoolders,  to  simalate  a  vest     Cloee  sleeves,  iinisbea  at  the  wrist  by  a 
made  of  gros-grain  velvety  ^d  plush,  in  three  shades  of  brown,  ornamented 
I. 
Lnd  tasty  costume,  suitable  for  girls  from  nine  to  fifteen  years  of  age.    The 
aerino  ;  the  skirt  bordered  with  a  deep  flonnoe,  arranged  in  clusters  of  boz- 
Ics  trim  mod  with  bands  of  velvet,  ornamented  with  bows  fastened  with  peari 
1  placed  on  the  band  which  forms  the  beading;,  at  the  centre  plait  of  eaoh  clus- 
J]  navy  cloth,  trimmed  with  a  broad  bend  of  black  velvet,  and  long  pearl  bu^> 
|w  3tylo.  with  short  basque-shaped  fronts,  rounding  away  over  a  short  oiroular 
The  hack  is  quite  long,  draped  only  at  the  sides,  the  fulness  formed  by  two 
^  ..I  il.r^  waist.    Close  sleeves  with  deep  velvet  cuffs.    Gray  felt  hat,  trimmed 
{rain  ribbon,  and  a  white  aigrette  at  the  side. 

mulberry-colored  oloth,  the  skirt — somewhat  shorter  than  in  other  eostums^— 

fTfDiiiMXiinal  w/*^  black  velveteen,  depending  perpendicularly  from  a  band  about  twice  the 

^•S^wSSmato  skirt,  and  is  raised  semicircularly  on  the  apron,  representing  a  deep, -plain 

*  vi-^ifc.^  etot,  half-fitting  in  the  back,  with  plaits  like  a  gentleman's  oont,  is  open  te 

'  *'  *    "  '  vest  of  velveteen,  and  is  trimmed  with  bands  of  velveteen,  set  a  little  ttom  the 

with  deep,  square  cuffs.    Large,  square  pockets  on  the  hips.    Blaok  ftlt  ha^ 

..ored  relvet,  black  ostrioh  tips,  and  a  scarlet  aigrette. 


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B'JLSKIONS    FBO]|£    M:M:e:.   DEMORES'T. 


HGDSB  BBSSSES. 


TIm  *Elnon**  makes  ap  lurndsofnelr  in  garnet  poplin,  trimmed  with  broad  bias  bands  of  the  material, 
•M  with  a  narrow  silk  or  Telvei  fold  of  the  same  color.    The  trimming  on  the  waist  is  dispofted  square  In 
VIM,  sod  plain  around  the  back  of  the  neok,  with  points  arranged  ft-om  the  lower  fold  to  match  the  garniture 
ikin.    If  preCerred,  ribbon-yelfet  may  be  substituted  for  the  bands  with  good  effect 


Arrletta,**  in  maaarine>blDe  merino,  garnished  with  folds  alternately  of  the  material  and  of  black 
' in  width,  encircle  the  lower  part  of  the  skirt,  and  form  a  trimming  en  tabliert 


Tbs , 

A.  These  folds,  which  ,« 

onmsnted  with  bows.  The  graoeftal  oyerskirt  is  simple  in  construction,  and  trimmed  to  match  the  underskirt, 
tteiide-loopings  rendering  it  sufficiently  boiMnU  at  the  back,  and  drawing  it  open  in  the  fh>nt,  thus  forming 
^  dsep  pointa.  High,  plain  waist,  trimmedwith  folds  in  a  square  design,  and  coat  sleeTOS  trimmed  to  corres- 
p«l  A  bow  at  the  back  of  the  belt  matching  the  one  in  front. 

Both  of  the  skirtt  in  the  abore  mostnUon  train  Tery  slightly  in  the  back. 


JVCtelee' 


HBAVT  CfLOTH  0L0AR8. 
It  filed  te  the  baek  with  sMe  pieees-Hi  deep  plait  being  laid  hi  the  skirt,  at  the  boHom 


r  2*^  ^'^  the  nannM*  of  a  gentleman*^  ooat.  The  fh>nts  are  loose  and  cut  away,  showing  a  yeet  nndemesth. 
g.*?yst  appropriately  made  in  very  dark  mulberrr-oolored  cloth,  trimmed  with  a  heavy  blaok  twist  fringe, 
■sad  baada  of  telrett  and  a  deep,  square  TeWet  collar,  and  completed  by  a  TeWet  vest. 

yTlie  **  Densmere  **  makes  op  handsomely  in  very  dark  claretHSolorea  cloth,  trimmed  with  broad  bands  of 
^Mk  Tslvet,  with  fine  sontadbs  braid  above,  and  finished  with  black  bullion  fringe.  It  is  perfectly  loose  in  front, 
*VM  ts  the  waist  in  the  back  and  at  the  aidea,  and  sli^tiy  fitted  by  a  seam  down  the  centre  of  the  hark. 

TOfL.  XZXTXL--9  .(135) 

Digitized  by  VjrOOQ  IC 


VISITINa  DRESS 
Of  hMTT  blaek  iflk,  made  with  one  iklvt^  end  MtmnqoB  foi 
MiBRMd  with  thre*  bMi4a  of  yelTei;  the  casaqoe  ia  open  in 
Irifflnied  with  rytttint^  end  velret,  and  TelTOt  bows. 


■kirt;  the  lower  ekirt  ia 
»  point  on  each  aide,  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


THE  ETHELIITD  WRABPER. 


A  giaeeftO,  pnotioia  wrapptB^fflit  with  a  yok«  pointed  I^acIl  jmd  froaj^  to  whloh  Is  attielMd  •  Tery  fbll  SAoqne, 
with  tfie  fulness  ammged  in  deep  bo»yUits,  three  in  the  back  and  two  in  front.  A  deep  flMoish  flounoe 
Iniihes  the  bottom  of  the  skirt.  This  lootds^ prettily  in  any  wool  material,  with  trimmings  of  a  oontrasting 
•oloi^-Uae  all-wool  delaine  or  cashmere,  for  example,  with  raohings  of  blaok  allk.  It  mi^  be  worn  either 
Mied  or  not»  aooording  to  fiuioy. 


f 


EVENING  DREaa 

i  oolop-4he  dress  of  the  lighter  shade  and 
je.    The  bands  are  placed  perpendicularly 

jprefterred  between  them  from  top  to  bottom. 

I  gradually  assume  «  diagonal  direction.    A  space,  representing  a  circular  apron 
'^"''    '    *"     '  I  headed  with  ayelTet  band. 

I  shoulders,  and  pointed  in 
igitized  by  v 


wfk  aa  aadalaiing  ouUine.  is  left  plain  in  front,  and  trimmed  round  with  wide  laoe  i 
PV^?*^  ^  P^!^  ^^"^  '^"^  ^^^  *^  B«ok  square  in  front»  Teiy  hiieh  on  the  i 
*ebaok.edfMl  with  laoe  and  Telfet.  ^ -^ 


Mneio  selected  by  J.  A.  CkKTZK. 


irsiffsoass  wxsvzs. 

WORDS  AND  HUBIO  BY  MRa  &  O.  B. 
Andftnte  mm  troppo. 


^^^^^^hhi-  j:  Hr=^  \i'  ;g^ 


Win  -  nme  Wlnnto,  blithesome  Winnie,  And  coy  thou^rt  wont  to  be, 


duurm  •  ingall  hesrtii 


1^1^ 


*i=it 


^  ,  y« 


^^ 


^f^^=^fc=j: 


Epr.  fu  ^R 


break  -  ing  many,  Tet     ev  •  er    full    of     gleet  Chnrming  all  hearts,  breaking  many,  Tet 


[Entered  aeoordlng  to  Aot  of 

(188) 


Ln.l870,byW.  H.  Boina*Co.,ln  tbe  OAeeoltlM  Ubrm^i^^^^' 
groM,  nt  Waahlngton,  D.  &  j 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


WIN  BO  HE   WINNIE. 


^.-niL-i-lL-g: 


m 


on  •  lywmii  Mid     seel 


m 


^m 


fcfc 


^ 


\  Winnie,  -hy-eyed  Winnie, 
Bey,  why  that  sigh  ft'om  thee? 
From  love's  Arrow  e'er  innatfete, 
OMidifr  thoQ  no  loofMr  fleo  t 


WInfome  Winnie,  blanhing  Winnie, 
That  red  tide  answers  me. 

It  refenleth  that  thoa  dorst  not. 
That  loTO  hat  Tanquished  thee. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


WAVED  BRAID  TIDT. 


ml 


fed  ■' 


^s:^ 
^  v^ 


INSERTION  (BRAID.) 


If  iraite4  Willi  4lM  Iftftlar. 


TliiB  insertion  Is  worked  with  the  yandjke  braid,  or  else  with  plain  linen  Unf,  

the  tape  must  be  crossed  over  to  form  the  little  points,  then  sew  them  neatly  in  their  places,  and  fill  the  centre 
with  needlework,  as  in  the  engraTing.  Before  cutting  off  the  thread,  after  flnishins  a  wheel,  pass  the  needle 
to  the  outside  point,  and  Join  another  star.  When  the  stars  are  Joined  together,  iiUr  in  th^^pppes  between  the 
Each  star  Is  worked  separately,  and  the  tape  out.  Digitized  by  ^ 

1140) 


'^S'd^' 


ABTHDE'S  LADY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


MARCM,     1871. 


THE  TWO  HOUSES. 


BT  MABT  £.  GOMBTOCK. 


SOME  new  public  baildiogs  were  to  be  erected, 
'  and  to  make  room  for  them  qniCe  a  number 
•f  reBidences  were  to  be  taken  down.  Clos^by 
•n  elegant  booae  stood  an  old  rambling ootta^ 
Hie  iomatee  of  both  booeee  had  taken  their 
departare.  Furniture  had  been  entirely  r»> 
aiOTed.  The  next'  day  the  workmen  were  to 
mme  to  tear  them  down.  Standing  there  in 
the  moonlight,  tliey  thus  diacouraed  toigetbef : 

''It  is  all  wrong/'  aaid  the  Iiandeome  houae ; 
*  it  is  all  wrong  &al  I  should  be  demoliabed. 
My  rooma  are  in  most  perfect  order  from  cellar 
to  attic^  while  mj  frame  la  perfect — ^untouched 
tgrtime.  Bepairs  have  been  made  carefallj 
and  frequently.  My  material  is  of  the  beat; 
■7  finish  ia  moat  excellent  The  greatest  care 
ba  been  taken  that  nothing  that  could  soil  or 
ii^Qreahould  be  admitted.  I  have  aheltered 
the  powerful/  the  rich^  and  the  learned.  Ab, 
it  ia  aacrilege  to  take  me  down-HK>  excellently 
planned,  ao  perfectly  preserved*— it  ia  too 
cruel  r  Aa  the  rising  wind  aonghed  through 
the  treea  it  aounded  like  a  aob  wrung  from  the 
wounded  pride  and  natural-  grief  of  the  hand* 
some  houae. 

^  Don't  take  on  bo^  neighbor,"  aaid  the  cot- 
tH(e ;  **  it  ia  weak  to  oppoae  the  inevitable.  We 
are  ahout  the  aame  age,  I  believe^  but  I  have 
had  ao  much  to  do  in  my  time  that,  looking 
Back,  it  aeeme  aa  though  I  had  atood  a  great 
iriiile.  I  have  been  allowed  to  ahelter  aome  of 
the  iborth  generation.  For  my  part,  now  that 
I  have  to  go,  itaeema-atrange  that  I  have  been 
permitted,  in  thia  day  of  changes,  to  atand  ao 
k>Dg.  My  only  regret— and  it  ia  hardly  r^;ret 
ttther— ia  that  ab  many  people  love  me  and 
vill  miaa  me.  Tve  btoi  '  home '  to  such  a 
Bomber  of  people  I  Vm  not  very  handaome, 
Tm  ready  to  allow,  but  they  love  every  plank 


and  shinlje.  Why,  Fve  aheltered  aome  of 
Ihem  when  they  hadn't  any  other  shelter  Ib  the 
world  I" 

"  That  may  all  Ver^  well  be,'^  said  the  brown- 
stone  manaiott.  "  There  are  but  few  familiea 
that  keep  aeveral  houaea  In  yarioua  plaeea— a 
town-honae,  a  eoiintry*house,  and  a  farm-heuae 
amopig  the  mottDtainff— as  do  my  owners.'* 

"  I  was  not  speaking  of  owners,"  said  the 
cottage.  *^  I  was  thinking  of  the  people  I 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  in.  Why,  my 
dear  neighbor,  what  with  my  own  large  family 
and  the  visitors,  I  have  hardly  had  a  vaoanl 
footik  wi.thin  mj  jlsiAembranoe.'' 

*^  Dear  me,  how  dreadful  it  nrast  have  been 
to  have  been  made  eo  common,''  aaid  the  hafid- 
aome  houM. 

*'  Not  a  bH  They  weveaU  such  nice  people. 
Not  powerful,  add  rich,  and  learned,  perhapa, 
like  youra.  *  They  had  their  fiiulta,  too.  But  it 
has  always  been  such  a  satiafBiction  to  my  old 
walls  to  hear  them  talk." 

''Little  satisfaction  of  that  kind  Fve  ever 
had,"  said  the  brown-atone  front  "  I  never 
lifltenu  I  c4n  reheataw  beforehand  pretty  nearly 
all  that  is  likely  to  be  said  on  most  occasions: 
compliments  and  small  talk  and  a  sprinkle  of 
politics  in  the  parlorj  ixA  in  the  family  rooms 
the  financial  and  dreis  question.  I  don't  think 
it's  entertaining^  for  my  part" 

"  I  don't  know/'  aaid  the  cottage.  "  Perhapa 
I  could  not  u^derstn'nd  the  fine  talk  yon  have 
the.chanoe  of  hearing,  but  my  people  alwaya 
apeak  so  kindly  of  me<  'His  Inch  xesitoetay 
in  this  house,'  they  say." 

'''I  agree  with  you,'  aaoAer  raidite,  *lt 
aeemaaathough  ''good  will  to  aU"  were  writ- 
ten on  the  veiy  walJa.  I^ar  mel  thia  wewM 
have  been  a  terrible  atorm  to  encoonter  tonsight  % 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


142 


ARTHUR' 8  LADT^B  EOME   MAGAZINE. 


but  there  ia  hardly  another  hoaee  between  here 
and  Frankfort  where  I  would  hare  stayed  had 
I  been  invited.  But  ''stay"  means  stay,. here. 
Ereiything  is  tme  and  real  in  this  honse.' 

" ^For  my  party'  said  another,  'when  I  go 
away  from  here  I  always  make  up  my  mind 
that,  with  the  Lord's  help,  Fll  be  a  better 
person.' 

*^  *  I  want  to  know  if  that  is  the  way  you  feel,' 
answered  somebody  else :  the  talk  was  priyate, 
so  I  do  not  giye  the  names.  '  Fye  felt  just  so 
myself*  a  score  of  times.  In  fiict,  when  I  get 
disconraged  or  find  myself  going  wrong,  jost 
thinking  of  the  house  brings  back  my  resolu- 
tion, and  I  rouse  up  and  start  on  again,  and 
make  up  my  mind  I'll  gire  the  best  there  is  in 
me  a  fair  chance  anyhow,  come  what  may. 
Just  thinking  of  the  house  does  it.' 

''I  ielt  thankful  when  I  heard  that,"  said 
the  eottage.  '*  I  felt  as  though  I  was  of  some 
use  in  the  world." 

"It  is  very  remaikable,"  said  the  brown- 
atone.  "Your  owners  must  hare  been  richer 
than  appearances  indicated,  to  have  entertained 
so  many.  Now,  my  ownera  are  rery  wealthy ; 
but  Fll.  tell  yon  a  secret  I  heard  them  say 
last  winter  they  would  like  to  in?ite  a  poor 
cousin  to  stay  with  them,  but  the  fine  dinners 
and  the  grand  party  they  gare  about  election 
time  cost  so  much  that  they  really  couldn't 
afford  it." 

"  That  reminds  me^"  said  the  cottage^  "  when 
asiy  owners  first  went  to  housekeeping,  when  I 
was  quite  new,  and  before  I  got  my  wings  and 
other  additions,  they  talked  one  night  as  they 
sat  by  the  fire,  and  my  owner  said :  '  We  will 
live  so  we  can  always  ssk  a  friend  to  drop  in, 
or  to  come  and  stay,  if  we  want  to.' 

"  *  Vm  glad  to  hear  yon  say  that,  John,'  said 
his  wife.  '  I'd  rather  wear  plain  clothes,  and 
have  plainer  furniture,  and  feel  able  to  ask  a 
fiitnd,  if  I  want  to  do  so.' 

"  *  There's  two  kinds  of  4Mking ;  did  you  know 
a,  wife  ?'  said  John,  laughing. 

"<yes,tobeaare.' 

**  *  Tom  Humphrsya,  he  sent  for  me  to  come 
OQt  to  Frankfort  4o  see  him  on  some  business 
of  his,  I  went,  and'We  deew  up  our  papers  at 
the  hotel.  When  it  came  noon,  Tom  buttoned 
uphiaooat  "Well,"  said  he,  ^ifl  knew  my 
wifo  would  be  at  home,  Fd  ask  yoa  to  go  to 
dinaar  with  wob,"  and  he  stood  with  his  iiat  in 
his  hand.' 

" '  What  did  yoa  aay,  Johnf 

^''MThy,  I  didaftsee  sraoh  to  acceptor  de- 
dhM;  so  I  didn't  do  either.  I  might  hare 
Ukanked  him  isd  baJped  hiai  oot^  but  I  didn't 


see  much  to  be  thankful  for,  so  I  just  said 
nothing.' 

"'John,'  said  my  owner's  wife. 

"'What,' said  John. 

" '  We  will  never  give  any  half  invitationa.' 

"'Never  I' said  John. 

" '  If  we  do  not  want  people,  we  will  not  ask 
them;  and  if  we  do  want  them,  we  will  ask  them 
out  and  out,  unmistakably.' 

" '  With  all  my  heart,'  said  John. 

"'And,'  said  his  wife,  'we  will  calculate 
and  systematise  expenditures,  so  that  we  can 
afford  an  extra  meal  or  an  extra  fire  at  anj 
time^  without  wronging  anybody.  We  will 
make  a  point  of  giving  ourselves  this  maigin. 
Then  we  can  feel  at  liberty.  If  we  ask  people^ 
we  want  to  make  them  comfortable  P 

" '  We  agree  exactly,'  said  John." 

"Well,"  said  the  brown  stone,  "I  never 
heard  any  talk  like  that  in  all  my  life." 

"Oh  f  said  the  cottage,  "Fve  heard  so  many 
pleasant  plans  talked  over!  'Good  timee^  for 
the  dear  little  children.  I  can  hear  their 
laugh  and  prattle  now.  And  wedding  plans 
for  people  that  hadn't  any  homes  of  their  own. 
If  the  sewing-girl,  or  anybody  who  hadn't  their 
Mends  around  them,  were  going  to  be  married, 
my  owner's  wife  used  to  say:  'Come  to  lis;  I 
will  make  you  a  cake,  and  we  will  have  a  few 
in,  and  it  will  seem  better  than  to  just  go  to 
the  minister's  alone  f  and  then  the  children 
and  the  young  people  always  got  flowers,  and 
made '  a  time'  of  it,  and  everybody  seemed  so 
happy." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that  was  pretty,"  said  the 
brown-stone. 

"Oh  !  I  am  afraid  they  will  misa  me,"  said 
the  cottage.  "  I  have  heard  them  talk :  the 
school  friends  that  came  home  with  our  yonng 
folks,  and  the  visitors,  and  the  aunts,  and  folks 
that  just  staid  because  nobody  else  seemed  to 
want  them ;  I  have  heard  them  talk.  They  used 
to  say  a  true  home  was  next  to  Heaven,  and  that 
they  never  knew  what  a  home  might  be  till 
they  came  under  my  roof.  Oh  \  they  will  miss 
me  I"  and  a  shiver  seemed  to  go  through  all  the 
cottage.  "  I  shall  never  have  the  little  children, 
or  the  tired  ones,  or  the  sorrowful  ones  under 
my  wings  any  more.  Who  will  shelter  them  ? 
It  is  hard,  neighbor.    Oh,  it  hurts  me  f" 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  said  the  brown- 
stone  front  "  Wliy,  it  seems  to  me  now  that 
I  should  like  to  have  somebody  care  for  me; 
but  nobody  does." 

"I  am  very  foolhih,  T  dare  say,*  said  the 
cottage.  "  A  much  finer  building  will  stand 
where  I  am,  and  no  doubt  the  dmber  is  grow- 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


TEE    TWO    HOUSES. 


143 


ipg  in  the  woods,  and  the  stone  lie  in  the 
qoarrjr  to  make  hundreds  of  better  cottages 
than  I  am.  And,  besides,  I've  had  a  happy 
life.  Tve  taken  my  enjoyment  as  I  went 
ik«g." 

"I  feel  uncomfortable,"  said  the  brown-stone 
msDsion.  ''I  feel  as  though  I  had  missed 
something.  I  never  felt  just  this  way  b&- 
fere." 

"Oh!  we  all  miss  something,"  said  the  cot- 
tage; "My  owner's  wife  used  to  say,  'There 
axe  a  great  many  things  we  can't  have,  John, 
and  it's  little  good  we  can  do  in  the  world  j  we 
ahsll  miss  a  great  deal  that  some  people  have  \ 
for  dieir  enjoyment ;  but  as  we  go  along  we  will 
make  as  many  people  happy  as  we  can.  It  is 
rtnnge  how  a  little  kindness  will  set  people's 
Learts  up  sometimes ;  and  for  my  part  it's  only 
aaort  of  selfishness  in  me  to  do  what  I  can  for 
tbem,  for  I  am  never  so  contented  as  when  I 
see  a  set  of  happy  faces  around  me.' " 

"I've  missed  all  that,"  said  the  brown-stone. 
"Fve  never  made  any  happy  faces.  That  is 
certain." 

"Don't  say  so,  neighbor,"  said  the  cottage. 
"I  am  sure  it  has  always  done  my  people  good 
jnst  to  see  you  looking  so  strong  and  hand- 
aome." 

"Oh!  oh!"  said  the  brown-stone  mansion, 
and,  whether  it  was  the  wind  in  the  trees  or 
not,  something  sounded  again  exactly  like  a 
sob,  and  a  very  deep  sob  it  was,  as  though  the 
blown-stone's  heart  was  all  breaking  up.  "  You, 
as  well  as  I,  are  to  fall  to-morrow,  and  yet  you 
can  take  the  trouble  to  say  something  kind  and 
comforting  even  now,"  said  the  mansion. 

"It  is  easy  to  speak  the  truth  when  it's  a 
pleasant  truth,"  said  the  cottage ;  "  and  though, 
as  you  say,  I  am  to  fall  to-morrow,  my  place 
vill  be  supplied,  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  i 
enjoyment,  and  the  best  part  of  me  will  still 
five  on." 

"What's  that?"  said  the  brown-stone,  much 
shocked,  as  very  proper  people  are  rather  apt 
to  be  at  mention  of  Uiings  that  seem  to  them 
too  good  to  be  true.  "In- my  proudest  day,  I 
never  thought  I  had  a  souL  You  don't  think 
that  houses  have  souls,  ^o  you  ?"  . 

"  I  don't  just  know  how  to  word  it  rightly," 
aaid  the  cottage, "  but  there  is  a  part  of  me  that 
vili  live,  I  am  sure.  When  the  sweet  children 
have  grown  up — and  many  of  them  have 
aheady,  though  they  always  seem  like  'the 
children '  still  to  me,"  parenthesized  the  cot- 
tage—" they  will  see  me  in  their  dreams  and 
in  their  waking  thoughts ;  even  the  moss  on 
my  roof  and  the  vine  at  the  door ;  and  when 

VOL,  xxxvu.— -10. 


the  thought  of  me  comes  to  them  in  weary 
moments,  they  will  smile  softly  and  feel  re- 
freshed, and  they  will  love  me  just  the  same 
that  they  do  now.  Some  of  the  people,  too, 
that  I  have  sheltered  will  see  me  in  their 
thoughts,  and  they  will  try  to  make  their 
houses  seem  to  others  as  this  house  seemed  to 
them,  and  they  will  tell  their  little  children 
stories  about  me.  And  when  some  of  my  peo- 
ple see  even  a  bit  of  wall-paper  like  mine,  they 
will  think  of  things  that  seemed  forgotten  long 
ago,  and  they  will  say,  'Oh,  the  dear  old 
house  I'  with  tears  standing  in  their  eyes.  I 
don't  know  how  to  put  it  rightly,  but  I  shall 
live  in  the  hearts  of  those  that  love  me  as  long 
as  memory  lasts,  and  I  expect  that  will  be  a 
great  while — for  aught  that  I  know,  as  long  as 
the  stars  shall  shine.  I  feel  still,  neighbor, 
when  I  think  about  it  so.  A  poor  old  cottage 
like  me  I  Oh  I  I  am  very  glad,  indeed,  but  it 
makes  me  feel  so  very  still  1" 

"It's  marvellous!"  said  the  brown-stone 
mansion,  and  then  added  silently :  "  But  what 
will  become  of  me  ?  There  are  no  hearts  for 
me  to  live  in  so." 

After  this  the  two  houses  remained  silent 
there  in  the  moonlight,  awaiting  the  morrow ; 
but  all  through  the  vine  that  climbed  over  the 
cottage  ran  strange  little  thrills,  that  said  soft, 
beautiful  things ;  for  the  cottage  had  lived  such 
a  kind,  peaceful,  cheery,  comforting  life,  full  of 
love  and  helpfulness,  that  all  living  things  felt 
in  sympathy  with  it,  and  it  was  not  suffered  to 
feel  quite  alone  at  the  last. 

Are  we  giving  our  houses  a  fair  chance  to 
live  out  all  the  good  there  is  in  them  ?  What 
say  their  walls  to  the  spirits  of  the  air  ?  The 
new  furniture,  the  choice  tea-sets  and  fine  linen, 
and  all  that  these  things  denote,  are  very  nice 
and  pleasant  to  possess,  but  do  they  always 
leave  us  liberty  for  the  better  things  that  do 
not  perish  7 


There  were  four  good  habits  a  wise  and 
good  man  earnestly  recommended  in  his  coun- 
sels, and  by  his  own  example,  and  which  he 
considered  essentially  necessary  for  the  man- 
agement of  temporal  concerns ;  these  are  punc- 
tuality, accuracy,  steadiness,  and  dispatch. 
Without  the  first,  time  is  wasted ;  without  the 
second,  uiisUikes  the  most  hi^rtful  to  our  own 
credit  and  interest,  and  that  of  others,  may  be 
committed;  without  the  third,  nothing  can  be 
well  done;  and  without  the  fourth,  opportuni- 
ties of  advantage  are  lost  which  it  is  impossible 
to  recall. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


ELIZABETH  AEKWRIGHT. 


JBY  MBS.  E.  B.  DUFFEY. 


ONE  warm,  sunshiny  afternoon  in  early  soin- 
mer,  Mrs.  Cameron  was  busy  writing,  whe?i 
she  heard  the  door  open  behind  her,  a  light 
footfall  on  the  carpet,  a  rustle  of  silk,  and  then 
two  cool,  soft  hands  were  laid  over  her  eyes, 
and  a  roguish  voice  said : 

"  Guess  who  it  is." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  guess,  Lizzie,"  Mrs. 
Cameron  responded,  without  trying  to  release 
herself  from  the  soft  arms  that  held  her  pris-* 
oner.  "  There  is  no  one  but  Elizabeth  Ark- 
Wright  who  would  have  the  effrontery  to  enter 
the  house  without  knocking,  and  penetrate  to 
my  very  sanctum  sanctorum  without  so  much 
as  *  by  your  leave.'  What  brought  you  here 
this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Why,  the  boat,  to  be  sure,  as  there  is  no 
highway  yet  chartered  across  the  Delaware." 

"  The  boat,  of  course ;  but  what  specLnl  pur- 
pose did  you  have  in  coming?  I  do  not  flatter 
myself  that  it  was  solely  the  desire  for  my 
society.  Either  you  want  a  bit  of  foreground 
for  one  of  your  pictures,  and  failed  to  find  it 
to  hand  in  any  ready-ra.ade  picture,  where  you 
can  conveniently  appropriate  it,  or  else  you  ; 
have  designs  upon  my  strawberries." 

"  It  is  not  the  foreground  to-day,  so  it  must 
be  the  strawberries,  or,  rather,  not  the  straw- 
berries, but  the  cream  that  goes  with  them.  I 
can  get  plenty  of  berries  in  the  city,  but  thick, 
country  cream  is  another  matter.  Now  don't 
disappoint  me,  even  if  you  have  to  make  a 
pound  of  butter  less  next  week." 

Mrs.  Cameron  and  Miss  Arkwright  were  old 
friends — comrades  I  would  say  if  I  dared,  as  it 
seems  better  to  define  the  relationship  between 
them.  Mrs.  Cameron  was  the  older  of  the  two 
by  two  or  three  years  only,  though  the  difier- 
ence  in  their  ages  seemed  greater.  The  cares 
of  a  family  made  the  married  lady  look  full 
her  age,  while  the  years  sat  lightly  on  the  un- 
married one.  Though  she  was  fast  approach- 
ing thirty,  Miss  Arkwright's  fac^  was  as  clear 
and  smooth  as  that  of  a  girl  of  eighteen.  There 
were  no  lines  nor  wrinkles  on  the  brow  or 
around  the  eyes,  and  there  were  no  tell-tale 
gray  hairs  in  the  locks  which  were  worn  so 
jauntily  in  short,  clustering  curls,  which  added 
to  her  youthful  appearance.  The  only  thing 
time  had  done  for  her  was  to  mature  the  woman, 
60  that  she  was  far  more  attractive  than  the  girl 
(144) 


had  been.  She  possessed,  moreover,  a  charm 
of  manner  which  took  captive  all  with  whom 
she  came  in  contact.  Women  always  tamed 
to  look  at  her  a  second  time ;  men,  young  anil 
old,  married  and  single,  became  her  willing 
slaves  at  once. 

Elizabeth  Arkwright  was  a  character  in  her 
way.  It  would  have  been  said  she  was  too  in- 
dependent, only  her  independence  sat  so  becom- 
ingly on  her.  Early  in  life  the  alternatives 
had  been  placed  before  her,  either  to  accept  the 
charity  of  friends,  or  make  her  way  in  the 
world,  and  maintain  herself  by  her  own  exer- 
tions. The  charity  was  not  grudgingly  o^ered ; 
it  was  even  anxiously  pressed  upon  her ;  but 
she  chose  the  latter  course,  and  pursued  it  with 
a  wilfulness  and  a  headstrongncss  (as  ber 
friends  told  her)  that  was  exceedingly  unbe- 
coming in  a  woman. 

She  would  not  even  take  advice  as  to  the 
manner  of  making  her  own  living.  She  laughed 
at  the  idea  of  sewing,  and  flouted  that  of  teach- 
ing. "  I  am  willing  to  work,"  she  would  say, 
"  but  I  am  not  willing  to  work  for  nothing,  nor 
to  be  made  a  slave  of."  She  believed  she  had 
talents  which,  if  cultivated,  would  ensure  her 
success  as  an  artist,  and  an  artist  she  an- 
nounced she  intended  to  be.  She  thankfully 
accepted  assistance  from  her  friends  while  she 
pursued  her  studies,  worked  steadily  and  hard, 
and  at  the  end  of  five  years  was  living  inde- 
pendently and  happily,  her  own  mistress^  and 
in  the  receipt  of  an  income  which,  tliough 
moderate,  was  still  suflicient  to  meet  her  wants. 
Her  pictures  sold  readily  at  steadily  increasing 
prices,  and  she  saw  the  future  clear  before  her. 
She  was  beginning  to  be  acknowledged  as  an 
artist  among  artists  themselves,  and  a  corporate 
body  for  the  encouragement  of  art  had  discov- 
ered and  recognized  her  talents,  and  had  elected 
her,  greatly  to  her  own  surprise,  an  associate 
member. 

The  well-known  proverb,  "it  is  only  the  first 
step  which  costs,"  is  especially  true  in  the  case 
of  lady  artists.  Nobody  has  any  faith  in  theui 
in  the  beginning  of  their  caretr,  and  the  dis- 
couragements they  meet  are  greater  than  those 
in  the  way  of  men.  But  let  a  woman  go  stead- 
ily on  her  way  showing  that  she  is  in  earnest, 
and  display  ever  so  little  real  genius,  and 
henceforth  it  is  clear  sailing.    What  would  be 


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ELIZABETH  ARKWRIGET. 


145 


only  tolerable  in  a  man  is  considered  excellent 
in  a  woman,  and  everybody  is  as  ready  to  en- 
coarage  as  at  first  to  discourage  her.  It  will 
be  well  if  she  have  sufficient  judgment  and 
rtrength  of  character  not  to  let  this  flattery  do 
her  an  injury.  If  she  has  not,  she  stops  short 
here,  and,  thinking  she  has  arrived  at  perfec- 
tion, makes  no  further  effort  to  progress.  And 
then,  as  a  consequence,  we  hear  the  cry  that 
women  never  reach  beyond  mediocrity.  It 
will  be  bettor  when,  in  the  good  time  coming, 
women  will  not  have  to  fight  their  way,  inch 
by  inch,  and  single-handed  into  the  profes- 
sions ;  and,  when  ttiey  are  once  in,  they  are  com- 
pelled to  measure  their  talents  and  abilities,  not 
as  women  with  men,  with  all  the  favor  thrown 
into  the  balance  with  the  former,  but  as  artists 
with  artists.  When  that  day  comes  we  will 
know  for  the  first  time  what  women  can  really 
do. 

However,  Miss  Arkwright  was  still  working 
hard  and  aiming  high,  and  gave  great  promise 
k(t  the  fiitar^  even  measuring  her  by  the  most 
rigid  rales. 

There  was  one  thing  that  had  puzzled  and 
troubled  her  friends.  She  had  never  married, 
and  now  she  was  fast  advancing  toward  old- 
maidenhood,  and  was  herself  perfectly  in- 
dlfl^rent  to  the  &ct.  They  sought  out  eligible 
matches  one  after  another;  but  she  went  on  her 
way  aa  independent  as  ever,  and  would  look  at 
none  of  them. 

ThBj  ianded  she  came  very  near  carrying 
out  their  wishes  once,  but  were  disappointed 
again  when  the  afiair  fell  through.  When 
questioned  about  the  matter,  she  replied  with 
all  candor: 

''The  man  professed  to  think  too  much  of  \ 
me,  and  I  simply  didn't  believe  him.  When 
he  said  he  oouldnH  live  without  me,  I  knew  he 
was  telling  a  falsehood,  and  I  was  determined 
to  prove  it.  I  hear  he  is  alive  yet,  and  at  all 
aoooonta  doing  well.'' 

*'Yoa  have  not  one  particle  of  sentiment 
about  jon  V*  her  aunt  had  exclaimed  in  exas- 
peration. 

**  I  never  pretended  to  have,"  was  the  pro- 
Toking  reply. 

"You  didn't  want  the  man  to  come  to  you 
and  sav  he  didn't  care  particularly  for  you,  but 
it  wouldn't  very  much  inconvenience  him  to 
many  yon,  if  you  were  so  inclined— <lid 
yooT' 

''Yes,  I  rather  think  I  would  like  that;  it 

would  possess  the  charm  of  novelty.    But  I 

shoaldn't  feel  bound  to  marry  him  even  then." 

**  No,  I  should  hope  not    But  what  do  you 


want  ?  I  am  losing  all  patience  with  you.  It 
is  positively  frightfal  the  way  you  are  letting 
your  chances  slip  by." 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  want,  aunt.  O! 
course  I  am  somewhat  particular  about  the  man. 
Only  there  are  different  kinds  of  men,  and  I 
haven't  really  decided  which  kind  I  like  be£it. 
But  I  have  decided  on  this.  When  I  marry, 
it  must  be  to  a  man  who  can  give  me  a  position 
bettor  than  that  I  now  occupy.  He  must  have 
social  standing,  and  he  must  have  the  means 
to  keep  me  from  drudgery.  Good  fare,  fine 
clothes,  leisure,  and  plenty  of  money  at  com- 
mand, are  what  I  look  for  in  the  matrimonial 
market.  If  an  angel  came  without  these,  I 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him.  When  I 
marry,  it  must  be  literally  to  better  myself." 

"  Mercenary  I"  was  the  ejaculation  of  her 
aunt,  and  there  the  matter  ended,  only  to  be 
renewed  again  when  circumstances  called  it  up. 

The  same  ground  had  been  gone  over  more 
than  once  with  Mrs.  Cameron,  though  that 
lady  was  more  dispassionate  in  her  argument 
than  Miss  Arkwright's  aunt.  She  was  not  dis- 
satisfied to  see  Elizabeth  living  so  happily  and 
contentedly  unmarried,  and  was  proud  of  her 
that  she  was  giving  the  lie  to  all  the  conven- 
tional ideas  about  old  maids.  Yet  Mrs.  Cam- 
eron was  so  happy  herself  in  her  husband  and 
family,  that  she  sometimes  thought  her  firiend 
would  find  more  comfort  and  content  as  the 
queen  of  a  domestic  kingdom,  with  a  hueband 
to  love  and  care  for  her,  and  children  to  be 
loved  and  cared  for  in  turn. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Elizabeth  would  say,  "  I  intend 
to  be  married  some  day,  and  when  I  am,  I  hope 
I  will  have  a  houseful  of  children — a  regular 
flight  of  stairs.  But  then  I  want  to  make  sure 
beforehand,  that  when  I  assume  the  role  of 
wife  and  mother,  that  those  of  nurse,  cook, 
seamstress,  and  scullion  are  not  included  in  the 
bargain.  Look,  for  instance,  at  your  next-door 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Smith.  I  can  remember  when 
she  was  first  married  not  more  than  fifteen 
years  ago.  She  was  as  bright  and  pretty  a  girl" 
then  as  you  would  wish  to  see.  But  look  at 
her  now,  old  and  worn,  before  her  time,  her 
face  wrinkled,  her  hair  turning  gray,  and  not 
a  trace  of  her  former  attractions  remaining. 
She  is  only  a  domestic  drudge,  with  not  a 
thought  nor  an  aspiration  beyond  her  kitchen 
and  her  children.  Now  what  comfort  does  that 
woman  take  in  life?  Not  one  biti  I  dare  say 
she  has  got  to  think,  by  this  time,  that  it  is 
wicked  to  enjoy  one's  selt  No,  I  thank  you ; 
I  am  not  envious  of  her  lot,  and  until  I  see  my 
way  clearly  to  something  more  Batis&ctoryi  I 


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146 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   EOUE   MAGAZINE. 


will  stick  to  mj  attic  etodio  and  daab  can- 
vascB." 

''Not  one  bit  of  sentiment  I"  had  been  the 
Terdict  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cameron.  "  A 
yer^r  nice  girl,  but  not  one  bit  of  sentiment 
about  her." 

"  Well,  if  ever  you  do  see  your  way  clearly, 
remember  you  are  to  take  no  irrevocable  letep 
until  you  have  consulted  me  and  got  my  con- 
sent/' had  been  the  half-jesting  injunction,  to 
which  Elisabeth  had  laughingly  assented. 

The  strawberries  were  gathered,  and  Mrs. 
Cameron  and  her  guest  sat  down  to  pick  them 
over,  when  the  latter,  with  a  slight  flush,  said : 
''I  have  come  this  afternoon,  not  for  your 
strawberries  and  cream — which,  by  the  way,  I 
am  not  going  to  refuse — but  to  notify  you  that 
I  am  about  to  do  something  desperate,  and  ask 
you  for  your  consent." 

''What?"  was  the  startled  exclamation,  and 
Mrs.  Cameron  came  near  letting  the  bowl  of  | 
strawberries  fall. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  get  married," 
said  Elizabeth  calmly,  at  the  same  time  biting 
a  big  berry. 

"Your 

"Yes;  why  not  me?" 

'*  I  thought  you  were  abote  such  weaknesses. 
I  thought  you  looked  down  from  the  heights  of 
single  blessedness  in  calm  disdain,  alike  upon 
the  sweets  and  the  bitters,  of  matrimony." 

"  Well,  60*1  did ;  but  now  I  suppose  my  time 
has  come.  At  least  I  do  not  intend  going  back 
upon  my  pledged  word." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"That  question  at  last!  I  began  to  think 
you  were  indifierent  to  the  who,  in  your  amaze- 
ment at,  the  what.  John  Marius  is  his  name. 
You  have  heard  me  speak  of  him." 

"I  remember  the  name,  but  I  do  not  recall, 
any  idea  in  connection  with  it  Where  did 
you  meet  him  ?" 

" '  We  met,  'twas  in  a  crowd  ;*  that  is  to  say 
we^  met  in  society,  where  he  was  considered 
quite  a  catch — excuse  the  slang." 

"What  is  he  like?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  yon  ?    A  gentleman,  of  | 
course,  good-looking,  genteel,  dresses  well,  in- 
telligent, tolerably  well  read,  and  admires  my 
pictures.    What  more  can  I  ask  ?" 

"Rich?" 

"  I  thought  that  was  understood.  You  know 
I  have  no  appreciation  of  love  in  the  cottage. 
He  is  junior  partner  in  the  firm  of  Marius, 
Williams  &  Marius,  and  you  ought  to  know 
what  that  means." 

"Ah  I  that  family  of  Mariuses.    Well,  I  hope 


yon  are  satisfied.  I  suppose  I  must  oongrato- 
late  you,  as  I  see  no  real  ground  for  with- 
holding my  consent.  Is  it  a  secret?  I  want 
to  talk  the  matter  over  with  Edgar.  He  will 
probably  know  the  gentleman,  at  least  by  repu- 
tation." 

"  It  is  no  secret.  He  does  not  seem  at  all 
ashamed  of  his  choice,  and  as  for  me,  I  am 
quite  ready  to  demonstrate  the  wisdom  of  mine 
before  the  world.  I  shall  take  the  eight  o'clock 
train  to  town,  and  leave  you  to  talk  the  matter 
over  with  your  husband  at  leisure." 

The  subject  was  not  broached  at  the  tea- 
table  ;  but  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  depar- 
ture of  her  guest,  Mrs.  Cameron  broke  the 
matter  to  her  husband. 

"  I>o  yon  know  John  Marins,  of  the  firm  6f 
Marius,  Williams  &  Marius  ?" 

"Know  him?  Yes;  that  ia  to  lay  I  know 
of  him.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?' 

"  Good  enough  in  his  way,  I  suppose,  but 
nothing  very  brilliant.  He  is  one  of  those  men 
who  are  born  into  good  fortune ;  so  I  suppose 
any  especial  energy  or  intelligence  would  be 
gifts  wasted  upon  him," 

Mrs.  Cameron's  countenance  fell. 

"  What  is  your  particular  interest  in  John 
Marius,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Our  Lizzie  is  going  to  marry  him." 

"  What!  not  Lizzie  Arkwrigbtl" 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Well,  I  am  astonished  I  It  ia  the  old  adage 
exemplified :  '  go  through  the  woods,  and  take 
a  crooked  stick  at  last.' " 

"Why,  isn't  he  the  right  kind  of  a  man?" 

"  Good  enough  and  smart  enough,  perhaps, 
as  men  go,  but  not  half  smart  enough  for  our 
Lizzie." 

"Oh !  but  you  wouldn't  think  anybody  good 
enough  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron,  in  a  tone 
of  pretended  pique.  If  she  had  not  been  so 
secure  of  her  husband's  affection,  she  might 
sometimes  have  felt  a  little  jealous  of  his  par- 
tiality for  Miss.  Arkwright 

"Well,  I  admit  there  are  not  man/  men 
worthy  of  her.  But  if  it  is  to  be,  we  must  try 
and  be  satisfied.  I  suppose  in  all  matches  one 
or  the  other  is  the  superior.  Is  it  a  love 
match?" 

"You  don't  look  for  that  in  Lizzie,  do  you? 
I  suppose  the  man  is  in  love  with  her  after  a 
fashion— not  too  much,  or  it  would  disgust  her. 
But  she  made  no  hesitation  in  saying  it  was  his 
pecuniary  circumstances  which  influenced  her 
in  her  choice." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Mr.  OameroD,  uedita- 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ELIZABETH  ABKWBIGET. 


147 


ti?ely.  "  Lizzie  is  a  good  girl ;  indeed,  a  very 
superior  woman ;  but  she  hasn't  one  bit  of  senti- 
ment aboat  her — not  one  bit/' 

The  wedding  day  was  fixed  in  early  antumn, 
and  meantime  Miss  Arkwright  worked  steadier 
than  e?er  at  her  painting,  earning  what  money 
she  oould  for  the  purchase  of  her  trousseau. 
Mr.  Marius  was  eager  to  furnish  her  with  her 
whole  outfit,  so  that  she  might  lay  aside  her 
brashes,  and  begin  already  to  enjoy  the  elegant 
leisure  which  would  be  hers  of  right  after  their 
marriage.  But  this  she  positiyely  refused,  and 
nith  her  usual  wilfulness  carried  her  point. 
Though  the  idea  of  his  future  wife  working  for 
a  living  was  distasteful  to  him,  he  had  to  be- 
come reconciled  to  it.  She  would  receive  no 
presents  from  him,  except  such  as  any  lady 
might  receive  from  her  intended  husband. 
There  was  nothing  left  for  Mr.  Marius  to  do 
hot  to  get  ready  their  future  home,  and  he 
qnred  no  pains  or  expense  in  this  work.  He 
consulted  Elizabeth  frequently,  and  she  gave 
her  advice  fi-eely,  and  expressed  her  prefer- 
ences unhesitatingly — indeed,  with  a  readiness 
that  some  thought  almost  unbecoming,  since 
the  wealth  was  all  on  his  side,  and  their  afiair 
might  be  looked  upon  as  a  modem  version  of  \ 
King  Gophetna  and  the  beggar  maid.  Eliza- 
beth became  aware  of  this  feeling,  and  spoke  of 
it  to  Mrs.  Cameron. 

*'I  cannot  believe  that  I  am  wrong,"  said 
she.  "I  refuse  his  presents  now  because  my 
spirit  of  independence  will  not  let  me  accept 
them ;  but  I  look  upon  our  future  home  as  a 
gift  from  my  husband ;  and  between  husband 
and  wife  there  is  no  such  thing  as  giving  and 
accepting  too  much." 

"If  given  and  accepted  in  love,"  added  Mrs. 
Cameron,  seriously. 

"That  is  your  way  of  putting  it ;  but  don't 
talk  to  me,"  was  Elizabeth's  half  laughing,  half 
impatient  rejoinder. 

'*  Don't  you  love  this  man  ?" 

"  I  like  him  well  enough,  or  I  shouldn't  think 
of  marrying  him.  But  we  are  past  the  Bomeo 
and  Juliet  period— at  least  I  am.  Please  do 
not  talk  nonsense." 

A  flection  for  this  roan  she  would  not  confess 
that  she  had,  but  she  was  ready  enough  to  build 
castles  concerning  what  his  money  would  do  for 
her.  The  diamond  ring  which  glittered  on  her 
finger  seemed  to  be  a  charmed  one,  like  the  ring 
possessed  by  Aladdin,  and  through  its  agency 
she  could  command  unlimited  magnificence  in 
the  future. 

"  I  am  out  of  patience  with  the  girl  P'  Mr. 
Ouneron  said  nu>re  than  once  to  his  wife.    '*I 


did  not  think  she  would  be  so  carried  away  at 
the  prospect  of  wealth.  It  is  not  the  man,  but 
his  money,  that  she  is  about  to  marry.  I  won- 
der if  she  is  as  heartless  as  she  makes  herself 
out  to  be?" 

"  I  cannot  think  so.  Let  us  not  decide  too 
hastily,"  Mrs.  Cameron  pleaded  for  her  friend. 

Time  wore  on.  The  wedding  day  was  ap- 
proaching. But  before  it  came  there  was  a 
commotion  in  financial  circles.  The  bolls  or 
the  bears — I  forget  which — were  to  blame,  I 
believe.  Fortunes  were  made,  and  fortunes 
lost.  I  do  not  exactly  understand  how  it  was. 
If,  when  it  occurred,  I  had  contemplated  writing 
this  history,  I  would  have  studied  the  matter, 
so  as  to  give  my  readers  a  full  and  correct 
version  of  it.  None  of  my  characters  were  im- 
mediately concerned  in  these  financial  revul- 
sions, but  certain  other  parties  were;  and 
there  was  more  than  one  crash  in  the  mercan- 
tile world.  As  the  result  of  these — a  kind  of 
secondary  shock  of  the  financial  earthquake — 
there  were  other  crashes,  and  among  them 
down  came  the  house  of  Marius,  Williams  & 
Marius.  Mr.  Williams  was  found  dead  in  his 
bed,  with  a  razor  beside  him,  while  by  this 
frenzied  act  a  widow  and  family  were  turned 
destitute  on  the  world. 

Investigation  into  the  affairs  of  the  house 
showed  that  when  things  were  settled  there 
would  be  nothing  left.  Everything  would 
have  to  go,  even  to  the  handsome  residence  the 
junior  member  of  the  firm  had  been  preparing 
for  his  bride. 

When  Mr.  Cameron  told  his  wife  this,  her 
first  thought  was  for  Elizabeth. 

"  What  a  blow  for  her  I"  she  said. 

"Of  course  it  is;  but  how  fortunate  it  has 
occurred  before  their  marriage  instead  of  after. 
A  few  weeks,  and  it  would  have  been  too  late." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  that  the  match  will  bp 
broken  oflT;  and,  for  one,  I  am  not  sorry,  for  he 
never  was  half  good  enough  for  her.  She  has 
more  spirit  in  her  little  finger  than  he  has  in 
his  whole  body." 

"You  have  no  pity  for  the  unfortunate  man, 
then?" 

"Oh I  of  course  I  am  sorry  for  him;  but 
knowing  the  inevitable,  you  cannot  blame  me 
much  if  I  take  what  comfort  I  can  from  the 
state  of  affairs.  With  her  ideas,  she  will  not 
think  of  marrying  him  now,  of  course." 

"  I  suppose  not."  But  there  was  no  exulta- 
tion in  her  tone.  Mrs.  Cameron  would  have 
loved  her  friend  better  if  her  nature  had  been 
more  womanly. 


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148 


ABTEUB'8   LADTa   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


Miss  Arkwright  closed  her  studio  and  came 
to  her  friends,  the  Camerons,  as  soon  as  the 
news  was  noised  abroad. 

^'  I  liave  not  the  heart  to  work/'  said  she^ 
"  and  I  have  not  the  courage  to  go  home  to  mj 
friends.  I  am  too  constantly  reminded  among 
them  that  I  belong  to  the  subject  sex,  and  that 
consequently  I  maj  be  advised,  remonstrated 
with,  and  scolded  with  impunity.  Qere  I  can 
be  left  in  peace  to  think.  And  I  want  to 
think." 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Marins?" 
"No."    She  volunteered  no  information  on 
her  afiairs,  and  her  friends  forebore  to  question 
her. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  before  a  note  arrived 
for  her  from  Mr.  Marius,  having  been  forwarded 
from  the  city. 

"  Welir  asked  Mrs.  Cameron,  when  £lii»- 
beth  had  finished  reading  the  note. 

''He  releases  me  from  my  engagement,  that 
is  all,"  she  replied,  calmly. 
''And  what  shall  you  do?" 
'^  Write  to  him  that  I  wish  to  see  him."  v 
''Are  you  wise,  Elizabeth?    Or,  rather,  are 
you  not  cruel  ?    If  you  mean  to  accept  his  re- 
lease, why  make  it  needlessly  painful  to  him 
by  asking  for  an  interview?" 

"  Because  I  wish,  if  the  matter  is  to  be  ended, 
to  have  no  misunderstandings,  that  no  injustice 
will  be  done  me." 

The  note,  a  brie(  carefully  worded  one,  was 
writt^,  and  in  less  than  forty-eight  hours  Mr. 
Marius  presented  himself  at  Mr.  Cameron's 
door.  He  was  shown  into  the  parlor  where 
they  were  all  sitting.  Mrs.  Cameron,  feeling 
the  embarrassment  of  the  situation,  intended  to 
make  her  escape  as  soon  as  possible,  after 
signaling  to  her  husband  to  follow  her,  and 
leave  the  two  alone  together,  as  the  interview, 
at  best  a  painful  one,  must  be  doubly  painful 
in  the  presence  of  spectators.  But  before  she 
had  carried  out  her  design,  Miss  Arkwright 
stopped  her. 

**  Stay,  Mrs.  Cameron.  What  I  have  to  say 
I  am  willing  the  whole  world  should  hear. 
John,"  said  she,  turning  to  Mr.  Marius,  "  do 
you,  on  your  own  account,  really  wish  our  en- 
gagement brought  to  an  end  ?" 

"  Elizabeth,  you  know  I  have  now  no  right 
to  consult  my  own  wishes  in  the  matter.  You 
know  how  I  have  loved  you;  you  ought  to 
know  how  I  still  love  you.  Bat  your  candor 
has  before  now  enlightened  me  as  to  the  reason 
why  I  was  so  fortunate  in  my  suit.  It  was  not 
so  much  myself,  as  the  advantages  I  could  offer 
you,  that  influenced  you  in  accepting  me.    I 


was  weak  and  culpable  that  I  could  take  you 
on  such  terms ;  but  I  loved  you  so  much,  and  I 
thought  it  possible  you  might  get  to  love  me  in 
time.  But  all  that  is  ended,  and  the  sooner 
the  afiair  is  over  now  the  better  for  both." 

She  had  arisen,  and  was  standing  in  front  of 
him,  gazing  earnestly  into  his  face,  and  toying 
nervously  with  her  engagement  ring,  slipping 
it  on  and  off  her  finger. 

"John,"  she  said,  in  answer,  "do  you  really 
mean  it?" 

There  was  not  00  much  in  her  words,  but 
there  must  have  been  something  in  her  glanoe 
or  tone  that  told  him  more  than  he  had  dared 
to  hope.  Instinctively  he  half  raised  his  arms. 
In  an  instant  she  was  within  them,  leaning  on 
his  breast,  her  cheek  resting  on  his  shoulder, 
and  her  soft,  cool  hands  clasping  his  neck. 

"John,  John  I"  was  all  she  said,  and  he  kissed 
her  then  and  there.  "  O  John !  she  murmured, 
"  what  could  you  mean  in  dividing  my  interesis 
from  yours  ?  I  have  said  I  would  be  your  wife, 
and  that  means  faithful  to  the  end,  in  sickneM 
and  in  health,  for  better  and  for  worse.  I  did 
not  know  myself  how  much  it  meant,  nor  how 
fully  I  meant  it,  until  I  found  these  good  peo- 
ple here ;  and  all  my  friends  thought  I  cared 
only  for  your  money,  and  that  I  should  cast 
you  off  without  a  scruple  now  that  is  gone. 
You  see  I  have  a  heart,  after  all." 

"  Yes,  and  that  it  is  in  the  right  place,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Cameron^  who  thought  to  hide  his 
emotion  by  a  jest. 

"But  do  you  know  I  have  nothing  left?  I 
anr  as  poor  as  the  poorest  beggar  in  the  streets." 

"  Oh  I  no,  you  are  not,  for  you  are  soon  to 
have  a  wife  who  is  a  little  fortune  in  herself. 
You  never  took  tlie  trouble  to  inquire  what  my 
income  from  painting  is.  Let  me  tell  yon  it  is 
quite  enough  to  keep  us  from  beggary.  So  I 
will  not  listen  to  anything  more  about  your 
poverty." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  hear  my  wife  talk  about 
her  income." 

"Then  your  wife  will  say  nothing  about  it ; 
but  you  may  as  well  learn  now  as  later  that 
your  wife  has  a  very  strong  will  of  her  own, 
and  when  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  do  a  thing 
she  always  does  it.  If  your  riches  had  not 
taken  to  themselves  wings  and  flown  away,  she 
would  have  accepted  everything  at  your  hands. 
Now  that  circumstances  have  altered,  you  must 
remember  that  'turn  about  is  fair  play.'  The 
wife  of  a  poor  man  should  try  to  be  a  help,  and 
not  a  burden.  And  I  can  cite  Mrs.  Cameron 
as  authority,  that  between  husband  and  wife 
everything  may  be  given   and   accepted  in 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC^ 


PSALMS    OF   NOVEMBER. 


149 


love;"  and  she  looked  archly  at  that  ladj. 
"Sorely,"  she  oontiDued,  "our  two  pair  of 
htnda^' — and  she  laid  her  slender,  fair  ones  in 
his — **  can  together  make  their  way  through  the 
world.  And  yon  know  you  were  only  just  now 
ooodemning  xniiie  to  make  their  way  alone." 

3ira.  Cameron  thought  she  and  her  husband 
might  safely  withdraw ;  and  they  were  not  re- 
adied a  second  time. 

"  That  girl  has  got  a  heart,  after  all.  I  never 
WIS  certain  of  it  before^"  said  Mr.  Cameron. 

^I  think  she  has  only  just  found  it  out  her^ 
tdf^"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"She  ia  as  good  as  gold ;  far  too  good  for 
Marias." 

"There  are  few  men  good  enough  for  her. 
Howeyer,  I  am  rather  pleased  with  the  young 
man's  looks.  Maybe  she  will  make  something 
out  of  him." 

"I  wonder  why  it  is,"  returned  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, ^  that  smart  girls  always  select  such  in- 
ferior men  for  husbands?" 

Elizabeth  would  not  hear  to  their  marriage 
being  postponed  for  a  single  day  beyond  the 
appointed  time.  "  We  have  no  time  to  lose," 
said  6h&  ''  We  must  both  be  getting  to  work ; 
and  while  this  matter  is  unsettled,  all  the  minor 
affiiin  of  life  are  unsettled,  too." 

"I  hear,"  remarked  Mr.  Cameron  to  his  wife, 
"that  Marias  la  coming  out  splendidly.  The 
firm,  or  what  is  left  of  it,  are  trying  to  get  on 
their  feet  again.  Marius  himself  is  really  the 
ooly  capable  man  in  the  firm.  It  is  beginning 
It  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  and  he  will  find  it 
hard,  up-hill  work;  but  he  seems  to  have  de- 
Teloped  ooorage  and  energy  enough  to  carry 
him  throu^.  He  has  friends,  too,  who,  seeing 
him  trying  to  help  himself,  will  do  what  they 
fiui  to  help  him.  I  didn't  know  there  was  so 
moeh  ID  the  man." 

"  Yoa  must  not  forget  he  haa  an  inspiration 
OQtside  of  himselt". 

"  Yea ;  and  if  it  is  her  doing,  she  is  the  mak- 
ing of  him.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
he  is  one  of  those  people  who  need  a  little 
tnmble  to  bring  out  their  best  points.  His 
BuafortoDe  was  the  most  favorable  thing  that 
ooald  have  happened  to  him,  for  without  it 
neither  he  nor  any  one  would  have  known  how 
moch  courage,  energy,  and  perseverance  he 


"And  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
her,  too ;  for  without  it  she  might  never  have 
ibiind  she  had  a  heart." 

Hon  hare  less  praise  than  those  who  hunt 
moat  after  it. 


PSALMS  OF  NOVEMBER. 

BT  MAUD  WESTLAND. 

SING  US  a  psalm,  0  bleak  winds  of  November ! 
Over  the  bare,  bMren  hill-tops  to-night — 
Sing  U8  a  psalm  for  oar  souls  to  remember 
Till  the  spring  violets  woke  to  the  light. 

Sing  us  a  psalm,  for  our  spirits  are  weary, 
Wandering  'mong  wrecks  of  the  far-away  past; 

Strike  up  some  anthem-note,  joyous  and  cheery, 
t^rand  hallelujahs  peal  out  on  the  blast. 

All  the  long  night  we  have  waked  to  your  sobbing, 
Rising  and  falling  the  lone  pine  trees  through. 

Till  our  wild  beating  heart  liept  up  time  with  its 
throbbing. 
As  if  to  the  rune  of  some  long,  long  ago. 

For  we  knew  yeliad  roamed  o'er  the  graves  of  our 
darlings — 
The  darlings  we  tearfully  cradled  to  sleep. 
Passed  out  from  our  love's  feeble  pleading  and 
oalling. 
Away  from  oar  weak  ai^  and  faltering  keep. 

We  have  brushed  the  red  leaves  from  the  hillocks 
that  hold  them. 
We  have  bid  the  red  robins  sing  them  hushaby 
tunes. 
We  have  said  to  the  arms  that  stretch  wide  to  en- 
fold them, 
''Wait  patiently  yet  for  the  morning  to  come." 

And  oft,  'mid  the  hush  of  life's  paoses,  we  listen 

For  sweet,  holler  measures,  unfilled,  inoomplete. 
And  oft  in  the  heart's  secret  chambers  we  miss 
them. 
The  touch  of  their  fingers,  the  tramp  of  thoir 
feet: 

The  voices  that  thrilled  as,  the  hands  whose  ear* 
resslng  -^ 

We  have  waited  and  pleaded  for  only  in  vain, 
The  lips  that  have  flushed  the  pale  cheek  with  their 
pressing, 
Will  they  come  through  the  silence?    No,  never 
again! 

0  rollicking  winds  of  the  ruthless  November, 
We  charge  ye  to  walk  with  hushed  footsteps  to- 
night. 
To  chant  in  low  dirges,  both  solemn  and  tender. 
O'er  those  hillocks  the  white  snows  hide  out  of 
our  sight.  ' 


The  mere  power  of  saving  what  is  already  in 
our  hands  must  be  of  easy  acquisition  to  every 
mind ;  and  as  the  example  of  Lord  Bacon  may 
show  that  the  highest  intellect  cannot  safely 
neglect  it,  a  thousand  instances  every  day  prove 
that  the  humblest  may  practise  it  with  success. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


TOO  LATE. 


BT  THE  ▲T7TR0B  OF  "  TEN  KIOHTS  IN  A  BAB-BOOM." 


A  TINT  glass  stood  by  the  child's  plate. 
When  the  wine  passed  round,  that  little  glass 
was  filled  to  the  brim,  and  when  the  father  of  i 
the  family  raised  his  glass,  and  bowed  the  sig- 
nal to  drink,  boy-lips  tasted  the  ruby  wine, 
and  the  warm  blood  of  childhood  took  a  more 
fervent  heat.  You  could  see  the  rosy  cheeks 
put  on  a  rosier  hue,  and  the  bright  eyes  sparkle 
with  a  richer  lustre. 

*^  Is  that  safe,  Mr.  Lowry  ?"  asked  an  inti- 
mate friend  from  a  neighboring  city,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  a  guest  on  the  occasion.  It  was 
after  dinner,  and  he  was  sitting  alone  with  the 
boy's  father. 

'*  I  think  so,"  was  the  reply.  ''  Pure  wine  is 
a  good  substance,  and  is,  to  the  desire  for  drink, 
what  bread  is  to  the  de<ire  for  food." 

"  Water  for  thirst,  say  rather,"  returned  the 
friend. 

"No,  wine.  Our  European  neighbors  un- 
derstand this  better  than  we  do.  Wine  is  their 
table-drink,  and  takes,  among  large  numbers, 
the  place  of  our  tea  and  oofiee.  Bread  is  not  a 
natural  product;  it  is  made  of  wheat;  and  so 
of  wine — it  is  the  product  of  grapes.  The  two 
things  are  good  in  themselves,  and  represent 
all  that  is  nourishing  and  satisfying  in  food 
and  drink.  From  time  immemorial  men  have 
used  the  one  as  freely  as  the  other ;  as  we  know 
from  both  sacred  and  profane  history." 

''  And  both  sacred  and  profane  history,"  an- 
swered the  friend,  "  warn  us,  by  examples  as 
well  as  by  precept,  of  the  danger  that  lies  in 
the  use  of  wine." 

''  Warn  us  against  its  abuse,"  said  Mr.  Lowry ; 
"  against  drunkenness  and  gluttony  alike.  All 
excess  is  evil,  whether  it  be  in  eating  or  drink- 
ing. A  moderate  use  of  pure  wine  is  no  more 
hurtful  to  a  man  than  the  moderate  use  of  good 
food." 

"  The  pure  wine  and  the  moderation  are  not 
always  given,"  replied  the  friend. 

"  They  are  given  here,"  was  said  with  an  air 
of  mingled  pride  and  self-confidence.  "  I  use 
only  pure  wines." 

"  Without  the  admixture  of  alcohol?" 

"  Without,  of  course." 

The  friend  shook  his  head,  answering : 

"  Alcohol  is  the   product   of  fermentation. 
Every  glass  of  the  best  wine  you  can  get  con- 
tains its  proportion  of  this  poisonous  substance.  . 
(150) 


Your  wine  must  be  unfermented,  the  simple 
expressed  juice  of  the  grape,  before  you  can 
call  it  a  perfectly  harmless  beverage.  Every 
glass  of  fermented  wine  that  goes  into  your  sys- 
tem carries  with  it  a  health-disturbing  power." 

"I  was  not  aware,  before,"  remarked  the 
friend,  "  that  you  had  gone  over  to  the  side  of 
temperance  fknaticism." 

There  was  something  in  the  way  this  was 
said  that  hurt  the  other,  who  was  sensitive  to 
ridicule.  He  replied,  with  some  reserve  of 
manner: 

"  Excuse  me  for  alluding  to  the  subject.  It 
was  the  concern  I  felt  for  that  dear  little  boy 
of  yours  that  caused  me  to  speak  of  it." 

"  Oh  I  you  may  set  your  heart  at  rest  on  bis 
account,"  answered  Mr.  Lowry.  *'  I  will  take 
good  care  that  no  harm  comes  to  him  from  an 
occasional  glass  of  pure  wine.  I  shall  teach 
him  moderation  in  all  things — how  to  use  and 
not  abuse  the  good  gifts  of  our  Heavenly 
Father.  This  is  the  true  way  to  guard  our 
children,  and  save  them  from  evil  allurements 
when  they  go  out  into  the  world." 

Mr.  Lowry's  friend  did  not  press  the  subject, 
for  he  saw  that  it  would  be  useless;  but  his 
concern  for  the  little  boy  was  not  removed. 

A  year  afterward,  the  friend  of  Mr.  Lowiy 
again  sat  at  his  table.  The  little  son  was  there, 
almost  a  head  taller.  Beside  his  plate  was  a 
wineglass,  but  larger  than  the  tiny  thing  that 
stood  there  a  year  before.  He  had  outgrown 
that.  This  glass  was  filled,  when  thebottie  of 
wine  went  round,  and  raised  to  the  boy's  lips 
with  quite  an  air,  when  the  others  drank. 

"  You  must  bear  with  me,  my  friend,"  said 
the  visitor,  as  they  sat  alone  after  dinner. 
"This  putting  of  temptation  in  your  boy's  way 
troubles  me." 

Mr.  Lowry  tried  not  to  feel  annoyed,  and,  to 
cover  what  he  did  feel,  smiled  with  an  appear- 
ance of  unconcern  as  he  answered : 

"Can't  get  away  from  your  hobby,  I  see. 
Well,  every  one  must  have  something  to  ride^ 
if  only  for  amusement" 

"  It  is  something  more  than  a  hobby,"  re- 
turned the  friend,  seriously.  "  You  may  not 
have  observed  it,  but  I,  after  a  year's  absence, 
can  see  that  your  boy  has  more  than  doubled 
his  quantity  of  wine,  and  drinks  it  with  a 
marked  increase  of  relish." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TOO    LATE. 


161 


''He  18  a  year  older/'  Bsid  Mr.  Lowrj. 
"And  has  a  year's  strength  of  habit — habit 
that  18  too  truly  called  second  nature." 

Mr.  Loirry  did  not  reply.  His  friend  saw  a 
little  dood  on  his  face ;  but  whether  it  was 
finom  concern  or  annoyance,  he  did  not  know. 
When  he  spoke,  it  was  on  another  subject. 

It  BO  happened  that  several  years  went  by 
ere  Mr.  Lowry's  friend  again  sat  at  his  table. 
The  boy  had  grown  to  be  sixteen  years  of  age. 
Something  in  his  countenance  betrayed  a 
weakened  or  depraved  moral  sense,  ^o  wine 
was  served — a  little  to  the  friend's  surprise. 
After  dinner,  the  two  gentlemen  retired  to  the 
fibraxy,  and  talked  of  old  times  and  old  ao- 
qnaintances. 

"What  has  become  of  W 'a  youngest 

hoy  V  asked  Mr.  Lowry,  referring  to  the  son 
of  an  old  companion  of  former  years.    I  heard 
that  he  was  a  little  fast.    But  1  trust  he  has 
got  over  that." 
"  No,  and  never  will,  I  fear,"  was  answered. 

^ Poor  W 1    It  has  almost  broke  his  heart ; 

and  aa  for  hia  mother,  it  is  killing  her." 

"Not  so  bad  as  all  that  i"  said  Mr.  Lowry,  a 
eiight  pallor  overspreading  his  face. 
"Even  so  bad,"  replied  the  friend. 
"What  is  the  trouble  with  him  ?" 
"Drink." 

Mr.  Lowry  gave  a  little  start,  and  dropped 
his  eyes  away  from  those  of  his  friend. 

"  His  parents  must  blame  themselves.  .  They 
did  not  guard  him  as  they  should  have  done. 
Wine  and  beer  were  common  beverages  at  their 
table.  The  poor  boy  had  his  taste  vitiated  at 
the  beginning,  and  now  appetite  is  his  master. 
I  pity  them  all,  but  most  the  unhappy  young 
man  who  is  lost  to  society,  and  lost  to  himself." 
A  long  silence  followed,  and  when  the  con- 
versation was  renewed,  it  touched  another 
theme.  As  they  sat  talking,  the  door  was 
piahed  quietly  open,  and  Mrs.  Lowry  looked 
in.     Her  iSeu^e  wore  a  troubled  expression. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  you  a  moment,"  she 
said  to  her  husband. 

Mr.  Lowry  went  out,  and  the  friend  heard 
for  aome  moments  the  low  murmur  of  voices 
near  the  library  door.  Then  Mr.  Lowry  came 
baeky  a  marked  change  in  his  face,  and  said, 
in  a.  repressed  voice :  "  Excuse  me  for  a  little 
while,"  and  left  hurriedly.  Nearly  half  an 
hoar  elapsed  before  his  return.  He  did  not 
explain  the  cause  of  his  long  absence.  There 
waa  about  him  a  forced  cheerfulness  of  manner 
that  did  not  hide  from  his  friend's  keen  obser- 
TBticm  the  trouble  and  disquietude  that  lay 


At  tea-time,  the  boy  was  absent. 

*^  Where  is  John  ?"  asked  an  elder  sister,  with 
concern  in  her  voice  and  eyes* 

''  I  don't  know,"  was  the  mother's  reply,  and 
the  friend  saw  a  quick  glance  of  intelligence, 
fhll  of  sad  meaning,  pass  between  her  and  her 
husband. 

John  did  not  make  his  appearance  at  tlie 
eight  o'clock  breakfast  next  morning,  a  fact  on 
which  no  remark  was  made.  Mr.  Lowry  tried 
to  talk  cheerfully  with  his  friend,  but  it  was 
mere  efibrt— there  was  no  heart  in  his  voice. 

What  was  below  all  this  ?    Let  us  see. 

Immediately  after  dinner,  on  the  previous 
day,  John  slipped  off  quietly,  and  went  to  a 
fashionable  drinking-saloon  near  by,  to  get  the 
glass  of  wine  no  longer  served  at  his  father's 
table.  Already  had  the  fatal  appetite  become 
so  strong  that  his  feeble  power  of  resistance 
was  not  equal  to  self-denial.  He  was  a  boy, 
grappling  an  enemy  that  manhood,  with  reason 
matured,  and  responsibilities  seen  and  felt,  is 
often,  alas  t  too  irresolute  to  overcome.  Poor 
boy  I  The  father  who  loved  him  most  ten- 
erly — who  hod  his  welfiare  most  at  heart-^had 
led  him  into  the  way  of  temptation,  but  could 
not  lead  him  out. 

During  the  half  hour  that  Mr.  Lowry  waa 
absent  from  his  friend,  he  had  been  in  search 
of  his  boy ;  for  he  knew  for  what  reason  he  had 
gone  off  after  dinner.  But,  he  could  not  find 
him.  John,  on  getting  his  wine,  left  the 
saloon,  but  did  not  return  home.  A  few  min- 
utes ailer  he  had  gone  away,  Mr.  Lowry  entered, 
and  not  seeing  his  son,  went  out  to  visit  other 
drinklng-places  in  his  neighborhood.  Alas, 
how  many  there  were  I  Two  or  three  in  every 
block,  with  doors  opening  on  ways  that  led  to 
destruction.  But  he  failed  in  the  search  of 
his  boy,  and  returned^  with  the  heart-ache,  to 
his  friend. 

John  did  not  get  home  until  late  that  night. 
When  his  mother,  who  had  been  anxiously 
waiting  for  him,  met  him  on  the  stairs,  he  was 
so  overcome  with  drink  that  she  had  to  support 
him  to  his  room  I  No  wonder  that  he  came 
down  late  on  the  next  morning. 

What  was  to  be  done?  How  anxiously  was 
this  question  pondered  by  Mr.  Lowry  I  How 
many  plans  and  expedients  were  discussed  in 
the  silence  of  his  own  thoughts  I 

"  Better  bring  back  the  wine,  and  let  him 
have  it  at  home,  than  run  all  the  risks  that 
attend  his  seeking  it  abroad,"  said  Mr.  Lowry 
to  his  wife.  Neither  were  clear  as  to  this  being 
the  best  course;  but  in  their  doubt  and  anxiety 
they  gave  the  expedient  a  trial    So  the  wine 


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152 


ABTEVB'8    LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


came  back  to  the  table,  and  John  had  his  glass 
or  two  as  before.  Mr.  Lowrj  sipped  his  rare 
old  sherry  again,  bat  its  fine  flavor  was  gone. 
Instead  of  pleasure,  the  sight  and  taste  gave 
him  pain.  But  the  glass  or  two  at  dinner-time 
failed  to  satisfy  the  increasing  strength  of  ( 
John's  appetite — nay,  only  added  to  its  craving 
desire — and  the  hotel-bar  and  drinking-saloon 
were  visited  as  often  as  before.  A  few  weeks 
satisfied  Mr.  Lowry  that  wine  on  the  dinner- 
table  was  a  hurt  and  not  a  help  to  his  poor, 
infatuated  boy,  and  then  it  was  banished 
forever. 

All  too  late!  At  eighteen  the  unhappy 
father  took  his  son  to  an  inebriate  asylum, 
and  kept  him  there  for  a  year.  At  the  end  of  i 
this  period  he  was  brought  home,  cured,  it 
seemed,  of  the  fell  disease  that  threatened  his 
ruin.  A  new  order  of  life,  both  physical  and 
moral,  seemed  established.  Joy,  mingled  with 
fear,  pervaded  the  hearts  of  parents,  sisters,  and 
friends. 

John  went  into  his  father's  storey  and  set 
himself  earnestly  to  work.  At  the  asylum  he 
had  seen,  heard,  and  learned  more  about  the 
efiect  of  intoxicants  on  the  human  system  than 
he  had  known  before,  and  now  clearly  compre- 
hended, not' only  the  ruin  he  had  escaped,  but 
the  dangers  that  beset  his  way. 

''Oh  I  if  I  had  not  formed  this  cursed  appe- 
tite I"  he  said  often  to  himself,  in  sorrow  and 
fear.  "  If  my  lips  in  childhood  had  only  been 
kept  free  from  wine  T' 

Months  went  by,  and  the  new  life  flowed  on 
smoothly  and  safely.  John  grew  more  and 
more  interested  in  business,  and  showed  both 
intelligence  and  capacity. 

"  My  heart  gets  lighter  every  day,"  said  Mr. 
Lowry,  one  morning,  to  his  wife.  "  The  peril 
is  over  with  John,  I  trust  I  have  never  known 
a  young  man  take  so  keenly  to  business ;  and  in 
this  there  is  safety." 

Mrs.  Lowry  sighed  faintly.  There  was  on 
her  heart  the  perpetual  burden  of  fear.  She 
could  not  shake  it  ofll 

A  servant  handed  in  cards  for  a  wedding  re- 
ception. The  bride-to-be  was  a  cousin — in 
fashionable  society.  The  reception  was  to  be 
in  a  week. 

Mr.  Lowry  and  his  family  were  there- 
father,  mother,  brother,  and  sisters.  After  the 
guests  were  presented  to  the  bride,  they  passed 
in  groups  to  the  suppeivroom.  A  shiver  of  fear 
ran  down  to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Lowry  as,  on 
entering,  a  strong  scent  of  wine  touched  her 
nostrils.  She  ^  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her 
son. 


''  Oh,  John  I"  she  whispered,  close  to  his  ear, 
"  be  on  your  guard  I" 

The  young  man  did  not  reply.  The  smell  of 
wine  had  touched  his  sense  also,  and  with  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  awakening  the  old  desire. 

'*  Am  I  not  safe  enough  now  i"  he  aaid  to 
himselC  ''  Time  and  abstinence  have  given  me 
new  strength.  I  am  not  the  weak  boy  of  two 
or  three  years  ago." 

They  passed  into  the  supper-room,  where  the 
crowd  was  very  great,  and  John  was  soon  sepa- 
rated from  his  mother.  When  next  she  saw 
him,  a  glass  of  wine  was  at  his  lips  I 

What  followed  need  hardly  be  told«  A  ain* 
gle  draught  set  his  blood  on  fire.  He  had  no 
control  over  the  newly  awakened  tliirst,  and 
filled  and  emptied  three  or  four  glasses  of  wine 
before  his  father  and  mother  could,  without  at- 
tracting too  much  observation,  get  him  away 
from  the  room  and  back  to  their  home. 

The  next  morning  found  him  so  changed  that 
it  seemed  as  if  some  witch's  spell  was  on  him. 
He  was  moody  and  silent  at  the  breakfast- 
table — not  shame-faced  or  penitent.  He  did 
not  leave  the  house  with  his  father,  as  usual, 
but  wailed  until  he  waa  gone,  and  then  west 
out  alone. 

"  Where  is  John  7"  asked  Mrs.  Lowry,  with 
anxiety  in  tone  and  voice,  when  her  husband 
came  in  at  dinner-time. 

"  I  don't  know.  lie  hasn't  been  at  the  store." 

Mrs.  Lowry  staggered  at  the  words,  grew 
very  pale,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  Not  at  the  store  I"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low, 
distxessed  voice.  *'  Oh  I  it  is  dreadful  I  My 
son  I    My  son  I" 

Poor  mother!  There  was  cause  for  bitter 
anguish.  Her  son  had  fallen  again,  and  a  &U 
like  this  is  too  often  the  knell  of  hope.  It  re- 
veals the  constant  great  i^eril  in  which  those 
stand  who  have  once  lost  self-control.  John 
did  not  oome  home  until  late  that  night.  His 
condition  we  will  not  describe.  A  week  of  ine- 
briation followed,  ending  in  a  degree  of  phys- 
ical prostration  that  obliged  him  to  keep  the 
house  for  many  days.  Then  came  repentance^ 
grief,  and  shame,  succeeded  by  new  resolutions. 
The  young  man  went  back  to  bnsiness,  humUed 
and  mortified,  yet  determined  to  be  more  than 
ever  on  his  guard.  His  sudden  &11  had  re- 
vealed to  himself  the  peril  in  which  he  stood. 

For  over  six  months  John  Lowry  stood  vigi- 
lantly on  guard.  During  that  period  he  had 
declined  half  a  dozen  invitations  to  parties  and 
receptions,  because  he  knew  that  the  highly 
respectable  people  who  gave  them,  would,  for 
the   time,    make    drinking-saloons   of  their 


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DOING    LITTLE    THINGS. 


153 


houses,  and  offer  enticements  to  joung  men 
ilmost  impossible  to  resist. 

This  social  self-denial  chafed  the  young 
man's  spirit^  and  produced  states*  of  bitterness 
Tergingi  at  times,  on  desperation.  There  was 
danger  for  his  feet,  turn  which  way  he  would— 
he  must  be  ever  on  guard — he  was  in  perpetual 
bondage  to  fear. 

One  day,  on  coming  home,  his  sister  handed 
him  a  card  of  invitation  to  a  party. 

"Oh!  at  Mrs.  Harding's,"  he  said,  with  a 
pleased  manner.    ^  I  shall  go." 

His  sister  smiled,  for  she  knew  that  her 
brother  was  more  than  pleased  with  Miss 
Ftnoy  EEarding,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished 
pAf  the  daughter  of  the  lady  who  was  to  give 
the  party. 

The  young  man  went,  on  the  appointed  even* 

'^ There  will  be  no  wine  at  Mrs.  Harding's, 
I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Lowry  to  her  husband,  after 
their  son  and  daughter  had  gone.  She  spoke 
vith  a  concern  that  she  could  not  hide. 

Mr.  Lowry  did  not  reply.  The  remark 
awakened  his  liveliest  fears.  Mrs.  Harding 
was  a  woman  of  the  world,  and  not  one  likely 
to  set  herself  against  this  or  any  other  es- 
tablished custom  in  "  good  society." 

There  was  wine  at  Mrs.  Harding's,  and  plraty 
of  it,  for  old  and  young,  strong  and  weak. 
Corks  popped,  and  the  wine  gurgled  and 
sparkled.  Young  men  and  maidens,  old  men 
and  children  tipped  glasses  and  drank  to  each 
other. 

For  the  first  ten  minutes  afler  entering  the 
Nipper-room,  John  Lowry  kept  his  hand  away 
from  the  tempting  glass.  But  when  Miss 
Harding  said — throwing  upon  him,  as  she 
spoke,  one  of  her  bewitching  glances— 

''Won't  yon  join  me  in  a  glass  of  sherry  ?"  all 
fiirther  power  of  resistance  was  gone.  He  was 
fiucinated,  and  would  have  drank  with  her  on 
the  verge  of  death. 

Ah  I  it  was  nearer  that  fatal  verge  than  he 
or  any  one  imagined. 

*' John!"    It  was  the  low,  warning  yoice  of  < 
hb  sister,  dose  to  his  ear. 

But  he  heeded  it  not.  He  looked  into  the 
maiden's  beautiful  eyes— bright,  yet  tender 
eyes — eyes  that  seemed  Hke  angels'— drank  to 
her,  and — was  lost ! 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lowry  were  sitting  alone  at 
eleven  o'clock,  when  their  two  daughters,  who 
had  been  with  their  brother  at  the  party,  came 
m  hastily. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  Mrs.  Lowry, 
leebg  the  pain  and  agitation  in  their  fttces. 


"John—" 

"What  of  John?" 

It  was  some  time  before  the  weeping  girls 
could  tell  the  story  of  shame  and  anguish. 
John  had  been  tempted  by  Miss  Fanny  Hard- 
ing to  take  a  glass  of  wine.  This  had  inflamed 
the  old  desire,  and  led  him  to  drink  so  freely 
as  to  become  visibly  intoxicated.  It  was  only 
tifrough  much  persuasion  that  they  could  in- 
duce him  to  take  them  home;  but  he  had  left 
them  at  the  door,  declaring  his  purpose  to 
return  to  Mrs.  Harding's. 

"I  must  go  for  him,"  said  the  wretched 
father,  and  went  out  hurriedly.  It  was  in 
winter,  and  the  niglit  was  very  cold.  "  Oh,  my 
son!  my  son!"  he  cried  to  himself  in  bit- 
terness, in  regret,  and  in  remorse,  "the  re- 
sponsibility of  all  this  rests  on  me  I" 

But  he  did  not  find  his  son  at  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing^s,  and  went  baclr  home  with  bowed  head 
and  aching  heart. 

Hour  after  hour  they  waited  and  watched 
for  the  absent  boy — waited  and  watched  in 
vain,  even  until  the  dreary  breaking  of  day. 

"  Hark !"  cried  the  mother,  starting  as  the 
bell  rang  suddenly. 

Mr.  Lowry  went  down  hastily  to  the  door, 
and  drew  it  open.  A  glance  at  the  policeman 
who  had  rung  the  bell,  and  another  at  the 
white  face  of  his  boy  .lying  dead  upon  the  steps 
of  his  father's  house — a  groan,  and  the  wretched 
man  fell  senseless. 

We  drop  the  veil  on  aU  that  followed. 


DOING  LITTLE  THINGS. 

Let  us  be  content,  in  work. 
To  do  the  thing  we  can,  and  not  presume 
To  fret  beeause  it's  little.    'Twill  employ 
Seven  men,  they  say,  to  make  a  perfect  pin. 
Who  makes  the  head,  consents  to  miss  tbe  point; 
Who  makes  the  point,  agrees  to  leavo  the  head ; 
And  if  a  man  should  cry,  *'  I  wanl  a  pin, 
And  I  must  make  it  straightway,  head  and  point," 
His  wisdom  is  not  woHh  the  pin  he  wants. 

Mas.  Bbowvzvo. 


What  though  unmarked  the  happy  workmen  toil, 
And  break  nnthanked  of  roan  the  stubborn  clod? 
It  is  enough,  for  sacred  is  the  soil. 

Dear  are  the  hills  of  -God. 

Far  better,  in  its  plaoe  the  lowliest  bird 

Should  sing  aright  to  Him  the  lowliest  song. 

Than  that  a  seraph  strayed  should  take  the  word 

And  sing  His  glory  wrong. 

Jea5  Ingelow. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BY  FIP8I88IWAT  TOTTB, 


NO.  L 


I  DON'T  know  liow  in  the  world  my  motber 
came  to  name  me  Pipsissiway,  unless  it  was 
because  it  was  such  a  little  jingling  Indian 
word ;  or,  because  I  was  so  thin,  and  angular, 
and  homely,  she  hoped  I  would  be  like  that 
glossy  little  plant,  modest  and  unpretending, 
and  always  hiding  under  the  dead,  brown 
leaves.  I  always  went  by  the  name  of  Pip, 
Pippy,  or  Pipsey. 

I  keep  house  for  my  father,  Deacon  Potts ; 
and  now  that  the  brothers  and  sisters  are  grown, 
I  have  more  time  than  I  did,  when  they  were 
small,  in  which  to  read  ,and  write  and  peep 
through  other  people's  windows. 

We  have  been  very  busy  to-day,  and  I  don't 
care  if  I  do  tell  what  we  were  doing.  The 
deacon  took  a  noUon — everybody  calls  father 
the  deacon,  and  I  have  fallen  into  the  way  of 
it  myself— he  took  a  notion  to  visit  a  relative 
in  Michigan,  and,  to  tell  the  plain  truth,  he 
was  pretty  badly  off  for  good  clothes,  and 
couldn't  well  afibrd  to  get  a  new  suit.  So  we 
took  his  half- worn  best  suit  of  dark-gray  cassi- 
mere^  and  brushed  it  completely  clean,  and 
bound  all  the  edges  with  black. braid,  put  on  a 
new  velvet  collar  and  cu£&;  and  one  would 
hardly  have  known  that  it  was  not  a  new  suit. 
A  remnant  left  of  a  pair  of  black  cloth  panta- 
loons, with  a  little  contriving,  made  him  a  new 
vest;  and  so  the  deaoon  was  fixed  up  as  good 
as  new,  and  money  enough  saved  to  carry  him 
to  one  of  the  northern  counties  of  Michigan, 
and  home  again.  We  all  felt  amply  rewarded 
when  he  looked  down  at  the  fit  of  his  clothes, 
and  over  his  shoulders,  and  thrust  his  hands 
into  the  pockets,  and  then  looked  at  us  girls 
from  head  to  foot  with  joyous,  twinkling  eyes 
that  seemed  to  say,  "My  ireoBurear* 

I  went  into  Sosy  Perkins's  this  morning  to 
borrow  her  sleeve  pattern.  It  was  early,  and 
the  children  were  just  getting  up.  Susy  and 
John  had  eaten,  and  the  table  stood  waiting. 
I  observed  the  four  little  ones  when  they  gath- 
ered around  it.  The  mother  was  busy,  and  she 
said:  "Just  wait  on  yourselves,  children." 
Each  one  took  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  and 
a  boiled  potato,  and  a  glass  of  milk  or  water. 

A  plate  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  on 

which  was  a  slice  of  new  meal  mush.    All  lit- 

(IM) 


tie  children  like  this  for  breakfast,  and  I 
watched  to  see  what  they  would  do. 

"Will  you  have  some  fried  mush,  Robbie?" 
said  the  elder. 

Bobbie  reached  his  plate,  and  then  drew  it 
back  suddenly,  saying:  "I  guess  I  don't  want 
any." 

James  said  he'd  had  a  nice  slice  of  fried 
mush  the  morning  before,  and  urged  his  elder 
brother  to  take  it  alL 

The  boy  made  no  answer^  except  to  cut  it  in 
four  pieces,  and  lay  a  part  on  each  plate.  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  a  more  unselfish  set 
'  of  children ;  it  made  me  love  them.  In  many 
other  families  there  would  have  been  four  eager 
forks  aimed  at  the  one  slice.  Each  one  would 
have  "speared"  it,  as  a  little  boy  friend  of 
mine  would  say. 

There  is  nothing  more  despicable  than  a 
selfish,  greedy  family  of  children,  and  mothers 
cannot  begin  too  soon  to  make  them  loving  and 
unselfish,  and  careful  for  the  interests  of  others. 

I  have  always  been  anxious  that  my  fine 
young  prune-tree  should  bear  fruit.  It  stands 
in  the  south  yard,  on  a  beautiful  grassy  plat, 
and,  badly  as  I  did  dislike'  to  do  it,  I  had  one 
of  the  boys  build  a  pen  around  it,  about  the 
niiddle  of  April,  into  which  they  put  three 
thrifty  young  pigs.  They  rooted  up  the  ground 
most  thoroughly,  and  I  supposed  they  had 
made  sure  work  among  the  curculios,  but  it  did 
no  good.  When  the  editor  of  the  Farmer 
called  to  visit  us  last  June,  he  wrinkled  up  his 
nose  and  j  ust  made  sport  of  my  experi  men t  He 
said  there  was  no  remedy  or  preventive  except 
to  lay  sheets  on  the  ground  early  in  the  spring 
mornings,  and  with  a  little  mallet  knock  on 
evexy  bough,  and  shake  off  and  kill  with  the 
fingers.  This  has  to  be  done  for  about  six 
weeks;  so  it  seems  that  prunes  are  cheaper 
bought  than  raised.  I  wish  the  thrifty  grow- 
ing tree  could  be  made  more  beautiful  and 
ornamental,  if  it  cannot  be  useful. 
» 

"I  call  this  a  dead  loss,"  said  Ida,  as  she 
came  down  stairs  with  a  gallon  crock  of  pre- 
served grapes  on  each  arm.  They  smelt  as 
sour  as  vinegar.  "  A  pound  of  nice  white  sugar 
to  every  pound  of  grapes,  and  both  of  these 


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OTREB    PEOPLE'S   WINDOWS. 


155 


crocks  fall  I  Pm  fsonjf"  aaid  she,  as  she  took 
off  the  paper  covers  and  looked  at  them.  "  I 
guess,  with  all  your  economizing,  Pipsey,  you 
can  make  nothing  of  these  f  and  she  laughed 
as  though  she  saw  me  in  a  comer,  with  no  way 
of  egress, 

"Oh,  the/11  make  excellent  vinegar," 
I  replied,  dieerfully,  as  though  I  thought 
that  WIS  a  real  fanny  ^ay  of  making  vinegar. 
I  emptied  the  two  crocks  into  a  clean  tub,  and 
|K>ared  in  aboat  five  gallons  of  warm  water, 
and  stirred  it  all  up  thoroughly.  The  next  day 
I  Bttained  it  through  a  coarse  towel,  and  we 
had  just  enough  to  finish  filling  the  other  bar- 
rel in  which  we  kept  our  cider-vinegar.  Mixed 
with  that  made  it  all  good  vinegar. 

I  always  put  the  wash  of  the  preserving- 
kettle^  and  of  jelly-bowls,  and  apple,  and  peach, 
and  plum-butteijars,  and  the  odd  pints  and 
qosfts  of  cider,  and  dribs  of  molasses,  and 
qrnip,  and  fruit-juice,  into  the  vinegar-barrel, 
and  we  always  keep  the  best  cider-vinegar  in 
the  neighborhood.  Instead  of  corking  it  up 
tightly,  I  keep  a  cloth  spread  over  the  Tent,  so 
it  is  not  shut  away  from  the  air. 

Belbre  the  deacon  left  home  he  told  me  to 
eall  at  'fiijah  Jones's  and  see  their  new  quilt- 
ing-frames.  I  found  Mrs.  Jones  and  her  daugh- 
ters busy  making  comforts  out  of  the  men's 
iannel  shirts.  Now  she  is  one  of  the  best 
economists  I  ever  saw,  and  I  never  go  there  in 
vbich  I  do  not  learn  something  new  from  her, 
and  this  is  the  last  new  thing.  She  says  after 
her  men-folks  have  worn  their  flannel  shirts 
two  winters,  ahe  always  takes  them  to  make 
oomforts.  They  are  about  half  worn  out  then, 
and  she  dips  them  into  a  red  dye,  and  the  black 
and  white  check  that  they  always  wear  is  made 
into  red  and  black.  "When  she  makes  shirts 
ihe  don't  slope  them  on  the  shoulders  at  all ;  so 
that  when  they  are  ripped  open  and  spread  out 
•he  has  a  strip  with  never  a  hole  in  it,  except 
whete  the  collar  was,  and  the  opening  in  front. 
She  patches  that  with  the  best  part  of  the 
sleeves,  and  the  shirts  do '  double  duty  then, 
only  that  a  good  bed-comfort  will  last  one  a  life- 
time. I  call  this  good  economy ;  for  if  a  shirt 
isoQt  oat  this  way,  with  large  arm-holes,  and 
the  collar  loose,  it  will  not  wear  out  as  readily 
is  though  it  was  ill-fitting  and  drew  tightly  in 
places.  She  bound  her  comforts  with  bright- 
red,  new  flannel,  and  knotted  them  with  crim- 
ion  yam,  doubled  in  the  needle.  Very  nice 
wool-batting  is  made  at  woollen  fiictories — light 
and  pu^,  and  as  warm  as  fur. 

My  neueat  neighbori  Mn.  Frazer,  la  the 


daughter  of  a  French  woman,  and  it  may  be 
that  that  accounts  for  her  always  Appearing 
well  and  neat,  no  matter  what  she  wears.  She 
looks  better  in  a  ninepence  calico,  with  a  plain 
band  of  linen  about  the  neck,  than  I  do  in  my 
fine  black  silk  dress,  that  is  made  with  a  plain, 
tight  waist,  and  those  fashionable  flaps  on  be- 
hind, that  all  the  women,  be  they  thin  or 
dumpy,  wear  now-a-days.  No  one  appears  well 
in  a  crape  shawl  except  Mrs.  Frazer.  They 
will  cling  to  one^s  shoulders,  and  make  them 
look  scraggy  and  scrawny.  She  sat  before  me 
last  Sabbath  at  church,  and  hers  looked  so 
pretty  that  I  asked  her,  the  first  opportunity, 
how  it  came  to  be  so.  She  just  lives  'cross  lots 
from  UB,  and  I  always  speak  my  mind  right  out 
to  her.  She  told  me  she'd  as  lief  I  wouldn't 
tell  everybody,  but  I  didn't  promise  her.  She 
says  she  takes  a  square  of  paper  muslin,  the 
color  of  the  shawl,  and  folds  right  in  the  inside 
of  it,  where  it  will  lie  over  the  neck  and  shoul- 
ders. Every  one  has  observed  the  clinging, 
wet  fit  that  crape  shawls  make  about  the  shoul- 
ders, the  only  objection  that  they  have.  This 
will  prevent  that  fit. 

Oh,  my  heart  was  so  tenderly  touched,  lately  I 
and  I  will  tell  yon  how  it  came  about.  I  don't 
know  when  I've  had  such  a  summery  rain  of 
fears  before.  When  the  children  came  home 
from  school  they  told  me  that  old  Mrs.  Dallas 
was  going  to  Indiana  on  a  visit — agoing  to  start 
the  next  morning.  She  is  a  poor  woman,  who 
lives  with  her  widowed  daughter,  and  I  thought 
it  would  make  them  happy  if  I  would  go  and 
bid  her  good-by,  and  see  her  safely  started.  She 
is  a  very  precise,  intelligent  old  lady — ^very 
pure-minded,  and  sweet-tempered,  and  lovable. 

"So,  grandnoa,  you're  going  to  have  a  nice 
visit,  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  I  said,  as  I 
went  in  and  fonnd  her  warming  her  feet, 
dressed  up  neatly,  and  freshly,  and  comfortably, 
and  looking  very  happy. 

"Oh,  yes,  Pipsey,"  said  she,  and  her  soft 
hands  crept  over  mine  in  a  way  that  told  more 
tiian  any  caress  could. 

**Come  here,  will  you?"  she  whispered,  and 
she  turned  her  feet  around  toward  the  wall  and 
lifted  up  her  dress.  "Do  see  how  kindly  my 
poor  girl  treats  me.  See  my  soft,  white,  woollen 
stockings,  and  my  white  ruflled  drawers,  and 
these  two  soft  flannel  skirt*),  and  this  nice  lined 
brown  alpaca  dress  trimmed  with  a  bias  fold, 
and  my  fur-trimmed  hood,  and  shawl,  and 
gloves,  and  my  travelling  basket  I  Why  Queen 
Victoria  isn't  half  so  rich,  and  blest,  and  be- 
loved, as  1  am,  a  poor  old  woman  nearly  blind. 


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156 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


so  tenderly  cared  for  hy  my  widowed  daughter  r' 
and  the  fain  of  tears  came  freely. 

I  was  tonched.  I  wiped  her  fiioe,  and  held 
it  to  my  boeom,  and  smoothed  it,  and  cried,  too, 
out  of  glad  sympathy. 

When  we  saw  her  snugly  in  the  cars,  I  gave 
a  note  to  the  conductor,  asking  him  to  care  for 
her  as  though  she  were  his  own  dear  mother. 

Nothing  is  more  touching  than  the  joy  of  an 
oM  person.  It  is  so  rarely  that  they  are  per- 
fectly satisfied  and  happy.  It  is  not  always 
that  fashionable,  worldly  minded  sons  and 
daughters  r^oioe  in  making  their  old  parents 
comfortable,  and  in  showing  them  due  respect, 
in  honoring  their  old-time  ways  and  notions. 

Susie  Dallas  encourages  her  old  mother  in 
dressing  just  as  she  likes  to  dress.  Because  the 
old  lady  prefers  it,  and  thinks  it  the  more 
sensible  way,  Susie  makes  her  caps  as  women 
wore  them  thirty  years  ago — the  nice  ones  of 
lace,  with  a  full  frill  around  the  &ce ;  and  the 
common  ones  of  fine  jaconet,  with  a  gathered 
border.  She  lets  her  wear  her  old-fiishioned 
plain  waist-gowns,  with  a  draw-string  to  fit 
them  with,  and  a  handkerchief  pinned  about 
the  neck,  precisely  crossed  in  front,  and  the 
comer  pinned  down  between  the  shoulders. 

Mother  Dallas  thinks  tea  tastes  the  best  when 
drank  from  the  old  style  of  deep  blae  cops  and 
pancers ;  and  though  Susie  prefers,  and  usea,-the 
snow-white  tableware,  she  is  careful  that  her 
old  mother's  preference  is  sacredly  respected. 
When  Susie  has  company,  grandma  is  not  per- 
mitted to  sit  away  in  her  own  room  alone,  but 
is  treated  as  the  first  and  best  woman  in  the 
circle. 

After  we  saw  grandma  safely  in  the  cars,  and 
watched  the  long  train  sweep  out  of  sight,  and 
only  the  white-armed  sycamores  showed  in  the 
distance,  I  bade  the  weeping  Susie  good- by, 
and  went  np  the  steep  railroad  bank  into  the 
highway,  and  who  should  I  see  there,  driving 
softly  along  the  winding  way,  but  Judge  Thorn- 
ton and  his  sick  wife,  she  who  used  to  be  Sadie 
Stanton,  my  best-beloved  schoolmate. 

The  judge  reached  out  his  strong  hand,  and 
swung  me  lightly  up  into  the  carriage.  Sadie 
was  going  to  our  house  to  stay  a  week,  the 
poor,  sick  creature! 

When  we  reached  home,  the  judge,  a  fine- 
looking,  robust,  healthy  man,  lifted  lier  out  in 
his  strong  arms,  and  carried  her  into  the  honse. 
The  ride  and  the  change  did  her  good;  she 
brightened  up,  and  laughed  and  talked,  and 
when  grandmother  ate  her  supper  of  corn  cake 
and  milk,  Sadie  ate  with  her. 

The  judge  had  a  good  practice  in  the  grow- 


ing little  city  of  M ,  and  he  had  to  return 

home  that  night, 

I  am  one  of  that  meddlesome,  prying  sort  of 
women,  who  keep  both  eyes  open,  and  help 
other  people  attend  to  other  people's  business. 

I  was  wondering  what  ailed  Sadie,  and  was 
watching  for  symptoms;  and  I,  Pipsey  PottR, 
do  declare  for  it,  when  Judge  Thoniton  started 
home  that  evenings-would  you  believe  it? — 
he  never  shook  hands  with  his  poor  wife^  or 
kissed  her  sick  face,  or  smoothed  her  hair,  or 
even  said :  '*  Now  try  and  get  well,  dear  V*  Not 
a  bit  of  it  He  ran  his  shapely  white  fingers 
through  his  pretty  gol<ly-brown  beard  in  a  soft, 
loving,  caressing  way ;  he  picked  a  bit  of  silken 
floss  ofi'his  sleeve,  looked  down  at  the  polish  of 
his  boots,  smoothed  the  fur  of  his  hat  with  a 
touch  that  seemed  to  say,  '*  My  darling  hat," 
and  then  bidding  us  a  general  good-night,  he 
bowed  sweetly  and  went  his  way.  • 

I  saw  it  all,  and  I  looked  over  at  Sadie  care- 
lessly. She  had  settled  hack  on  the  lounge,  a 
faint  shadow  had  spread  over  her  face,  and  she 
looked  as  though  she  stood  all  alone  in  the 
world. 

Sadie  wan  companionable,  and  was  cheerful 
enough  for  a  sick  woman,  and  our  days  flew  bj 
on  wings. 

One  morning,  after  break&st,  I  was  fixing 
the  vegetables  ready  for  dinner,  so  as  to  loee 
no  time,  and  I  was  boisterously  singing,  '*  Oh ! 
are  you  sleeping,  Maggie  ?''  I  chanced  to  look 
up,  and  she  was  following  me  with  her  pretty 
eyes — sweet,  sad,  brown  eyes  they  were,  too— 
and  at  last  she  said :  "  O  Pippie  I  your  home  is 
so  diflerent  from  other  homes." 

I  knew  what  was  coming.  I  had  been  biding 
my  time ;  and  wiping  my  hands  on  the  brown 
linen  towel  that  hung  on  the  inside  of  the 
kitchen  door,  I  said :  ''  I  believe  it  is ;  I  love 
it  best  of  any  home  I  ever  saw ;  everything  is 
to  my  mind,  and  just  as  I  want  it.'' 

"  Your  family,"  she  said,  '*  is  so  kind  and 
considerate.  I  observe  every  morning  that  the 
deacon  and  the  boys  ask  you  how  you  feel,  and 
how  you  slept,  plainly  showing  that  their  ten- 
derest  and  first  thoughts  are  yours.  Oh  I  how 
good  it  is  to  be  loved  so  P'  she  said,  as  the  tears 
gathered  in  her  eyes. 

I  wanted  to  come  to  the  point  and  not  hart 
any  one,  and  not  widen  any  little  gulf  soever^ 
and  I  gently  said :  "  Why  I  just  expect  and 
look  for  tliese  little  courtesies.  I  believe  my 
family  have  spoiled  roe.  You  s^  though,  it 
is  different  with  men  of  different  occupations. 
Farmers  work  with  their  hands,  and  get 
physically  tired,  and  when  night  comes  tliey 


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OTHER    PEOPLE'S   WINDOWS. 


157 


go  to  bed  early,  and  go  right  to  sleep^  and  wake 
np  in  the  morning  like  the  very  birds.  They 
are  refreshed  and  recuperated,  and  feel  like 
new  men,  while  if  they  were  preachers,  or 
lawyers,  or  doctors,  or  editors,  they  would  be 
worn  oat,  mind  and  body,  harassed  and  wor- 
ried, and  I  would  hardly  expect  these  tender 
little  courtesies  that  go  so  far  toward  sweeten- 
ing one's  disposition/'  (I  was  trying  to  bridge 
orer  her  husband's  fault,  and  try  and  say  a 
good  word  for  him). 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but  then  these  kind  words 
oosteo  little.  Why,  if  my  husband  spoke  to 
me,  or  showed  by  such  tender  care  that  my 
happoess  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  Pd 
betbe  happiest  woman  in  the  world.  He  is  a 
good  man,  and  is  glad  to  get  me  everything  I 
vant,  and  do  all  that  he  can  for  my  comfort; 
bathe  never  shows  at  all  that  he  loves  me  very 
iDQch.  Why,  if  I  am  so  sick  that  I  cannot 
leave  my  bed,  he  will  sit  down  alone  in  the 
dining-room,  and  eat  as  heartily  as  though  all 
were  well ;"  and  here  I  looked  up,  and  Sadie's 
lip  had  a  superb  curl  of  indignation,  and  the 
very  carls  about  her  temples  seemed  to  stand 
out  like  the  tendrils  of  a  vine. 

"Don't,  Sadie,  dear  I"  said  I.  '*  I  know  you 
are  not  complaining,  or  fault-finding,  or  tat- 
tling about  your  husband ;  you  are  too  coble- 
minded  to  do  anything  like  that ;  but  you  are 
flick,  and  weak,  and  you  forget  that  there  is 
only  one  ear  into  which  this  sorrowing  cry 
cboald  be  uUtered. 

'^I  am  afraid,  after  all,  that  your  self-love  is 
linrt.  It  seems  to  me  that  nearly  all  our  hurts 
wise  from  a  wounded  self-love,  if  we  carefully 
tnoe  them  back  and  shrink  not  from  facing  the 
We  facts.  Your  husband  loves  you  dearly, 
even  though  he  may  not  manifest  it  like  some 
husbands  do. 

^  His  mother  may  have  been  a  woman  who 
deemed  all  demonstrations  of  affection  weak- 
ness, silliness.  If  he  had  not  loved,  he  would 
^  have  chosen  you  frOm  among  all  women, 
^walk  beside  him  and  bear  his  name  through 

"  You  must  not  forget  that  yon  are  frail,  and 
^  yoar  mind  is  enfeebled  by  sickness,  while 
o«  is  strong  and  robust,  and  all  a-glow  with 
hie  and  energy.  It  comes,  of  course,  then,  in 
^He  very  nature  of  things,  that  yon  do  stand 
*P*rt.  Yoo  are  like  a  dainty  little  mist  of  a 
tender  vine,  creeping  on  the  ground,  as  low  as 
^  the  nest  of  the  meadow-lark,  while  he  is  like 
^tttong  oak,  upreaching  and  outspreading,  and 
^joying  the  glorious  sunshine  and  the  free 
»iad8  of  Heaven. 


"  Don't  forget  this,  dear  little  Sadie,  and  don't 
ask,  or  expect  too  much  from  him ;  and  above 
all,  I  charge  you,  dear  friend  of  my  girlhood, 
do  not  allow  yourself  to  grow  into  a  cross, 
whining,  fault-fioding,  miserable  woman.  He 
loves  you  now,  but  he  would  not  then.  That 
is  what  estranges  so  many  hearts.  Women 
voluntarily,  or  ignorantly,  lay  down  their 
sweetness,  and  their  truth,  and  their  tender 
lovable  manners,  and  fret,  and  find  fault,  and 
grow  narrow  minded,  and  unlovely,  and  r^ 
pulsive,  and  morbid ;  and  at  last,  the  silken 
cords  of  affection  turn  to  galling  fetters,  and 
both  lives  are  embittered,  hopelessly.  Be  lov- 
ing, not  exacting,  Sadie — ent^  cordially  into 
all  his  plans,  and  you  will  be  very  happy  to- 
gether. Always  have  something  pleasant  to 
say  to  him— kiss  him  '*  how  de  do,"  and  good- 
by,  and  grow  brighter  in  his  presence.  Let 
him  see  that  he  is  a  part  of  your  existence,  your 
sunshine  and  your  flowers,  your  pride  and  your 
strength,  and  you  will  soon  win  from  him  all 
the  courtesies  he  extended  to  you  before  mar- 
riage." 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  should  have  talked 
on,  had  not  Sadie  reached  up  and  drew  nae 
down  to  her  bq^om,  as  tlioughtless  of  my 
muscles  as  though  I  had  been  a  rubber  doll. 
She  kissed  my  head,  and  neck,  and  lace,  ail 
the  while  laughing  out :  "  Here  I've  been  mak- 
ing fun  of  you,  my  bonnie  old  Pipkin,  this  half 
hour,  while  you've  been  preaching  away  as 
though  I  were  a  little  heathen  I  Dear  Pip, 
you  should  to-day  be  a  wife,  and  the  mother  of 
twelve  stalwalt  boy%  instead  of  the  quiet  de- 
voted daughter  of  Deacon  Adonijah  Potts^  of 
Pottsville.  I  just  thank  you  for  stripping  me 
this  way,  and  showing  me  my  deformity.  I 
did  think,  really,  that  I  was  an  injured  wife ; 
but,  Pip,  it  was  all  selfishness;  I  just  believe 

there's  not  another  man  in  M half  so  good 

and  beautiful  and  abused  as  my  poor  boy,  Fred 
Thornton.  You  old  darling,  Pipsissiway  Potts ! 
you're  worth  your  weight  in  gold,  twenty-four 
carats  fine  \  and  now  see  if  I  don't  wake  up  and 
be  a  better  wife  after  this  long-faced  harangue 
of  yours ;"  and  Sadie  kissed  me  until  I  was 
glad  to  shake  her  little  clinging  form  from 
about  my  neck.  I  told  her  she  was  like  Sin- 
bad's  old  man  of  the  sea. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  should  have  talked 
and  laughed,  had  we  not  heard  the  deacon 
cleaning  his  feet  at  the  back  door.  We  both 
straightened  our  faces,  and  I  went  and  put  the 
dinner  on  to  boil,  and  Sadie  took  up  the  half- 
fi Dished  volume  of  Tracy's  translation  of  Un- 
dine. 


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158 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


I  am  almost  vexed,  in  theee  fine  days,  to  see 
my  neighbor- women,  just  in  sight  of  my  door, 
trying  how  nearly  they  can  kill  themselves 
working,  and  not  quite  die.  Women  are  so 
foolish  in  wasting  their  nervous  energy  this 
way.  Instead  of  tearing  and  hauling  every 
thing  out  of  the  house,  the  first  sunny  day,  and 
heaping  it  up  and  stringing  it  out  on  palingp, 
and  fences,  and  dothes-Hnes,  with  a  whoop  and 
a  hurrah,  and  a  scowling  brow  and  dishevelled 
hair,  and  a  cold  dinner  eaten  off*  one's  lap,  let 
one  room  be  cleaned  at  a  time^  and  in  a  way 
00  quiet  that  the  very  slumber  of  the  cat  is  not 
disturbed.  It  is  the  way  and  manner  in  which 
we  do  things  thslt  makes  hard  work  of  it. 

Some  women  cnnnot  empty  and  wash  a' 
feather-tick  without  making  a  commotion  that 
is  felt  all  through  the  house.  It  may  not  be 
amiss  to  tell  how  I  do  it :  Bip  open  the  end  of 
the  tick  as  far  as  is  necessary  to  get  the  feathen 
through  easily,  then  have  a  clean  tick  ready, 
baste  the  two  ends  together  as  far  as  you  have 
opened,  then  shake  the  feathers  from  one  into 
the  other. 

When  you  have  shaken  them  all  down  as 
well  as  yon  can,  pull  ont  the  basting-threads 
and  baste  up  the  end  of  thetick  you  have  just 
emptied,  and  then  wash,  scald,  and  rinse  it,  and 
you  will  have  all  the  down  and  loose  feathers 
saved,  that  would  be  -wasted  by  turning  and 
shaking,  and  with  much  less  trouble.  When 
your  tick  is  dry  and  ready  for  the  feathers 
again,  empty  them  back  in  the  same  way.  We 
never  use  feather-beds  only  in  the  coldest  of 
the  winter,  but  use  husk-beds  instead.  We 
made  our  own.  The  men  hauled  a  lot  of  com 
into  the  bam  and  husked  it  there,  saving  the 
inner  husks,  which  they  slit  into  strips  on  an 
old  hatchel.  Husk  beds  are  as  clean^and  fresh, 
and  sweet-smelling  as  a  bed  of  dry  maple 
leaves,  but  they  will  accumulate  dust  Quiet 
days,  when  there  is  not  much  wind,  I  empty 
the  husks  out  on  the  grass,  and  toss  and  beat 
them  up  with  a  limber  piece  of  lath,  to  lighten, 
and  freshen,  and  free  them  from  the  dust. 

When  carpets  are  taken  up  they  are  rarely 
handled  as  carefully  as  they  should  be.  I  have 
seen  nice  carpets  hanging  on  pointed  garden 
palings,  or  jagged  fences,  and  roughly  whipped 
and  jerked  about,  and  more  damage  done,  and 
wear  and  tear,  than  would  be  in  one  year  of 
good,  honest  service  on  the  floor.  We  always 
clean  ours  satisfactorily  by  spreading  it  on  the 
low  grass,  and  sweeping  it  lengthwise  and 
crosswise,  and  well  on  both  sides,  and  then 
hanging  it  over  a  pole  and  whipping  it  with  a 
amooth  switch. 


All  breaks  should  be  nicely  mended  befoit 
it  151  laid  down  again. 

Well-trained  and  kindly-treated  husban^ 
sons,  and  brothers,  are  always  glad  and  thank-  j 
ful  to  lend  a  helping  hand  at  sucli  work ;  and 
where  a  man  refuses  to  do  it,  or  "  foi^gets  "  i^ 
or  tries  to  shift  the  labor  on  some  one  else,  tob 
may  be  certain  that  he  is  a  selfish,  unnunlr 
man,  or,  that  the  women  of  the  household  are 
not  all  they  should  be  to  him — or,  at  leai^ 
don't  know  how  to  manage  him. 

When  I  make  bread  pudding,  I  do  it  earij, 
so  it  will  be  cold  in  time  for  dinner. 

Thursday  morning  I  made  two  dishes  fall— 
one  for  sister-in-law  Mattie^  who  lives  just  at 
the  edge  of  the  door-yard.  When  I  carried  it 
over  to  her,  I  found  her  cleaning  a  chicken 
right  on  the  table  where  she  always  washes  her 
dishes.  I  thought  it  was  not  a  very  nice  trick, 
hut,  as  I  passed  the  table,  and  looked  down,  I 
leamed  something  from  that  little,  curly-headed 
girl-wife  Mattie.  She  had  spread  down  a  pifoe 
of  coarse^  strong,  brown-paper,  and  was  workinf 
on  that.  I  was  very  glad  to  leam  this.  She 
said  the  table  was  kept  clean,  and  the  refon 
could  he  carried  to  the  pig-pen,  paper  and  all 
together.    As  I  went  out  she  said : 

"  Stop,  Pippy !  the  last  bread  pudding  I 
made  was  soft  and  washy,  and  had  a  taste  like 
something  that  was  meant  to  be  fed  to  stock. 
Tell  me  how  you  make  yours,  and  I  will  aee 
where  I  missed  it  so  badly." 

To  one  quart  of' milk  not  skimmed,  take  two 
eggs,  and  three  large  spoonfuls  of  sugar,  nicely 
beaten  and  mixed  together ;  then  I  crumb  in 
dry  bread  and  crusts,  until  the  deep  brown 
earthen  dish  is  nearly  full ;  press  all  the  bread 
in  under  until  there  are  no  dry  pieces  in  it; 
scatter  in  a  few  raisins  if  you  like,  sprinkle 
sugar  over  it,  and  set  the  dish  into  a  hot  oTsn, 
and  bake  half  an  hour. 

Wlien  cold,  put  in  dessert-dishes,  with  three 
or  four  spoonfuls  of  sweetened  cream,  ponred 
over  each  one,  and  a  little  grating  of  nutmeg  oo 
top. 

Thaf  s  my  way ;  and  if  you  don't  like  nutmey;, 
use  cinnamon,  lemon,  or  vanilla*  Mattie  said 
she  had  soaked  the  bread-crumbs  well  before 
ihe  made  it,  and  that  was  the  reason  of  the 
raw,  dough-taste  of  the  pudding. 

As  I  sat  on  the  door-step,  watching  Mattie 
clean  the  fat  chicken,  I  told  her  how  we  wed 
to  do,  one  summer  that  we  had  students  board- 
ing with  us. 

When  we  had  a  fat  chicken  stewed  or  roasted, 
I  always  saved  a  quart  or  so  of  the  broth,  and 
the  next  evening  I  would  add  to  it  a  large  cop- 
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lid  of  rioe,  and  when  cooked  done  would 
SMMm  with  pepper,  salt,  and  butter,  and  just 
before  patting  it  on  the  table,  would  stir  in  a 
pint  of  sweet  cream.  It  made  a  very  nice  sup- 
per-dishy both  for  students  and  laboring  men, 
eslen  with  cold  biscuit  and  butter,  and  jam,  and 
dnedbeef. 

Growing  boys  always  like  any  dish  that  is 
it  all  like  gravy.  I  used  to  plague  them,  and 
tell  them  that  if  a  boy  did  not  like  any  kind 
of  giaTy,  he  had  a  depraved  appetite. 

We  had  very  pleasant  times  while  the  stu* 
denti  boarded  with  us.  Bad  grammar  was  not 
permissible.  We  agreed  kindly  to  criticize 
one  another,  and  Deacon  Potts^s  house  was  like 
asdiool  of  discipline  all  the  time.  Even  the 
deacon  himself  grew  very  proper  in  grammar, 
ao  maeh  so  that  he  made  fewer  mistakes  than 
Brother  Jinkins,  the  preacher,  and  he  was  edu- 
ested  at  college.  We  grew  so  strict  that  one 
voold  frequently  he  called  to  order  with :  "  Can 
yoa  not  use  a  purer  expression  7'  **  You  need 
a  stronger  word  f  **  That  sentence  is  badly 
eoHtniGted;^  or^  "That  idea  was  finely  ex- 
pnssed.*' 

I  really  felt  proud  of  my  boys  in  the  "  Ex- 
ednor  Literary  Society,"  because  they  spoke 
with  so  much  ease,  and  yet  just  the  same  as  at 
Deacon  Pottos  dinner-table.  That  taught  me 
that  mothers  and  heads  of  families  should  be 
witdifal  of  eyr&ej  word  spoken— let  it  be  cor- 
lecUy  done — purely  and  excellently.  It  is  a 
Ud  plan  to  try  to  have  one  kind  of  manners 
far  the  bome-circle,  and  another — like  a  fine 
\^  ill-fitting  garment— for  society.  It  cannot 
be  suooeMfaily  done— the  truth  will  out,  no 
■alter  bow  charmingly  it  may  be  covered  with 
teKlken  delusion.  J/    ^^  j^j^^^ 

BEAUTIFUL  IN  OLD  AGE. 

HOW  is  be  b«eiiUM  when  old 
.  I  «a&  t«U  yoa,  maiden  Um— 
Sat  by  lotions,  dyos  and  pigmonts, 

Hot  by  washes  for  your  hair. 
While  yoa're  yoang,  bo  pure  and  gentle^ 

Kosp  your  passions  well  eon  trolled, 
ITelk  and  work  and  do  your  duty, 
TooH  be  handsome  when  yoa're  old. 

8o«w-wfaite  looks  are  ftor  as  golden. 

Gray  as  lovely  as  the  brown. 
And  the  smile  of  age  more  pleasant 

Than  a  yonthfol  beanty's^  frown. 
Tis  the  seal  that  shapes  the  features, 

Tires  tbe  eyes,  attunes  the  roioe; 
Sweet  sixteen  1  be  these  your  maxims. 

When  you're  sixty  you'll  rejoioe. 

WQCb  ZZXVIX-'^ll* 


AETIE. 
BT  s.  jsNiria  joirxs. 

OUB  spirits  are  struggling  from  earth  to  arise, 
As  we  murmur  it  softly,  o'erburdened  with 
sighs. 

Earth-name  of  an  angel  gone  back  to  the  skies — 
The  far-away  skies ! 

Our  souls  are  so  wosiy  with  battling  with  woe^ 
And  sinning,  (ah  1  darling,  thou  noTor  wilt  know  I) 
And  Heaven  is  so  far  from  us  wand'xers  below. 
And  our  journey  so  slow ! 

We  know  thou,  art  happy,  wo  know  thou  art  free. 
But  our  spirits  are  mouiwfblly  osUiBg  for  thee. 
Like  the  wailing  of  sotvowful  winds  by  the  sea— 
B?er  sailing  for  thee! 

Wo  long  to  behold  thee  as  when  thou  wert  here ; 
And  we  know  when  we  meet,  that  thou  wilt  not 

appear 
In  helplessness,  dear  one,  that  made  thee  more 

dearl 

Yes,  darling !  more  dear! 

And  a  whisper  oomes  low  in  our  midnight  of  woe: 
In  that  far-away  land  where  thou  dweUest,  thou'lt 

grow. 

All  unlike  to  the  babe  that  we  cherishod  bolow  ! 
Darling,  say !  is  it  so  ? 

Tot,  hadst  thou  known  earth-yean^  we  know  it 

were  best; 

And  oh  1  shall  it  bring  to  our  spirits  unrest. 
That  thou  shouldst  grow  up  in  the  land  of  the 

blestp^ 

Bright  land  of  the  blest  2 

In  the  eyoles  of  Beaven,  uatninmelled  by  sin. 
Thou  wilt  reaoh  a  fhir  staCore  we  hope  not  to  wiB» 
Till  at  Heaven's  pearly  postals  we  too  enter  Sa— 
BaterJoyfoUy  ia  1 

But  we  know — ^yes|,  we  know — when  at  Ikst-  we 

shall  meet, 
And  walk  with  thee,  darling,  the  golden-pared 

That  nought  shall  be  wanting  to  tender  oomplete^ 
Onr  fall  blessedness .  sweet. 

For  our  Father  plans  kindly ;  and  when  at  the 

throne 
We  gather,  oh!  then  we  shall  know  and  be  known, 
And  be  happy  forever  with  God  and  our  own  f 

Aye,  with  God  and  our  own ! 

T&x  shortest  and  surest  way  to  live  with 
honor  in  the  world,  is  to  be  in  reality  what  we 
would  a](>pear  to  be. 


ToxT  may  glean  knowledge  by  reading,  but 
you  must  separate  the  chaff  from  the  wheat  by 
thinking. 


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GHAPTES  V. 

IN  the  old  "lean-to"  at  Thornley,  the  young 
household  lat  again  aroand  the  fire.  It  was 
winter  now,  and  Deeember  had  cone  in  with 
a  growl  of  winds,  and  shaken  out  ita  great, 
white  mftne  in  a  Bnow-stonn,  and  feasted  on 
the  live  coals  in  the  grate  inaiashioa  that  | 
made  Pnidy  qoake^  sometimea^  in  her  shoes, 
when  she  looked  at  the  empty  soottle* 

Still,  thus  te,  the  siBaU  household  of  the 
Hanes's  had  held  its  own  against  the  world — 
held  it|  too,  by  the  force  of  such  young,  frail 
arms  and  such  brave  young  souls,  that  it  seems 
almost  a  miracle  when  you  come  to  think  what 
the  world  is,  and  how  unequal  were  the  forces 
arrayed  in  that  inxSu9- 

There  they  sit,  betwixt  the  fire  and  the  lamp- 
shine,  that  trinmvriate  of  two  girls  and  a  boy. 
The  ^mily  heart  is  wonderfully  light  to-night, 
for  the  quarter's  rent  is  snugly  stowed  away  in 
the  little  blue  china  mustard-cup  in  one  comer 
of  the  cupboard.  ''Bent  day"  is  always  the 
iheaviest  sea  they  haye  to  tide  over.  Buch 
scrapings,  and  screwings,  and  shifts  as  these 
small  people  have,  to  keep  the  roof  of  that  old 
"lean-to"  over  their  heads. 

Yet,  all  the  sorrow,  and  struggle,  and  self- 
denial  have  given  the  old  house  some  sacred 
tenderness  of  associations  in  the  hearts  of  its 
•ooenpants  whieh  no  other  home  will  ever  hare; 
ithovgh  it  he  spactoos  and  stetely,  they  may 
learn  that,  sometime,  in  the  future  that  is  com- 
ing to  them. 

They  have  been  busy  reading  aloud  to  each 
*other— each  one  taking  turns.  Out  of  the  wneek 
of  the  family  fortunes,  with  old  linen  and  an- 
(Cient  china,  and  spedmens  of  ftntiqoated,  spw- 
die-legged  Ainutare,  a  itm  books  have  been 
preserved.  Some  of  these  are  Latin  authors, 
which  might  as  well  be  Greek  or  Sanscrit,  for 
any  benefit  the  present  owners  can  derive  firooi' 
thera,  but  others  speak  the  grand  old  mother- 
language;  and  in  the  evenings,  when  the  winds 
are  snapping  and  snarling  outside,  and  be- 
tween fire  and  lamp  the  pijiched  old  room  puts 
on  its  best  face,  the  children  get  out  those  old 
heirlooms,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost,  and  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress ;  and 
thonglrtliey  were  a  king's  heirs,  the  young 
souls  could  have  no  finer  food  than  these  black 
letter  volumes.  The  old  dramas,  the  roll 
(160) 


and  swell  of  those  immortal  numbers,  the  mi^ 
nificent  pictures,  kindle  the  young  imaginatiooi 
and  work  their  own  magic  with  the  front  room 
of  that  old  ''lean-to"  which  looks  to  tbs 
south. '  There  gather  the  splendid  preKncei 
of  Shakspeare's  heroes — kings  and  princea^  men 
and  women  are  here  in  the  royal  m^esty  of 
their  old  life,  and  the  low  ceiling  of  the  "lean- 
to"  stretches  away  into  a  lofty  presence-chamber 
and  forms  the  stage  where  kings,  and  nobles, 
and  warriors  act  out  their  lives  so  royally,  and 
so  humanly  withal,  that  they  claim  immortal 
kin  with  the  boy  and  girls  sittins  by  the  fire- 
poor,  and  lonely,  and  troubled^o  longer,  for 
the  mighty  wizard,  sleeping  in  his  grave  these 
two  centuries  and  a  half,  has  woke  up  and 
waved  before  their  eyei^  too,  the  magic  of  his 
wand. 

And  then,  too,  of  a  sudden,  the  mood  of  the 
drama  changes  from  the  heroic^  and  ialls  iuto 
comedy,  glowing  and  glittering  with  such  un- 
utterable gayety  of  spirits,  with  such  felicitouf 
humor  twinkling  and  flashing  along  the  smooth, 
silver  current  of  the  lines,  that  the  sudden  con- 
tagion seizes  upon  the  three ;  and  to  listen  to 
the  peals  of  laughter,  to  the  rollicking  mirth, 
you  would  fancy  that  Prudy,  and  Cherry,  and 
Darley  Hanes  had  never  in  their  whole  livei 
known  so  much  as  the  name  of  a  sorrow. 

They  had  been  reading  "King  John,"  to- 
night. That  strong,  old,  picturesque  English 
life  of  which  the  great  drama  is  only  "the 
rhythmic  echo,"  had  started  up  real  and  vivid 
all  around  them. 

Falconbridge's  gayety,  aad  Oonataiioe's  de- 
votion, and  Lewis's  struggles,  and  Blanche's 
agony  had  all  held  ti^m  by  turns,  onfil,  at 
last,  Darley,  a  little  hoarse,  at  the  okwe  o€  ths 
long  third  act,  hanaed  the  old  bladt-letter 
volume  over  to  Prndy. 

"Now's  your  turn,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  I  can't  read  that,"  answered  ih%  girl 
with  a  little,  deprecating  shudder,  glancing  at 
the  page.  "  That  scene  betwixt  Prince  Arthur 
and  Hubert  is  more  than  I  can  stand.  It  alwan 
makes  me  feel  that  my  own  eyes  are  going  to 
be  put  out  with  hot  irons,  and  sends  cold 
shivers  all  over  me." 

"So  it  does  me,"  said  dierry.  "Let's  skip 
that  and  go  on." 

Darley  felt  it  behoved  him,  for  the  honor  ef 


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Ut  KXf  to  siake  %  itroug  diapUj  ^  nei^yd  at 
thujunetofe* 

^  Jart  l>k«  girV  in  a  tone  that  amacked 
atrOBgly  of  hia  coDfoioqanMB  of  attparioaty. 
"Sndi  obkkeB-hearted  things  I  I  a'poae  Fva 
got  Id  pnft  tlM  thing  through,  if  mf  throat  la 
lavkh." 

"(^  noy  Darley,"  aaid  Pmdy,  with  a  grip 
on  the  Tolmne.  "  It'a  as  bad  to  hoar  aa  it  i« 
tofcad." 

"  Jnsty"  aobjoined  Cherry,  the  plnmp  littla 
BonaqrUahle  ronnding  oat  of  her  red  morsel 
of  a  moath  with  immenaa  emphaaia. 

DmAeft  having  soAoiently  yindlcated  the 
rniirijs  of  Ida  sex,  was  not  sorry  to  have  hia 
throat  releaaad  irom  ftirther effort;  bnt»  in  con* 
■Maratiop  of  leminine  soitnessy  ha  condesended 
t»  add:  *  If  it  gata  too  nmch  for  you,  girls^  yoo 
Mst  jost  &U  back  on  the  thonght  that  it  all 
kap{M»ed  oentvries  and  oantniies  ago.'' 

''Tea;  bat  that's  precisely  what  one  neyer 
cm  think,  when  one  gets  into  Shakspeate^" 
■idFrvdy. 

JkaSkf  waa  not  disposed  to  contest  thiagen- 
end  fact,  and  here  Cherry's  sweet  little  voice 
csiaa  op  again.  ''It  seems  very  strange  that 
a  fDod  God  ooaM  ait  still  up  in  Heaven,  and 
let  audi  awfbl  things  go  on  onder  His  eyesi 
It  pHialca  me  when  I  think  of  it," 

DStfiej'a  hat  darkened. 

'^T^venfs  DO  end  to  things  that  pttsileaooe^ 
if  j««  jwat  let  the  door  open  a  quarter  of  aa 
isek  to  your  thoughts.  If  I'd  been  God,  now^ 
MBsa  to  me^  I'd  make  a  better  job  of  this  world 
than  Hsfm  done^  or  given  It  np  long  ago  for  a 
4cadMliire.» 

Both  the  girk  looked  ahodced  at  tiiiit 
^wedi.  ''Sh--sh,Darley,thafs wicked!"  said 
Pkady. 

"Prliapa  it  is,"  answered  her  brother ;  "  bat, 
ift  wtf  xmift,  kCs  the  honest  truth,  and  that's 
how  ii  looks  to  me." 

fio  ihe  great  problems  with  which  sage  and 
phlloaoplier  have  wrestled  from  the  beginning 
caasa  i^aiiH  and  stood  with  the  old  solemn  iaoo 
ef  the  apUaz  hetee  those  young  souls  sitting 
moMd  Um  firende  of  the  old  "  laaa-to." 

Chenx  langhed  a  little  at  the  odd  way  in 
lAMk  her  brothar  had  pdt  his  doabta;  but 
timiy  kept  a  grave  conntenance  and  sUrred 
thaftie^  ftding  that  a  reply  ODght  to  be  ibrth- 
eeming  to  aapeeck  that  savored  so  strongly  of 
and  skepticism,  and  yet,  being  a 
girl,  peraaiving  that  no  reply  would 
be  BOfl^  better  than  one  which  did  not  hit  tha 


She  commenced  at  last.    '^  But  thom^  it  aU 


looks  so  dark  to  ns,  God  is  really  good,  and  He 
brings  things  out  right  at  last—" 

Darley  snubbed  her  right  up  when  she  had 
got  so  iar.  ''  Oh,  yes^  I  know  he  does  in  story 
books  and  sermons  o^  Sunday,  but  when  you 
look  at  the  facts,  I  say  I  don't  sea  it. 

"There  was  Arthur  now:  just  see  what  aa 
end  he  made,  and  how  the  old  savage^  his 
Uncle,  got  tha  better  of  him." 

"I  tall  you,  6bakspeare  knew  what  he  was 
about,  and  he  painted  tha  world  and  haman 
liii»  juat  aa  you  find  ii  eveiy  day,  no  pious 
twaddle,  nor  fairy  tales,  where  the  plumes^  and 
the  fine  dreaBCs.  and  all  the  nice  things  fJEiU  to 
the  good  boys'  and  girla'  share.  Shakspeare^ 
now,  waa  a  fellow  that  kept  his  eyes  open,  and 
he  knew  better  than  that." 

Poor  Prudy  !  she- might  possibly  have  sum-^ 
moned  her  forces  to  combat  Barley's  Itrgo- 
meutM,  but  when  he  buttressed  them  with  Shak' 
speare^  the  two  proved  a  brace  of  antagonists 
before  which  aha  had  not  the  courage  to  lift 
a  lance;  then  in  her  secrect  self  the  girl  felt; 
ah,  what  human  soul  has  not  a  atrong  leaning 
toward  Dorley'a  aide  of  tha  case ! 

The  boy  continued,  for  he  was  Rore  to-night^ 
and  the  doubta-Hmdlikeeaoi^h  the  Devil  be> 
hind  them— had  been  longat  work  in  that  yoai^ 
head  and  heart  of  his.  "No;  there's  no  use 
talkiiig  and  humbugging  about  it.  I've  lived 
long  enough  to  see  that  the  prises  dou't  fall 
into  the  lapa  of  those  who  deserve  'em  most. 
It  agnnds  fine  to  talk  about  honest^r's  paying, 
and  all  that.  Perhaps  it  does,  in  some  ways, 
but  it  isn't  in  that  of  hard  cash." 

Cherry's  laugh  twittered  put  again,  like  a 
note  from  a  half«cared  sparrow;  for  she,  too, 
felt  that  solemn  issues  lay  just  behind  the  sur- 
face of  Parley's  odd  talk. 

"I  saw  something  to-day  that  set  me  to 
thinking  more  than  ever,"  eoivtlnued  the  boy. 
"I'd  just  whipped  in  and  out  of  Arnold's  jewel 
storey  with  the  Standard,  when  a  team  rolled 
up,  such  as  I'd  never  set  these  two  eyas  on. 
There  was  a  coach msn  in  livery  on  the  box, 
and  then  the  horsea-^wasn't  ii  a  pretty  sight, 
now,  to  see  them  arching  their  necki^  and 
prancing  along  as  though  their  feet  were  too 
daipty  lor  tbe  ground  they  trod  on  I 

"  In  a  minute,  two  boys  were  out  of  the  car- 
riage, and  a  girl  fcUowed— one  boy  must  have 
been  about  my  height,  and  the  other  wa^n- 
siderably  taller-^thegid  might  have  been  your 
sice,  Prudy,  or  oa^  youn^  Cherry— ifl  tliey 
swept  by  me^  carrying  their  heads  high  enough, 
and  showing  they  knew  wha(  fine  dothea  they 
hkd  ^alkd  what  a  giaft4carrii#»th^y  code  in. 


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ARTHUR'S   LADT8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


**1  tell  jou,  the  sight  galled  ine — made  me 
hopping  mad ;  I  kept  saying  to  myself, '  I'm  as 
good  as  jou,  any  day.  I  don't  care  so  much 
for  the  grand  carriage  and  the  fine  dotbes^ 
though  I'd  like  'em  as  well  as-  anybody ;  bat 
what's  the  reason  yoa've  got  the  beautifal 
home,  and  lots  of  money,  and  all  the  good 
things  in  life^  and  I  have  to  be  scratching 
round  selling  papers^  throngh  thiok  and  thin, 
rain  and  shine,  hot  and  cold,  to  keep  a  breath 
of  life  in  me,  and  a  bit  of  old  tumbledown 
roof  over  our  heads  f  There's  Prudy  and 
Cherry,  now,  they'd  like  to  lie  <»%  and  wear 
fine  dresses^  and  feath^  and  ribbons  eveiy 
day,  and  look  every  whit  as  pretty  in  them,  too, 
as  that  girl  that  swept  by  me  with  such  an  air. 
What's  the  reason  they  can't  have  'em,  Fd  like 
to  know  T 

'^  And  so  the  qnestions  kept  at  woik  in  my 
liead  like  the  bussing  of  some  old  tune  one 
can't  get  rid  of.  And  you  come  to  look  oyer 
the  world,  it's- all  the  same,  the  good  folks  don't 
come  off  winners  anywhere.  But  you  know 
bow  it  ii^  a  fellow's  own  troubles  do  strike 
home  a  little  closer  than  anybody's  else;  and 
nothing  ever  galled  me  like  the  sight  of  that 
jgrand  carriage,  and  the  folks  that  rode  in  it, 
and  I  peddling  papers  on  the  comers.  I'd  like 
somebody  to  tell  me  what  it  all  means,  anyhow." 

*•  Dear  old  Darley,  I  know  precisely  how  you 
felt,"  added  Cherry,  sympathetically. 

Through  all  her  brother's  talk,  Prudy's  pretty 
face  had  kept  a  wondertul  gravity,  with  some 
trouble  in  her  eyes.  She  waited  a  little  while-  \ 
after  he  had  paused,  her  red,  busy  little  fingers 
working  nervously  with  each  other.  At  last, 
however,  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  slowly  clear- 
ing up,  and  her  voice  came  out  at  length,  soft, 
and  sweet,  and  steady. 

"What  you've  said,  Darley,  Is  true— one  side 
of  it — and  I  can't  deny  it.  It's  puzsled  me 
awfully,  too,  sometimes,  and  I  suppose  it  will 
again.  But  for  all  the  huge,  dark,  awfol  riddle 
this  world  is,  Qod  created  it,  and  somewhere 
and  somehow  it  will  all  be  made  straight ;  for 
there  is  a  God,  and  He  is  good.  You  believe 
that  now,  don't  you,  Darley?"  more  or  less 
anxiety  in  the  question. 

"  Ye-es— oh  I  yes,  of  course  I  do.  Tm  not  a 
pagan,  yet." 

"And  as  for  honesty's  paying,"  continued 
the  ^rl,  "  perhaps  it  doesn't  always,  as  you 
aay,  in  hard  cash ;  but  I  don't  believe  that  there 
ever  was  a  man  or  woman  who  held  fast  to  the 
right,  as  they  honestly  believed  it^  at  all  costs, 
who  was  sorry  for  It  at  the  end.  And,  Darley" — 
and  now  in  her  eameetness  Fhidy't  veiee  shook^ 


end  her  cheers  grew  the  color  of  the  litlk 
chapped  fingers  she  was  keeping  at  woik  all 
the  while — ''I  never  will  believe  this  until  I 
find  somebody  who,  coming  to  the  very  «id  of 
his  lifo^  says:  'It  hasn't  paid  to  do  right  I 
wish  I'd  been  selfish  and  greedy,  and  thongb 
only  of  my  own  comfort  and  gaini^  instead  d 
being  generous,  and  merciful,  and  holdiisg 
faithful  to  the  right,  because  I  loved  it  better 
than  the  world,  and  all  its  riches,  and  boom 
and  pleasures.'" 

''Prudy,"  said  Darley,  "you've  got  metUi 
time.    Nobody  ever  said  that,  Til  be  boaod" 

"  And,  Darley,  for  all  the  rest,  which  seem 
•o  hard,  and  dark,  and  strange^  for  ns  and  fer 
othen — ^for  all  which  we  find  in  the  vorU 
about  us,  and  which,  long  ago^  Shakepean 
found,  too,  and  put  into  his  dear  old  dnuiia% 
it  must  oome  out  at  last  clear,  and  right,  and 
best ;  it  most,  beeanae  over  all  and  beycnd  all 
there  is  a  God,  mighty  and  tender^  and  merci- 
ful." 

Darley  knocked  the  well-worn  toes  of  hii 
boots  one  against  the  other.  The  daiklMk 
had  gone  out  of  his  faee. 

"Prudy,"  said  the  boy  at  last,  "  I  see  Umr 
can't  be  any  better  answer  than  that,  sad  it 
must  be  the  true  one." 

And  all  his  life  to  come  Dariey  would  k 
finding  it  out  more  aad  more.  There  could  be 
no  better  answer  to  all  the  great  peipleziDg 
doubts  and  fears  with  whieh  we  go  gropiBg 
through  this  human  life  of  ours,  than  that  old 
answer  of  Prudy's,  sitting  by  the  "lean-to" 
fire,  for  it  met  tlie  dark,  awfol  riddle-^ 
mystery  and  the  misery  of  human  life  by  iaitli 
in  the  heart  and  the  character  of  God. 


CHAPTEB  VL 

I  introduoed  you  to  the  Forayths,  yon  i» 
member,  by  showing  them  to  you,  at  theoutoet, 
on  their  worst  side.  I  should  not  like  aiTself 
to  be  dealt  with  precisely  in  that  foahioD--Hio- 
body  would  whom  I  know.  And  with  a  lark- 
ing feeling  that  I  owe  these  pe<^e  some 
reparation,  I  am  going  to  show  yon  the  reven* 
of  the  picture. 

Cressy  and  her  brothers  stood  at  the  itoA 
windows,  watching  curiously  a  funeral  pmoes* 
sion  going  by.  It  was  quite  unlike  those  they 
had  sometimes  watched  in  the  cities — ^thebladi 
hearse  with  its  waving  plumes,  followed  by  the 
long,  solemn  line  of  carriages.  Here  there  mf 
a  motley  assemblage  of  teams,  gigs^  wagooii 
carryalls,  while  quite  a  large  body  of  ped» 
tnana  brou£^  up  the  ime. 

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A   I>OLLAM   A   DAT. 


2«8 


It  was  a  dismal  sort  of  a  day  vhich  tbs  bqyi 
•nd  their  tister  looked  ont  od»  with  a  lioiie- 
oolored  skj  overhead^  and  angry  winds  snap- 
ping  fiercely  at  any  stray  flakes  of  now  that 
kMt  themselves  and  came  down  in  a  scared 
whirl. 

They  watched  the  proceeelon  ont  of  sight; 
then  Cressy  drew  a  long  hreath|  and  went  over 
to  the  regist^  and  stood  hy  it. 

**  *  And  from  her  fair  and  cmpollated  flesh, 
Haj  Tiolets  spring.' 

Tveread  that  somewhere^"  she  said.  ''I 
wonder  where  it  wasf 

^Goess  you  dreamed  it,''  answered  Bamsey^ 
not  iU-naturedly. 

"Kq,  I  didn't,"  answeied  the  girl,  stonily 
cnoogh ;  "  I  never  should  have  dreamed  any- 
thing like  that    I  read  it  with  my  eyes." 

"Of  course  yon  did.  Cress,"  said  Proctor, 
vho^  when  it  came  to  hooks,  was  regarded  as 
the  antbority  of  the  &mi1y.  "You  read  it  in 
oU  Hamlet." 

'^  So  I  did.  What  a  goose  not  to  remember. 
It  seems  as  though  that  might  he  true  of  every- 
body else,  but  not  just  of  you  and  me,  boys; 
sow  does  it  7" 

"Whal,  that  we're  all  going  to  die  some- 
tune  7^  said  Proctor,  his  eyelids  going  iaster 
tiisn  his  tongue. 

"  Tes.  Whenever  I  see  a  funeral,  it  always 
sets  me  to  thinking  that  our  turn  is  to  come 
sosMtioie;  but  I  can't  really  believe  it.  It 
seems  as  though  things  would  always  go  on  and 
on  just  as  they  are  now,  and  we  with  them.  I 
^pose,  though,  it  seems  just  the  same  to  every- 
body eUe,  if  they  ever  think  of  it" 

"  Beckon  it  does,"  said  Bamsey,  who,  with 
Us  hands  in  his  pockets,  was  striding  up  and 
jown  the  room  whistling  a  tune,  but  listening 
for  all  that  to  his  sister's  Ulk. 

"Did  you  ever  in  your  lives,  boys,"  oon- 
tianed  Creasy,  who  was  in  an  unusually  ooo- 
fiding  mood,  "wonder  what  that  other  world 
was  like  7  How  will  it  seem  7  What  will  we 
do  and  feel  when  we  get  there  7  Did  yon  ever 
thisk  about  it  r 

*I  hawe,"  replied  Proetor. 

"Oao't  say  I  have  much,"  answered  Bamsey. 
"Haven't  had  time  to  think  of  much  outside  of 
Ihis  world,"  going  on  with  the  whistling  again. 

"  Bot  whether  we  think  of  it  or  not,  we^ve 
got  to  eome  to  it  There's  the  rub,"  said  his 
osier,  oDconscionsly  quoting  8hakspeare  again. 

"We  shall  know  when  we  get  there,  any- 
how," said  Proctor. 

<' Yes ;  bot  I  can't  help  feeling  that,  after  all, 
thia  lifift  hu  something  to  do  with  that  other." 


"That^l  regnlar  parson's  talk,  Gras^"  jnud 
Proetor. 

"  *  Hypocrites  and  humbugs,  the  whole  kit  of 
'em,' "  said  Bamsey,  quoting  literallj  from  his 
ikther. 

"  Oh  I  but  now,  really,  boys,  letting  the  par- 
sons all  go,  don't  you  have  a  feeling  somewhere 
that  it's  really  so  7  Do  you  s'poae  if  we  ever 
get  into  that  other  world,  and  are  good  and 
happy  there,  we  shan't  behave  better  than  we 
have  in  this  7  Do  you  s'pose  we  shall  fight 
and  scratch,  and  get  so  all-fired  mad  as  we  do 
herer 

Both  the  boys  laughod  at  the  round  old 
8azon  in  which  that  young  sister  of  theirs  had 
aei  her  meaning. 

"  Of  course  we  sha'n't,"  said  Piootor ;  "  we'll 
have  the  fights  out  this  side.'*' 

Cressy  did  not  laugh.  She  was  too  thor- 
oughly in  earnest  to  eigoy  a  joke. 

"You  are  dreadfully  aggravating,  awfiil 
boys,"  she  said.  "  I  sometimes  think  no  girl 
ever  had  such  horrid  old  things  to  be  the  tor- 
ment of  her  life.  Yet,  I  know,  for  certain,  if 
either  of  you  should  die  and  leave  me  here 
alone^  I  should  be  sorry  I'd  ever  given  way, 
biased  up  like  a  shaving,  and  not  let  yon  just 
tread  rough-shod  over  me  whenever  you  took  a 
notion." 

Both  the  boys  laughed  louder  than  before; 
but  one  keen  to  observe  would  have  felt  that 
the  laugh  came  out  of  the  wrong  side  of  their 
mouths;  that,  as  they  looked  at  their  sister, 
their  consciences  bad  something  to  say  to  them,  ' 
too,  whidi,  unlike  her,  they  had  not  the  grace 
to  repeat 

"  Then,"  continued  Creasy,  in  a.  lower  tone, 
"there  is  somebody  in  that  world  who  will  be 
glad  to  see  us,  snd  whom  we  shall  all  want  to 
see.  She  would  .like  to  have  ua  good  to  each 
other,  I  know." 

The  boys  knew  now  she  was  talking  of  their 
mother.  There  was  no  laugh  this  time<  Even 
Bamsey  stopped  whistling. 

"  I  never  have  a  regular  fight  with  you,  bays, 
hut  when  if  s  all  over  I  think  of  her,  and  how 
ahe  would  have  felt  about  it  til,"  continued 
Cressy.  "  No  matter  what  we  are^  our  mother 
was  a  good  woman,  Bamsey." 

"Yes  she  was ;  the  best  woman  in  the  world," 
answered  the  boy,  stoutly,  as  the  lace  of  his 
mother,  set  in  the  far  away  days  of  hb  child- 
hood, shone  out  sweetly  upon  his  memory. 

"  I  can't  remember  much  about  her,  I  was  such 
a  midge  when  she  died.  I  wish  you  i^ould  tell 
us  something  about  her,  Bamsey,"  continued 
the  girl. 


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ABTffUS'a    tADY^B  ^StOMS  MAGAZINE. 


*«I  ionH  Iraoir  wfnrt  to  tell »  Mid  the  boy. 
Bitting  down  now,  and  not  acting  or  looking 
jast  iike  that  load,  coane,  arrogant  Ramaej 
ForBf  th  which  he  was. 

'^  Oh,  tell  ufl  anything/'  said  Cressy,  drawing 
near  her  brother.  ^  Tell  ns  what  she  said  to 
Tou  that  last  night  Yott  know  they  sent  Proo- 
tor  and  me  off  to  bed  early,  we  were  so  little. 
I  can  jnst  remember  it  like  a  dream.** 

Bamsey  looked  at  his  brother  and  sister  with 
something  like  awe  or  remorse  in  his  face.  ''I 
don't  like  to  talk  aboat  that  tine,"  he  said 
uneasily. 

*'0h,  come  now.  Ram,  do  tell  x»"  added 
Ph)ctor. 

<'  Just  mamma's  last  word,  if  no  more.  She 
would  waoriC  us  to  know  them,  too,"  pleaded 
Greasy. 

''She  said :  'Bamsey,  my  boy,  mamma  must 
go  away  and  leave  you,  and  Proctor,  and  little 
Gressy.  Yon  are  the  oldest,  you  know.  Don't 
Ibiget  what  mamma  said  when  shePs  gone.  Be 
a  good,  kind,  loving  brother  to  them  always.' " 

It  was  very  hard  work  for  Bamsey  to  get 
through  with  these  words.  His  voice  shook 
and  struggled  through  them.  His  mother's 
fidnt  tones,  his  mother's  white  lips,  seemed  to 
be  speaking  them  sgain  at  his  ear. 

There  was  a  faint  little  sob  from  Cressy's 
chair.  Proctor  forgot  everything  but  to  find 
his  handkerchief. 

''Were  those  mamma's  rery  last  words  to 
you,  Ramsey  T*  whispered  Oressy. 

"  Yes>  her  very  last,'*  he  said. 

In  a  moment  the  boy  rose  up,  stretched  him- 
self out  and  spoke :  "  I've  acted  like  the  Devil 
himself  a  good  many  times  to  both  of  you,  and 
I  shall  again.    HePs  in  me^  I  suppose.** 

You  may  be  sure  It  was  the  first  time  in  his 
Ule  Ramsey  Forsyth  had  ever  made  such  a 
confession  as  that. 

"  I  haren^t  acted  any  more  of  a  saint  than 
yoo,  Ramsey,"  said  Prootor,  with  an  honest 
shame  at  b^ing  outdone  in  confession  by  his 
elder  brother.  ^ 

"Boys,"  continved  Oressy,  '* you  know  what 
I  am,  ^st  a  train  of  powder,  that  a  spark  sends 
off  I  should  really  like  to  know  how  it  would 
seem  to  get  through  with  one  day  and  not  pop 
off  like  your  horrid  old  torpedoes,  Proctor,  two 
or  three  times." 

"I  don't  think  any  of  us  will  ever  hare^a 
chance  to  try,"  said  the  younger  brother.  We 
are  all  like  Lucifer-matches,  and  something's 
sure  to  set  us  going.'* 

"But,"  said  Cressy— so  earnestly  that  she 
kepi  ooDstantly  at  work  with  some  pretty  rings 


on  her  fingers — "a  day  isn^t  such  a  long  time^ 
after  all.  It  does  seem  as  though  even  snch 
sparks  as  we  are,  might  manage  to  get  through 
with  one  little  day  without  taking  fire.  It  se^ms 
as  though  some  time,  after  we^re  dead,  maj-be, 
we'd  be  glad  to  remember  that  we'd  get  over 
one  sun  without  a  fight.  It  would  be  something 
to  say  to  God,  even,  if  we  ever  got  where  He 
is,  and  can  speak  to  Him:  'I  know  I  was  just 
as  bad  and  wicked  as  I  could  be  down  there 
in  that  world  of  Yours,  but  there  was  one  single 
day  when  I  tried  with  all  my  might  and  rnnin 
to  be  good,  to  do  and  say  just  the  things  which 
I  thought  would  please  You,  and  to  be  just 
what  You  would  have  been  glad  to  had  me  all 
the  time,  if  I'd  only  been  a  saint  instead  of  the 
sinner  I  was.*  It  would  only  be  one  day.  I 
know,  still  it  would  be  something  to  be  glad  o( 
as  I  said,  if  one  should  ever  get  where  Qod 
really  was,  and  if  He's  anywhere,  we  shall,  acme 
time." 

"  Well,  Cress,  you  are  a  funny  one,"  answered 
Ramsey,  with  another  laugh.  "Thai's  the 
greatest  joke  out.  Think  of  talking  to  God  in 
that  way !  It  strikes  me  He  might  think  you 
were  taking  liberties." 

"  I  didn't  mean  anything  of  tliat  kind,  any- 
how," said  Cressy.  "And  God,  who  knows 
everything,  would  know  that  too.  Whatever 
it  might  seem,  He  would'nt  think  I  meant  to 
take  any  liberties." 

This  time  Bamsey  did  not  see  any  joke. 

"  But,  boys,"  said  Cressy — for  she  had  become 
more  deadly  in  earnest — "don't  you  think 
now  we  might  some  way  contrive  to  keep  from 
going  on  the  rampage  fbr  just  one  day  7" 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  bet  heavy  on  that  crowd," 
answered  Bamsey,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest 

'*  But  we  could  try,  anyhow ;  and,  boys^  I 
can't  help  thinking  that  if  mamma  was  really 
to  know,  she  would  be  glad  to  have  us  even  do 
so  much.  Sometime  she  will  know— maybe 
she  is  listening  even  now." 

"  Oh,  Cress !"  said  both  the  boys,  looking  up 
at  each  other  and  trying  to  laugh,  but  with 
grave,  startled  eyes,  for  all  that 

"  Well,  anyhow,  we  don't  know,"  said  Cressy, 
taking  safe  refuge  on  ground  where  no  argu- 
ment based  on  natural  laws  could  dislodge  her. 
'*Now,  boys^  what  do  you  say,  won't  you 
try?" 

Bamsey  looked  at  Proctor,  who,  in  his  turn, 
winked  worse  than  ever,  and  snickered  nerv- 
ously, and  waited  for  his  brother  to  speak. 

"  I've  no  objections — be  good  fun,  anyhow," 
said  Bamsey  Forsyth,  actually  ashamed  of  ad- 
mitting that  he  would  try  to  do  a  good  things 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


WAITING. 


les 


wpilaljoke. 

''It  will  be  the  hardest  day's  work  we  ever 
Mt  ^boot,"  said  Proctor,  taking  the  cue  from 
ilia  brother.  **  Won't  we  have  to  steer  a  straight 
line^  and  look  oat  for  breakers  and  snags  ?  Tm 
doobtfbl  how  we'll  succeed  at  playing  saint, 
but  it  will  be  fan,  as  Bamsey  si^s." 

"It  will  be  something  besides  play,  I  can  tell 
joa— it  will  be  riglit  down  dead  earnest,  and 
we  must  remember  and  nol  be  hatefol  and  ag- 
giavaiing  to  each  other,  as  w«  always  ore.  If 
le  foiget,  a  woid  will  eend  ns  off** 

The  entrance  of  their  father  at  this  jnnctore 
pQt  an  end  to  the  talk — such  a  one  as  the  young 
Fonjths  had  never  before^  held  among  them- 
hItci.  It  may  have  seemed  strange  and  irrev- 
enot  enough  to  yon,  but  you  moat  remember 
vhtt  these  joong  Fonjlba  wert. 


If  they  had  heard  the  nanae  of  rslijslon,  il 

had  only  been  as  a  synonyms  for  superstition 
or  hypocrisy.  They  were  used  to  their  father's 
broad  sneers  over  professors  and  parsons,  and 
they  had  vague  sort  of  notions  that  these  were 
about  equally  divided  between  mountebanks 
and  fools,  and  that  the  whole  thing  was  as  ab- 
surd as  the  grimaces  and  gesticulations  of  a 
wild  Bushman  beibre  his  fetish. 

If,  then,  in  this  vague^  groping  way,  the 
souls  of  these  boys  and  this  girl  had  awakened 
within  them  with  that  cry  for  truth  and  im- 
mortality which  will  not  be  stifled  in  the  Bonis 
He  has  mad^  God,  listening  in  His  Heaven 
above  thess,  would  not  be  critical  about  the 
words  in  which  the  cry  of  those  young  soola 
reached  to  Him. 

(lb  U  tmimwdn) 

y      /  '^  •»  // 


WAITINO. 


VI  KATBSBVSTE  EUTOSTOK  FII.EB. 


T\ABJ2!.BYSI>,  sad-^ysd,  love  hath  left  her, 
jj  Earth  no  noxe  is  hom^ 
And  she  tarries  pataentlyy 

Waiting  for  God  to  come. 
Whore  is  the  field  with  work  for  gleaner, 
Whore  the  reapers  have  not  soon  hor  f 
Whore  hath  she  not  stood,  like  Rntb, 
Bmbodimeni  of  lore  and  imtb, 
Sad-eyed,  sUeBl^  paHoit-lSpp'd, 

Waiting  fw  God  to  eoaier 

When  the  Spring  had  newly  flowered. 
And  the  April  storm-cloud  lowered. 

And  the  rain  fell  down  o'er  dale  and  town. 
When  the  long  gray  rolling  waves, 
Dimpled  like  a  land  of  graves. 
Or,  when  winds  blew  wide  at  nigh^ 
Rose  like  spectres  mad  and  whiter 
Down  the  bay  one  darkened  day, 
flailed  her  obtain  Ua  away. 

How  the  winds  ooteried  and  orled, 

Doloroesly,  out-cried  and  sighed. 
Moaned  through  all  the  kirkyard  trees, 
Moaned  o'er  all  the  lowland  leas, 
Moaned  across  the  raging  seas. 

Till  the  spectres  of  the  waves, 

Rose  from  their  unquiet  graves ! 

Lone  upon  the  elift  of  Skye, 
Watched  she  with  palm-shadow'd  eye, 
Holding  close  her  wind-tossed  shawl. 
Heedless  of  the  ratn's  Ueak  fUI, 
Oaring  nanght  how  wet  and  cold 
Beat  the  sleet  on  leeks  of  geld  y 


Anguish,  woe,  within  her  fhos^ 
Anguish  in  the  passionate  graee 
Of  white  hands  clasped  as  though  they  grasped 
One  waning  hope  that  he  would  stay. 

Flowers  of  Summer  come. 

And  flowers  of  Fall, 

The  forests  echo  to  the  thrush's  call. 

The  sweet  alyssum  grows,  the  autumn-rose^ 
The  amaranths  cluster  'neath  the  cypress  trees^ 

Immortal  in  their  purity ; 
In  stagnant  pools  the  fleur-de-les 
Shake  out  their  bloomless  growth  to  every  breete. 

And  oriflasMMS  lottSMl  warm  Ootoher^  throne 

Of  acomed*eak  or  seek  bave  grown. 

Now  over  mount  and  plain  the  blighting  feet 
Of  fierce  November  speed,  with 'wind  and  sleet. 
And  banners  of  sere  leaves  drape  aU  the  dales; 
The  fields  put  off  their  summer  veils 
Of  emerald,  besprent  with  dew  and  buds; 
ChiUed  is  the  resUess  pulse  of  sweeping  floods ; 
E'en  mortal  hearts  are  saddened  and  grown  eold* 
With  shndderihg  naitnre,  bare  and  eld. 

Oh,  the  midnight! 
Ah,  the  midnight ! 
^  Dark,  and  wild,  and  bleak  on  ocean, 
When  the  billows,  wrathful,  whiter 
To  the  angry  winds  outozying. 
To  the  wild-winds'  shrieking,  sighing^ 
-  Kept  tempestous  motion  I 


Out  vpon  the  sea  at  night, 
FnU  in  sight  o'  the  city's  lights 


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ARTHUR'S   LADTB  SOME   MAGAZINE. 


Joflt  IB  Tfow  o' the  MUov^a  hffiB% 

Where  one  waited  for  bim  to  oomi^ 

Hi«  through  life,  for  woe  or  weal. 

Stood  the  oaptain  at  the  wheel. 

Steering  on,  outside  the  baj, 

Shrouded  by  the  eleet-like  w^r%j, 

That  wrapped  him  round  from  head  to  fee^ 

Ooean's  chilliest  windiDg-sheet. 

Hark !  the  lig&al  gun  again, 
The  eohoing  017  of  matee  in  pain ; 
And  again—and  all  in  Tain  I 
The  wreokem  watoh  on  the  distant  «hon^ 
Helpleu  to  aave;  the  harsh  waves  roar 
In  sharp  derision  and  in  hate^ 
Mook  with  fingers  o'  sternest  fate ! 
Just  in  sight  o'  the  eity's  light, 
And  the  beacon  biasing  bright, 
Where  fishwlTes,  weather-worn  and  brown, 
Pray  as  the  ship  goes  down  I 

One  short,  sharp  struggle  in  the  waves, 
One«fleroe,  mad  struggle  in  the  waves. 
That  oover  many  nameless  graves, 

One  wailed  outcry  'gainst  destiny. 
Then  <'  God  \"  out-thunderod  o'er  the  sea  I 
"  God— Mary !"  and  the  wUd  waves  sweep 
Him  downward,  forward,  aye,  asleep ! 
Now  take  him,  death,  all  tenderly 
Unto  thy  breast;  one  loved  him  well,  and  she 
Bits  in  the  phantomed  midnight  all  alone 
And  uttereth  low  her  dolorous  moan. 

Oh,  sin-repenting  waves  I  weep  over  him— aye, 

weep. 
E'en  thoagh  your  penitence  too  late 
Hath  oome  t'avert  such  fate ! 
Eiss  the  long  floating  tresses  of  his  hair. 
And  let  thy  wet  tears  on  his  forehead  bsdre^ 
Tremble  in  agony  of  pain, 
Since  done,  death  cannot  be  nndonciagain. 

Unkn  the  morn— a  morning  golden 
As  Heaven's  portals  were  nnfofden. 
And  reftilgence  of  bright  Paradise 
Pouring  forth,  illumin'd  all  the  skies. 
Stormless,  waveless,  all  the  bay 
Rippling,  whimpUng,  in  the  sunshine  lay. 
Shimmering,  a  sea  of  scintillant  gold. 

On  the  beaohev'  sheU-liu'd  leaehet 

JCaay  a  foim  lay  c<rfd. 
Many  a  oadeneed  voice  was  still. 
Many  a  heart  no  more  would  thrill 
In  the  old  impulsive  fashion. 

Mad  with  hate,  or  bitterness  at  wrongs 
Or  mirth,  or  love's  ecstatic  passion ; 

Laughter,  gall,  or  pain,  or  song, 
What  e'er  God  doth  give  of  gfood  or  evil. 

Nevermore  their  lyres  of  life  prolong; 
Joy  they  no  more,  and  no  more  do  they  cavil. 

Across  the  harbor,  where  the  sunshine  shifted. 
On  the  half-ftirring  and  half-^uiet  ripples, 


A  bs^fcen  spM  iMieafth  the  daylight  drilled ; 
Twas  freighted  with  most  preoions  Ikeight  te 

one^ 
Who,  on  the  beach,  ere  rise  of  sun. 
Had  flitted  'mong  the  wreckers,  looking  oft 
Upon  the  dead,  with  eyes  tear-wet,  and  soft 
Low  voice  of  music  thrilled  .with  pain. 
That  ne'er  would  break  in  rippUngs  of  mixtk 

agftin. 

BeanttAd,0obeaiittfU 
Looked  he,  in  his  quiet  death, 
Like  a  sea- god  Told  of  breath. 

Nor  yet  dead,  bat  like  to  waka 
To  her  kisses,  to  her  tears 

Propped  for  his  sake  J 

Stood  she  long  Inanimate^ 

Garing,  while  her  brain  was  reeling— heart  VM 
bleeding, 
Looking  at  his  pallid  fiwe. 
At  his  form  of  stalwart  grace. 
At  the  grandeur,  love,  despair,  within  his  fae^ 
Cried  aloud  to  God,  and  turned  away 
In  ashen-lipp'd  despair  that  could  not  pray: 

Then,  with  fierce,  impassioned  pleading. 
Knelt  beside  him,  bent  above  him — 
Ah,  poor  heart,  well  dids't  thou  lo^e  him  I— 
And  the  anguish'd  tears  dropped  over 
On  the  white  lips  of  her  lover. 
Oh,  her  kisses  I  her  caresses. 

Sobbings  low  his  form  above ! 
Oh,  her  quivering  cry  of  pleading, 

«  Wake !  my  love— my  love  V 

Silver-haired  and  slow  of  foo^ 
Soothing-kind  to  hearts  aweary. 
Solace,  when  life's  day  is  dreary. 
Sad  of  face,  which  Christian  grace    • 
Delicately,  sweetly  doth  illumine. 
Queen  of  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity; 
God  hath  left  her  here  to  be 
Unto  souls  in  misery. 
Love,  when  love  seems  lost  forever; 
Hope^  that  bleak  despair  would  sever 
From  the  spirit  In  its  pain ; 
Crown'd  in  nobility 
With  most  holy  charity. 
Like  an  aiq^el  she,  in  shape  itill  hnnun 
Strengthened,  tender,  God's  true  typo  of 

Sad-eyed,  patient,  sweet  of  fao«^ 
Lingering  like  the  last  star's  ray 
In  the  flush  of  dawning  day, 
Almost  like  a  seraph  here, 
Heaven  is  so  near,  so  near  t 
Heaven,  and  peaoe^  and  love,  and  God, 
The  crown-Hio  more  the  cross  and  rod— 

In  that  celestial  home.    • 
Ah,  Heaven  is  so  neai^--«o  near! 
A  little  time,  and  no  more  waiUng^ 

Waiting  for  God  to  < 


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TWO  BBPBBSENTATIVB  GIRLS. 


rIE  Jannaiy  Oalaxy,  among  other   good  | 
things  contains  an  article  entitled  "  Some  [ 
BeooUections  of  an  old  Woman."    It  is  one  of  ' 
die  spiciest  things  we  hare  read  lately,  and 
giTes  sOme  hard  hits  at  the  popular  outcries  of 
the  times.     We  have  not  room  for  the  whole 
artide^  but  give  the  latter  half  of  it»  in  which 
the  anthor  expresses  her  opinion  about  the 
popular  error  that  matrimony  is  becoming 
non  difficult  on  account  of  the  eztravagance 
of  women.    8be  draws  two  representative  wo- 
mb, the  one  whom  men  fancy  and  marry,  and 
Ibe  other  whom  they  do  not.    She  says : 

Ai  ibr  this  other  wail  of  the  period,  that 
Bttrimonj  has  become  impossible  by  reason 
of  the  extravagance  of  women,  that,  truly,  is 
piit  bearing. 

Thai  it  should  be  impossible  in  New  York 
is  Qoooeivable,  since  how  any  ordinary  human 
being,  possessed  of  only  an  ordinary  income, 
can  hope  to  have  there  a  fitting  shelter  over  his 
or  her  unfortunate  head  is,  to  outsiders,  an 
endless  puszle ;  but  if^  indeed,  marriage  be  a 
bopeless  good  elsewhere  throughout  the  conn* 
try,  then  it  is  so  far  more  through  masculine 
will,  ambition,  and  expensive  habits,  than 
through  the  over-dressing  and  mercenariness 
of  women.  Love  and  a  home  are  to  most  wo- 
vwn  the  only  tolerable  career — one  they  are 
sot  likely  to  forego  for  any  wilful,  barren  friv- 
olity or  vanity  whatsoever.  And  if  they  find 
it  imot  enough,  or  not  true  in  men's  eyes,  that 
"pretty  is  that  pretty  does,"  it  is,  to  be  sure,  a 
thoQsand  pities  if  they  act  on  such  knowledge; 
bat  what  will  you  ?    Is  it  not  natural  ? 

And,  after  all,  with  all  there  is  of  froth  and 
gKtter,  there  are  yet  a  plenty  of  good,  pure, 
warm-hearted,  high-minded  young  girls  left  to 
be  the  salt  of  the  earth.  Oftenest  it  is  that 
Bolnnson,  clerk,  with  a  salary  of  from  eigh- 
teen hundred  to  four  thousand  a  year,  sets  his 
aspiring  afiections  upon  Miss  Blank,  an  heiress 
dwelling  in  a  marble  palace  that  some  Besol- 
nnt,  Expectorant,  or  Bitters  has  built  and  fur- 
Biahed  forth :  very  probably  the  parental  Blank 
doesn't  smile  upon  snob  aspirations;  but  was 
there  nobody  for  Bobinscn  to  hll  in  love  with 
b  his  own  order?  No  one  among  the  ranks 
of  workers,  since  his  wife  must  lead  a  working 
life?  She  would  be  less  beruffled  and  be- 
jewelled—that goes  without  saying;  but  if  ' 
BoUnson  falls  in  love  with  rufiles  and  jewels 
and  cannot  supply  them,  ought  he  then  to  cry 


out  that  matrimony  has  become  impossible 
now-a-days,  through  the  extravagance  of  girls  ? 

Two  girls  are  at  this  moment  in  my  mind, 
both  excellent  representatives  of  two  classes  of 
women — those  who  do,  and  those  who  do  not, 
"  succeed  "  (odious  term  I  but  not  mine)  with 
men. 

Kate  MoIIvaine  is  BessiePs  old  schoolfellow 
and  friend,  and  much  in  oar  home.  She  is  a 
real  gentlemen's  beauty — a  brilHantly-eolorad 
brunette^  tall,  and  with  an  overwhelaaing 
amount  of  figure.  The  Mcllvaines  have  lost 
the  greater  part  of  their  fortune  within  tea 
years,  but  they  occupy  the  same  place  in  soci- 
ety, and  so  ftr  as  may  be,  keep  up  all  the  old 
outward  manner  of  wealth.  But,  wherever  the 
pinch  will  not  be  seen,  there  it  is  encountered. 
In  their  large  house  they  keep  but  one  servant 
yet  the  house  must  retain  the  old  look  of  oon- 
stant  care^  and  the  ladies  of  the  household  be 
at  leisure  and  presentable  on  any  oceasioD.  Of 
course,  something  had  to  be  dropped  some- 
where, and  dainty  neatness,  delicacy  in  triilea^ 
the  indescribable  subtle  exquisiteness  of  a 
thorough  lady's  person  and  surroundings,  are 
lacking  in  the  Mclivaiue  ladies  and  their 
home. 

Kate  knows  where  and  how  to  buy  cheaply 
and  efiectively,  and  all  manner  of  inexpensive, 
under-oover  dodges  to  seem  without  being. 
Nature  bestowed  upon  her  but  the  merest  wisp 
of  hair,  yet  nobody  so  artfully  adds  braids^ 
puflb,  ringlets^  iiisses,  or  chsnges  from  one  to 
another  with  such  bewildering  rapidity.  The 
most  startling  hats  and  bonnets,  the  widest 
(and  flimsiest)  sashes,  the  bunchiestpaniers^in 
the  days  of  those  hoop-skirts  fitly  ydeped  ''de- 
moraUaeis,"  those  most  audaoious  in  volume 
and  tilt— in  short,  the  most  advanced  fashions 
of  the  hour  seem  far  more  a  part  of  Kate^s 
real  self  than  do  her  bonny  looks,  Ood-given. 

If  costly  etceteras  of  spotless  gloves^  soft 
laces,  good  textnree,  and  substantiality  are 
wanting  to  the  outward  toilet,  it  is  so  very, 
very  much  worse  beneath  I  The  curves  olf 
those  olive  arms  and  shoulders  and  that  mag- 
nificent bust  are  beautiful  to  look  upon  now, 
whatever  they  will  be  by  and  by ;  but  soil, 
dilapidation,  and  utter  carelessness  are  hardly 
to  be  pardoned  in  the  eyes  of  a  feminine  be- 
holder. 

Kate  usually  comes  to  us  for  a  month*s  or 
fortnight's  stay  each  summer  while  we  are  out 

(IW) 


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168 


A  B  THUS' a   LADY'S   MO  ME   MAGAZINE. 


of  town,  her  sole  wardrobe  for  that  period  oon- 
tained  iu  the  large  hand-satchel  whieh  k  the 
onlj  luggage  she  ever  brings — the  contents 
tlmeof  much  afler  this  order :  A  box  of  what 
for  jewels;  a  box  of  ialse  hair,  (like 


that 

Cbanning  Miss  Cox 
Who  had  no  hair  on  her  head. 
Bat  carried  her  looks 
Aboat  in  a  box» 
■'For  such  is  the  fiwhion,**  she  said;) 

thcee  or  four  tremendout  seshet  and  neokties ; 
ft  white  jacket;  two  eilk  oTenkirte,  pink  and 
lamet ;  a  poflfed  t«Ile  bod/  with  roeebuda;  two 
koed  pocket  handkerchieib ;  sUppera^  fancy- 
vovk»  and,  if  there  is  room,  stookings.  All  tJbe 
oifaer  manifold  belongings  of  a  fresh  aammer 
toilet  IhaA  a  laandreti  knows  to  her  sorrow — 
**  While  skirts  and  things^  70a  know,  I  depend 
on  70a  for,  Bess  V 

It  moat  be  the  warm  heart  that  ia  Kate's  hy 
light  of  her  Irish  lineage^  that  makes  and 
keeps  for  her  Irienda  among  women,  haad  aa 
they  find  it  to  enduie  the  untidiness^  the  deoeita 
and  sponging  exactions^  the  worldlinem  that 
her  life  haa  almool  forced  upon  her ;  but  how 
immenselj  and  nniTenally  she  is  admired 
ameog  gentlemen  1  And  she  declares  frankly 
that  thiaadmiratbn  is  the  very  breath  of  life 
to  her ;  aa  irankly  that  she  doesn't  belieye  at 
all  in  love,  money  being  the  sole  essetitial  in 
this  life;  that  if  she  hasn't  married  (though 
I'm  sure  she  might  almost  deolare  with  the 
Newport  Quaker  belle  of  ''  The  Beroluaoo," 
"Sir,  I've  refused  thirty  ofiers  from  thia  very 

~tl")  it  ia  because  no  pretender  yet  haa  poa- 
1  a  fortune  adequate  to  her  needa ;  that  it 
ian't  00911/brt  she  deaina,  but  splendor,  the  power 
to  gieli^  any  magnlfieent  whim  that  may  aeiae 
her.  For  myself,  I  don't  doubt  that  ahe  will 
pomem  the  establiahment  ahe  oravea— black 
^yea,  red  oheeksy  and  superabundant  figure 
being  a  combination  against  which  moat  men 
are  wholly  defeoceleBs. 

Hy  other  representotive  woman  ia  a  alender. 
Mm,  brown-eyed  girl,  thinner  and  paler  than 
ahe  ought  to  be,  about  aa  old  aa  Kate^  twenty- 
aiz,  and  a  aewing*machine  operator.  She  waa 
aent  to  our  house  to  teach  Beasie  the  myateriea 
of  her  new  Willoox  A  Gibbs,  and  it  waa  ia  onr 
aewing-room  that  I  saw  her  first  Her  pleaa* 
ant,  oultivated  voice,  and  suave,  and  perfect 
manner  attracted  my  nottoe  at  once^  and  the 
thorougbnem  irith  which  she  understood  her 
business,  her  apt,  clear  way  in  explaining  and 
illustrating,  delighted  me.  ''  Here,"  I  said  to 
myself  "is  a  nice  little  girl  who  ia  a  lady, 
akilled  in  her  work,  and  bright  and  eager  about 


it ;  not  getting  the  time  off  in  an  injured,  aalky, 
slip-shod  fashion,  waiting  for  Atm  to  come  along 
and  lift  her  out  of  'such  drudgery.'  O  Misi 
Anthony  I  'tis  such  girls  as  this  you  ne«d  for 
samples,  and  not  personfl  who  choose,  say  pork- 
packing,  for  an  occupation;  who  coif  them- 
aelves  in  men's  hata,  whisk  them  off  and  on  ea 
genHUumme,  and  attitudinise  in  photographs 
all  over  the  oountry." 

I  waa  more  and  more  pleased  with  oar  eew- 
ing-machine  operator  as  I  observed  her  ia 
aubaequent  lessons,  and  grew  quite  anziooa  to 
know  somewhat  of  the  history  I  waa  aoce  dbe 
had.  While  I  hesitated,  not  liking  to  aak  a 
direct^  awkward  question,  it  befell  that  the  last 
lesson  arrived,  and  during  its  progreaa  the  pale 
teaoher'a  face  grew  suddenly  paler,  and  but  for 
a  hindering  grasp  she  would  have  fiillei^  foint* 
ing,  over  the  machine. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me,"  ahe  aaid 
aome  time  after,  having  recovered  a  Teiy  vi- 
comfortable  consciousness ;  *'  I  never  behaved 
like  this  before^  but  I  have  been  sufiering  all 
day  with  nervous  headaches,  and  everything 
swam  about  and  grew  dark  then.  I  heard  aeme 
very  dreadful  news  thia  morning  that  prevented 
my  taking  any  breakfast,  and  I've  been  on  my 
feet  all  day  since.  I  suppose  tliat  cansed 
my  headache.  I  ahall  be  able  to  go  on  di- 
rectly." 

"You  poor  child  I"  I  said,  ''you  are  not 
going  on  another  inch  to-day.  You  are  goii^ 
to  have  some  toast  and  tea,  and  then  lie  down 
till  you  are  fit  to  go  home."  She  was  obstinate 
that  she  would  finish  her  day's  labor,  hot  I 
have  age  to  back  my  obstinacy,  so  she  was 
presently  settled  upon  a  lonnge  in  my  room, 
made  comfortable  in  one  of  my  dressing-gowns. 
A  lady  all  through-^everythiug  good  of  iU 
kind,  and  nieely  made  and  purely  kept  aa  for 
a  princess- wearer.  Pretty,  too^  with  enchant- 
ing dimples  in  the  too-pale  cheeks^  the  diaord- 
ered  hair  foiling  into  soft  brown  riaiga  about 
her  forehead. 

It  was  easier  after  awhile  to  ask  her  what  I 
wished,  and  she  told  me  about  herselfl 

Her  fother  had  been  the  principal  of  a  bc^ 
school,  but  had  died  when  she^  the  oldest  child, 
waa  but  sixteen,  leaving  four  children  younger 
than  herself,  and,  next  to  nothing  to  provide' 
for  their  needa.  Her  mother  had  taken  a  plaes 
as  matron  in  a  ooUege,  keeping  her  children 
with  her;  she  herself  had  gone  immediately  to 
learn  what  was  then  novel  work — aewing  upon 
a  machine ;  and  after  two  years  more  of  atady 
her  oldest  brother  had  decided  to  learn  to  be  a 
printer.    So  the  three  struggled  to  educate  the 


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TWO    BEFBE8ENTAT1VB    GIEL8. 


169 


others— "You  koov  we  could  not  letfkther's 
children  be  bo  ignorant  110  to  shame  his 
memory."  The  task  was  alnx)at  over  now. 
''M/ second  b2X)ther  graduated  at  the  Poly* 
technic  in  the  summer,  and  was  engaged,  before 
he  graduated^  to  go  to  northern  Kew  York ; 
and  there  he  is  now,  learning  his  business 
pnc^Uy,  camping  out  and  roughing  it  gen- 
eralfy,  hat  in  the  best  of  health  and  apirils. 
XUs  kH  spring  ve  took  n  good  iioiiM  in  lin- 
dn  SCnet,  broog^t  mother  away  from  the 
eolfege^  and  H«len,  wlio  has  been  studying  and 
teaching  at  Mme.  M/s  for  two  years,  has  the 
Int  floor  for  a  school  fbr  little  children.  She 
began  in  September  with  twenty,  and  has  now 
thirty -two.  Even  Fan,  onr  baby,  who's  trying 
to  \\ll  herself  at  the  School  of  Design,  has 
begun  to  earn  something,  and  we  feel  as  if  the 
baldest  is  orec  It  isn't  too  difficult  £Mr  ns  all 
together  to  keep  up  the  home^  and  we  duoy  it 
M  if  ve  ]Mi4  new  had  one.'' 

^'And  has  it  ba«i  all  work  and  no  play  all 
tbflss  years?' 

*0h,  no!  Father  had  a  share  in  the  Mer- 
cantile Library  and  was  a  member  of  the  P. 
TiBtitQte.  The  books  and  the  lectures  have 
been  a  great  deal  to  us.  Then  you  know,  in  a 
great  city  like  this,  even  poor  people  like  our- 
selves can  see  pictures  and  hear  musio.  The 
best  thing  haa  been  that  every  summer  either 
the  students  at  college  or  some  of  papa's  old 
hieadft— we'va  ne^er  known  certainly  which — 
have  sent  mamma  an  envelope  marked  '  For 
Xhl  Barrington's  sommer  rest,'  asid  eontain* 
log  a  hundred-dollar  Mil.  This  has  given  her 
•Iways  six  or  seven  weeks  at  Deal,  Mllford,  or 
the  Water  Pass,  and  turn  and  turn  about  we 
have  had  our  little  vacations  with  her.  All 
except  me — I  get  a  longer  holiday  than  the 
othen.  My  swifl-flying  tongue,  I  suppose, 
long  ago  procured  for  me  mj  especial  work  in 
the  shop  to  sell  the  machines  and  teach  buyers 
bow  to  nsa  them«  Evfiy  &11  after  harvest  a 
(Kat  Many  maohinas  are  sent  to  the  country, 
board  is  taken  for  me,  and  I  go  frcaa  fimaer's 
toftnner^s  explaining  and  doing  my  beet  to 
nake  them  find  the  busy  things  indispensable. 
The  country  is  just  then  at  its  pleasantest  ibr 
me;  I  am  necessarily  a  great  deal  in  the  open 
sir;  and  if  I  were  a  fine  lady  with  nothing  to 
do,  I  could  not  enjoy  it  more  heartily.*' 

"Probably  not  half  as  heartily,  mj  dear 
child.  But  suppose  one  of  you  had  wished  to 
uanyf  I  weni  on  like  a  very  dismal  old 
nveb. 

She  hesitatad,  then  answered  me^  laiighing 
ndUvshiag^  ''I  iio|iait|saot<}nltain^NMsi- 


ble  that  some  of  us  will  be  married  one  of  these 
days.  Jt  will  only  be  that  mother  will  have 
several  iu>mes  instead  of  one.  It  is  not  as  if 
we  were  indifferent  toward  one  another ;  we 
have  so  many  reasons  for  loving  each  ether 
very,  very  dearly !  My  oldest  brother  will  be 
married  some  time  next  year,  if  all  goes  well. 
The  young  lady  is  quite  an  heiress  to  people 
like  ns,  but  so  frank  and  good  that  we  hava 
got  over  being  troahled  aboot  her  money." 

''And  yonrselfr'  I  asked.  <'Has  no  man 
had  eyes  in  his  head  to  discern  even  half  of 
what  I  do  ?" 

She  blushed  more  brightly  still :  **T  have 
been  engaged  eight  years,  and  some  one  has 
tried  to  wait  patiently  during  the  last  four 
years.  He  was  an  old  pupil  of  my  father's^ 
and  is  professor  now  in  a  Western  university." 

''£ight  years  I  why^  the  man  deserves  to 
nmk  among  the  Immortals  1  And  how  much 
longer  will  you  need  to  make  kim  do  withanl 
a  wife?"    . 

'^I  baldly  know;  hfot  liHla  Fan  nnst  get 
fairly  upon  her  feet  first.  It  is  only  very 
lately  that  I  have  dared  begin  to  think  of  it, 
ev^n.  When  I  fall  in  a  brown  study  now  at 
home,  they  tease  me:  'Constance  is  putting 
ihaJL  library  to  rights,  or  deciding  about  her 
carpets.'  Mother  is  so  good  about  it^  and  is 
working  away  as  busily  for  me  as  if  I  were  to 
be  married  directly.  But  I  am  not;  it  would 
be  too  selfish  of  me  to  run  away  just  at  the  last, 
and  I  shall  wait  till  I  am  oertain  not.to  be 
missed    aave  in  their  lova." 

(I  hope  no  one  thitdes'Twas.  idly  carious. 
It  was  simply  that  I,  in  my  elderly  pilgrim 
ftshion,  had  Ihllen  in  love  with  this  brave 
young  sister-wayfarer,  and  earnestly  cared  to 
know  what  she  would  tell  me.  She  honored 
me  by  returning  my  liking,  haslsince  then  been 
my  guest  many  times;  and  though  I  notice  that 
gentlemen  pay  her  but  slight  attention,  and 
speak  of  her  as  "  that  quiet  Miss  Barrington," 
yet  I  am  satisfied  that  her  professor,  whose  ac- 
qoaintanoe  I  was  glad  to  make,  thinkn,  with 
me^  that  hero  is  a  Oonstanee  deserving  aU  noo* 

•tM<7-)  B.  MB  M. 


Lovs  is  the  soul,  the  life,  and  animating 
principle  of  truth ;  and  so  far  only  as  there  is 
good  in  truth,  so  far  only  there  is  life  in  it. 


To  be  faithful  to  the  present  moment,  hoar, 
day,  and  its  state,  is  a  moat  weighty  matter, 
and  demands  man'a  most  sanqos  consideration. 


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IL.A.Y  SERMONS. 


NOT  FOB  OURSELVES  ALONE. 

^  \  LITTLE  iwndlse !"  Mid  Mr.  Baldwin  to  hli 
XjL  friend  Law«on>  at  they  sat  in  th«  piacsa  of 
•a  «legant  rabnrban  residenoey  tbo  ample  pronnda 
of  whioli  were  as  beaatifiil  as  art  and  natiit«  eonid 
laake  them.  '*  A  man  of  taste  and  leisure  might  be 
•onteai  to  pass  his  life  here." 

"It  is  all  I  desire/'  answered  Mr.  Lawson.  "I 
ameotttent" 

'*  Ton  do  not  feel  the  deep,  heayy,  and  inoessaat 
throbs  ot  the  world's  great  heart  ?" 

"No." 

**  Its  higli  ambitions  do  not  tempt  yon?'* 

"No." 

"Ton  eare  neither  for  its  praise  nor  its  blame?" 

"No;  why  shonld  If  All  is  vanity  and  vezt- 
Hen  of  spirit  on  the  ontdde,  and  tranqnil  ease 
within.  By  the  blessing  of  Ood,  I  hare  ample 
means;  and  I  will  show  my  thankfulness  Vy  enjoy- 
ing them  as  becomes  a  rational  being."' 

The  friend  did  not  reply. 

After  a  long  paose,  Mr.  Lawson  said :  "  Am  I  not 
right?" 

"  In  what  r  asked  the  friend. 

"In  being  oontent  to  enjoy  the  good  things  I 
possess." 

**  Enjoyment  is  not  the  all-in-all  of  Ufe,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Baldwin. 

"What  then,  I  pray?  All  men  seek  happiness. 
Borne  place  it  in  one  thing  and  some  in  another; 
bat  all  are  striving  after  the  possession  of  what 
tkej  tkink  will  bring  happiness.  Now  I  have  the 
IUmss  of  my  desire." 

"  I  trust  not.  Ton  are  capable  of  lugher  things 
than  gardening  and  hortiooltnre." 

''I  am  not  ambitious  of  fame/'  answered  Mr. 
Lawson.  "I  understand  human  nature  well  enough 
to  know  what  the  world's  applause  is  worth.  It 
does  not  pay  for  the  effort." 

"And  you  are  oontent  to  let  the  high  mental 
qualities  given  you  by  God  lie  dormant?" 

Mr.  Lawson  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  re- 
plied :  "  I  don't  know  that  I  am  gifted  besrond  the 
■UMS  of  men.  I  am  not  eonseious  of  the  high 
mental  qualities  to  whioh  you  refer.  At  any  rate, 
I  see  no  oooasion  to  put  forth  unusuol  effort  It 
does  not  require  the  athlelie's  trained  strength  to 
hold  a  pruning-knife^  or  to  walk  over  my  pleasant 
grounds." 

"  You  live  only  for  yourself.** 

"For  myself,  my  firiends,  and  my  neighbors," 
said  Mr.  Lawson,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "We 
cannot  stand  alone  in  this  world.  No  one  knows 
that  better  than  I  do.  God  has  given  me  many 
good  things,  and  I  trust  that  I  shall  never  be  utterly 
selfish  in  my  m^oyment  of  than." 
(170) 


"  You  will  grow  weaiy  of  this  inactive  life,"  aaid 
the  friend.  "  You  are  not  making  the  best  of  yoor- 
self ;  and  when  this  ft  so,  a  sort  of  mental  stagna- 
tion is  sure  to  come,  sooner  or  later.  St^^dily 
pressing  In  upon  your  spiritual  organisation,  there 
is  a  living  foroe  that  must  be  taken  and  used  mm  it 
comes,  or  it  will  congest  and  inflame  all  your  inner 
man.  This  force  is  stronger  with  you  than  H  i« 
with  your  gardener,  and  impels  you  to  higher  aetivi- 
ties.  He  may  spend  his  life  in  planting,  training 
and  pruning,  enjoying  the  days  and  having  nights 
of  tranquil  rest;  but  you  cannot  so  spend  yoaM 
and  long  be  content  To  society  is  due  the  best 
that  is  in  a  man,  and  if  it  is  not  given,  hoth  must 
suffer  loss." 

"  Your  philosophie  eondnsion ;  not  a  social  and 
moral  law." 

"A  social  and  monl  law,"  replied  the  IHend, 
"working  to  as  exact  a  result  as  any  law  of  nature." 

"  I  do  not  see  it  so,"  answered  Mr.  Lawson,  a 
perceptible  change  in  his  manner,  as  though  some 
unpleasant  convictions  were  intruding  themself e^ 

Before  any  further  remark  was  made,  a  gentle- 
man was  seen  coming  up  the  walk  toward  the 
pia»a  on  which  the  friends  were  sitting. 

"Ah  I  there  is  my  neighbor  Blanohard,  one  of 
the  best  men  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Lawson.  "Always 
trying  to  do  good.  If  he  were  only  oontent  with 
his  own  doing,  some  of  us  would  like  him  better. 
But,  the  fact  is,  he's  always  getting  more  on  his 
hands  than  he  can  attend  to,  and  always  lookmg 
out  for  some  one  to  help  him.  He's  got  sometfaiBg 
on  the  tapis  now,  I'll  warrant  yon.'' 

And  so  he  had. 

"Mr.  LawsoD,"  said  the  visitor,  after  he  was 
introduced  to  Mr.  Baldwin  and  a  few  friendly 
words  had  been  interchanged,  "  I  want  to  interest 
you  a  little  more  in  our  Farm  Sehool.  You  hare 
given  liberally  for  its  establishment;  but  we  want 
from  you  something  more  than  money — ^we  want 
your  active  personal  interest  You  have  leisure,  a 
olear  head,  good  health,  and  woiking  energy. 
With  your  help,  we  can  make  this  institntion  the 
means  of  saving  hundreds  of  poor,  neglected,  out- 
oast  boys,  who  have  now  none  to  care  for  tbea^ 
and  who,  without  help  and  care,  must  go  to  almost 
inevitable  nun." 

There  came  no  flush  of  generous  humanity  into 
the  face  of  Mr.  Lawson;  but  something  oold  and 
rejecting.  He  answered :  "  I  am  not  your  maa, 
Mr.  Blanohard.  As  a  rule,  I  keep  myself  olear  of 
these  charitable  associations.  Thoy  involve  one  in 
an  endless  series  of  worrying  and  thankless  oflioet. 
I  will  give  my  money,  but  I  cannot  give  my  tims 
or  personal  services.  You  will  have  to  get  sons 
one  who  likes  the  honor  and  eclat  better  than  I  do." 

A  shada  of  disappointnont  crossed  the  fsoe  of 


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LAY  BE  M  MO  MB. 


171 


<,  Wt  he  had  tM  dM^ly  at  hMit  the 
lof  the  Vara  0ehool  to  let  the  matter  rest 

**  Yo«  hare  been  aleeted  a  nanager/'  he  laid. 

"I  an  fORj  for  that,"  ^eklj  nplled  Mr.  Law* 
ion.  **  Theie  things  are  a  bother.  I  have  no  taite 
tor  thaai.  Ton  moat  pnt  iOiae  one  eiee  in  mj 
ptoM." 

"1  hardfy  think/'  nid  the  neighbor,  ''that  yon 
will  lennallj  deeMna  to  aerre  on  looh  a  plea." 
And  hie  ealm  eyea  veeted  for  a  moment  or  two  in 
thmi  of  Laweou'e. 

Mr.  Laweon  nndnretood  him»  and  was  fUent 

"  Tea  wiU  aoeept»  of  eovse^"  laid  Mr.  Bhmohaid. 

"I  wish  yon  wonld  find  some  one  elae,"  replied 
Unon.  "  There  aia  a  doien  men  in  our  neighbor- 
totd  who  wfll  TCBder  yea  a  far  more  eOeient  mt- 
liMthanlpoeiibiyean.'' 

"He;  We  have  talked  all  that  over.  We  want 
yp%  and  lor  a  i|»eelal  pnipeee." 

«What?" 

"To  flU  the  oflM  of  treararer." 

"That  I  poaltiyaly  deellne,"  ndd  Mr.  LawMW. 

«Oh,no." 

"Tei.  In  thin  I  rimU  remain  firm.  TieamMr! 
net  woaU  take  ma  hito  a  world  of  eare,  perplexity, 
•adeuwyaneew" 

''Not  neoeeaarUy,"  replied  Mr.  Blanohavd.  "We 
«e>t  a  man  fbr  this  podtien  in  whom  we  ean  tniBt 
iaplidllyt.  Soma  forty  or  ifty  thoumnd  dollars 
via  pam  throngh  the  treaenrer'e  handf  in  the 
Mene  of  the  next  year,  and  we  maot  look  to  ita 
•ifirty.    Ton  are  onr  man,  Mr.  Laweon." 

"I  eennot  be  had  for  any  meh  oiftee,"  wae  irmly 


Md  to  thia  dedaraaon  Mr.  Lawwrn  adhered. 
Mo  aigament  or  penwaeion  eeold  indaee  him  to 
give  ap  the  eaee  and  oomfort  that  were  eo  pleaeant, 
wd  inrolre  hfamelf  in  pnblio  eares  and  reeponei* 
^i^tim^  Bren  tbe  position  of  a  manager  he  veftned 
toeeeapt 

"It  it  of  no  nae,"  he  said  to  his  friend,  after  the 
arighboT  had  gone  away;  "they  oannot  Inreigle 
At  into  any  of  their  troublesome  scbemea.  Trea- 
*«er,  indeed !  That  was  a  cool  proposition  I  They 
most  find  some  one  who  has  more  taste  for  oash- 
^hs  and  aooonnt-keeping  than  I  hare.  My 
|«nois  don't  mn  in  that  direction.  The  school  is 
e  good  thing,  and  I  am  ready  to  give  all  I  can ; 
^  ts  to  going  into  its  management,  that  is  another 
»^i  altogether." 

^  7«er  afterward,  Mr.  Lawson  sat  with  his  Mend 
ia  the  piaaaa  of  his  elegant  residenoe,  and  looked 
^n  the  ample  gionnds  that  were  still  as  beantifol 
**  <>Mte  coald  maka  ttem ;  bnt  his  eonntenanee  did 
***  *«er  the  old  look  of  eootentment. 

*Has  Om  year  brongfat  yon  its  promlae  of  tran- 
^  pteeer  asked  the  friend. 
"  No,"  was  the  almost  bitter  reeponae. 
"  Paaee  of  mind  never  eomee  to  those  who  seek 
^  «•  an  end  of  life,"  said  the  friend.    "  Happiness 

^  »  Nsalt,  aoTor  an  aehieToment." 


"  I  do  not  understand  yon,"  was  replied. 

"Peace  of  mind  is  the  blessing  God  gires  to 
those  who  do  the  work  He  sets  before  them.  The 
poet  understood  this  when  he  said : 

*  Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose.' 
The  sleep  of  labor  is  sweet.** 

Mr.  Lawson  drew  a  long  sigh. 

His  friend  went  on :  "  If  you  had  gone  into  the 
management  of  this  Farm  School  last  year,  and 
undertaken  the  control  of  its  finances,  I  am  sure 
yon  wonld  be  a  happier  man  to-day  than  yon 
are." 

At  the  words  "Farm  School,"  a  deep  Hush  and  a 
look  of  disquietude  came  into  Mr.  Lawson's  fhce. 

"By  the  way,  what  of  thU  whoolf"  asked  Mr. 
Baldwin. 

Lawson  shook  his  head. 

''Not  successful?" 

"Wo." 

"Why  not  r 

"They  haye  lost  nearly  all  their  fonds." 

"How  so?" 

"Their  treasurer  prored  both  incompetent  and 
dishonest  I  could  hare  told  them  as  much  when 
they  elected  him.  If  I  had  been  on  the  board,  he 
wonld  hare  been  black-balled.^ 

"  Why  were  you  not  on  the  board  ?" 

Mr.  Lawson  remained  silent  for  some  moments, 
and  then  replied :  "  I  was  to  blame  in  my  refusal 
to  become  a  member.  But  I  knew  that  it  would 
inyolve  me  in  care  and  work  wholly  uncongenial, 
and  I  shrunk  from  the  task.  If  I  had  gone  in,  the 
school  to-day  would  hare  the  guardianship  of  men 
than  a  hundred  boys^  instead  of  the  twenty  it  is 
barely  able  to  support.  And  this  troubles  me.  I 
nannot  get  it  out  of  my  thoughts.  Something  fs 
all  the  while  telling  me  that  I  am  responsible  for 
the  loes  and  the  wrong  inTolred." 

"The  Toiee  of  oonseience  speaking  in  your  soul, 
my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Baldwin.  "Do  not  try  to 
shot  your  ears,  but  Hsten  and  obey  its  suggeetions. 
It  is  your  soul's  best  friend.  What  more  does  it 
say?" 

"If  I  am  really  responsible,  as  I  fear  that  I  am, 
for  this  loss  of  funds,  am  I  not  bound  in  Justice  to 
make  the  loss  good  f  That  is  the '  what  more '  this 
inner  Toioe  is  sajring." 

At  this  moment  Mn  Blanohard  was  seen  ap- 
proaching from  the  road. 

"  He  is  oomtng  to  see  me  about  the  school,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Laweon. 

"  Oo-operate  with  him  In  all  possible  ways ;  and, 
my  word  for  it,  you  will  be  a  far  happier  man  bn 
this  day  twelve  months  than  yon  are  bow,"  said 
the  friend. 

"  If  I  can  I  will,"  was  answered. 

Mr.  Blanohard  oame  at  once  to  the  object  of  his 
Tisit. 

"Something  must  be  done,  and  that  speedily,  or 
ewr  school  will  hava  to  be  abaadonad,"  he  said. 

"  Oh !  no ;  yon  must  not  think  of  giving  it  ^i" 


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172 


AETEUM'8  LADJ'M  MOMM   MAQAZINE. 


replied  Mr.  Lawioiiy  with  eontidermble  eurneftaeM 
of  manner.    **  Let  the  something  be  done." 

**  We  hftve  again  pat  juu  on  the  board  of  mana- 
gers,'^ said  Mr.  Blanohard. 

**  Very  well,  I  accept  and  will  do  mj  best  to  help 
yon." 

Mr.  Blanehard's  ft^e  brightened  as  he  replied: 

'^  Yoor  best  will  be  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Lawsoa.  I 
would  rather  see  yon  on  the  board,  and  your  heart 
in  our  work,  than  any  other  three  men  in  the 
neighborhood." 

«  You  overestimate  my  service,"  said  Mr.  Law- 
son,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaotion  be  could  not  disguiae. 

"  No ;  I  have  always  regarded  you  as  the  man 
on  whom,  above  aU  others^  the  success  of  our  school 
depends;  and  I  oaonot  tell  yon  how  disappoiBted 
and  discouraged  I  was  when  you  refused  to  act  with 
us  a  year  ago.  God  has  given  yeu  not  only  the 
means  of  doing  good,  but  has  endowed  you  with 
certain  mental  qualities  that  are  essential  in  the 
organiiation  and  successful  establishment  of  agveat 
charity  like  this  aqrlum  and  school  for  neglected 
and  outcast  children.  If  you  give  beart  and  hand 
to  the  work,  we  may  yet  ancceedr~lf  you  do  pet,  I 
despair." 

'<  You  shall  have  heart,  and  hand^  and  monay. 
All  that  I  am  able  to  do  I  wm  do.  Can  I  aa^ 
more?" 

Mr.  Blanohard  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it 
warmly. 

''  You  make  my  heart  light  agidn !"  he  exclaimed. 

"What  is  the  exact  sum  that  has  been  lost 
through  this  miserable  business  of  your  treasurer  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Lawson.  ^ 

''Nearly  thirty  thousand  dollars." 

"  So  I  have  understood.  The  first  work  in  hand 
will  be  to  raise  this  sum^  w><^  m  much  more  as 
possible." 

'*  There  wiU  be  no  great  diffionltj  if  you  aoespt 
the  offiee  of  treaaurer.  Everybody  has  eonfldence 
in  you." 

''  Use  me  in  any  way.  I  am  at  yenr  aerviscy" 
replied  Mr.  Lawson,  "  and  as  an  earnest  of  my  pur- 
pose to  make  the  school  a  success,  now  that  I  am 
fiOr^  committed  to  the  work,  I  pledge  myself  to 
raise  one  half  of  the  sum  that  has  been  lost." 

**  I  thank  you  in  the  name  of  hundreds  of  poor 
children  who  will  be  rescued  from  sufiering,  degr»- 
datiyn,  and  ciime^  through  your  activity!"  said 
Mr.  Blanohard,  with  irrepressible  emotion.  **  The 
Issue  of  this  aebla  charity  wac  with  you.  If  you 
had  turned  from  us,  all  would  have  been  leak  Ah, 
sif«  God  has  made  you,  in  a  eingular  manner,  the 
special  instrument  of  His  divine  beneficence.  He 
has  laid  on  you  a  great  responsibility;  and  if  you 
are  faithful  thereto,  will  give  yon  a  great  reward- 
but  not  as  the  world  giveth.  He  will  give  you 
peaee." 

AU  that  this  meant  Mr.  Lawson  did  not  then  ni 
deratand.    But  a  year  afterwacd  it  had  become 
phOner  to  hia  mental  sight.  Tben,aittingiBhiaeool 


piaaua»  with  aweat  aifa  fcnnlsay«teMaid  I 
ing  vinea  acvuod  hiiik»-ilMtng  with  liia  IHand  as 
he  had  sat  there  many  times  before,  holding  fhmil- 
iar  converse  hia  mind  opened  te  a  oleaaur  paveep- 
tion  of  tha  lawa  of  qpiiitual  lifban which  happlnem 


**  Ton  hava  had  m  buy  yuaiiv  «■<!  "oaaa  enrnast 
work  in  the  Farm  School,"  said  the  Mend. 

«<  Ye%"  anaweitdMK.  Inuwon,  with  ateak  of  in- 
tenatin  hiaeyea.  "BanMat  wwk;  and  whaftii 
better,  anoeaaafut  w«iiE.  We  hawa  laiaad  orar  Mf 
thousand  dollars,  and  there  are  now  in  the  mkmA 
nearly  aavairty  boy«  Jnat  think  ^  fil  acipeutj 
beya  taken  from  eoli  and  bnnger,  fram  wiea  and 
eriflse^  and  eared  isr  witt  a  Ckdatian  chniity  (hat 
kwka  ta  theiv  higheai  welfiupal  lam  mt/mk  •> 
tears,  soaatiBM%  aal  aitaadthink  efwhaffcaAtUs 
means.  Ah,  my  friend  1  thai  waa  a  aisMaMs 
delusion  in  which  you  found  no  two  years  a^o.  I 
was  seeking  life  in  at^gnatlani  joy  In  Inaeliaa; 
happiness  in  simple  ease.  Around  my  Ultia  aaif  I 
had  begun  narrowing  aU  my  infeesiala.  I  took  the 
weatthand  taiswa  Gad  gaira  to  na  in  Baa  gaed 
providence  as  beneiaetions  special  to  myaalf  ^as 
the  BMant  of  patsanal  ai^^ymeiit  ahma.  B«t  my 
ayes  are  opauad  to  highar  tntha.  I  aea  In  n  nan 
lighL  I  comprehend  the  meaning  af  Ismgaagi 
that  sounded  ataaagely  a  year  ago/' 

<'It  U  in  the  good  wa  do,"  Mawerad  tha  insni, 
<<  and  not  U  the  gaod  we  gain,  that  bleaaingliaa 
The  mere  posseaslan  of  things  in  tha  outer  warii 
conveya  no  real  happiness  |  for  the  aider  of  desks 
fails  in  aehievcBMn^  and  the  thing  desired  hiasi 
one  half  of  its  beauty  so  aeon  aa  we  oall  It  oar 
own.  In  all  mere  self-seeking  lies  the  gens  af  dis> 
.^polntmenL  Some  ona  has  tra^  aaid  that  wealth 
is  a  trustf  and  ao  are  isianrs  and  mental  gifts.  If 
we  held  them  in  trust,  and  nae  then  aa  lar  as 
we  can  for  the  gaod  of  aaciaty,  a  Masaing  sfiH  go 
withthem.  If  we  do  not,  like  pet  ^wataw  that 
stagnate,  they  will  breed  disquiet  in  our  aawla* 

8at3  a  writer,  diBcoarsing  on  contentment :  '^i 
that  animal  better  that  hath  two  or  three  mountains 
to  grace  on,  than  a  little  beo  that  feeds  on  dew  or 
manna,  and  lives  upon  what  falls  every  morning 
from  the  storeboases  of  heaven,  clonds,  and  Provi- 
dence? Can  a  man  qncnoh  his  thirst  better  out  of 
a  river  than  a  fVilI  urn  ?  or  drink  better  fVom  a 
fountain  which  is  finely  paved  with  marble,  than 
when  it  wells  over  the  green  turf  r' 

PnAian  no  man  too  liberally  before  hia  fts% 
nor  censure  him  too  lavishly  behind  hia  bask. 
The  one  savors  of  flattery,  tha  other  of  nahee, 
and  both  are  reprehensible.  The  true  way  ts 
advance  aaother'a  virtue  is  to  follow  it,  and  the 
best  meana  to   cry    down  another'a  vice  is  Is 

)lt4 


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Z3)2IKD    BY  A  X«A]>7* 


SHAMa  - 

rUB  ago  might  iightl7  bo  called  an  age  of  ex* 
IcaTagaaee.  lU  tendencies  may,  in  the  gen- 
mnlf  be  in  the  right  direction ;  but  eyerytiiing  mns 
to  aztremei.  This  is.  plainly  shown  in  onr  modes 
of  diess.  Fashion  is,  in  the  main,  more  sensible, 
OMM  eonvenient,  and  more  healthfhl  than  'she  has 
bean  within  the  memory  of  the  present  generation. 
B«^  thasiy  fashion  orders  that  these  conyenieat  and 
ssBsiUe  eoatmmes  shall  be  so  overloaded  with  trim- 
mia|^  aod  in  the  petty  details  she.  is  so  startling, 
wad,  wa  might  almost  say,  so  ridiculous,  that  we 
eaa  nearly  justify  sober-minded,  somewhat  prejn- 
dieed  aldarly  people  for  condemning  her  altogether, 
and  sighing  for  the  simplicity  and— inoonyenienco 
eftha ''good  aid  tuBat." 

Tkli  la  not  aiily  an  aga  of  eabawagattoew  An  a 
aiLBssiiy  seqaanee^  it  is  also  an  aga  of  shams.  It 
is  an  aga  of  jate,  Telvateen^  and  eheap  jeweliy.  If  , 
a  ludlF  oan  afford  to  pay  fifty  or  one  bandied  dol- 
lars Ibr  islsa  liair,  and  can  watr  hmr  yelyety  point 
,  diamonds,  it  is  certainly  nobody's  busi- 
f  and,  for  one,  we  do  not  object  And  if  a  lady 
;  afford  these,  and  puts  on  an  immense  chig- 
aoBi  of  jute,  wears  cotton  yelyet,  imitation  lace,  and 
aralde  jewelry,  it  may  also  be  nobody's  business, 
baft  she  must  not  be  surprised  or  offended  if  she  is 
saDsd  -rolgar.  For  shams  are  always  yulgar,  while 
sa  vnpreicnding  simplicity  is  always  refined  and 
ladylike.  The  most  inezpensiye  dress,  bought  in 
•eoovdnxice  with  the  wearer's  means  and  position, 
■a^lly  atada^  earsAilly  pat  on,  and  pretendiag  to 
ba  BOihing  more  than  it  really  is,  may  be  worn  by 
aaj  Oise  without  giying  offence  to  the  most  fastidi- 


W e  ean  remember  when  a  lady  would  haye  botn 
dians^ed  and  indignant  if  accused  of  wearing 
bcaaa  Jewelry.  Now  we  haye  made  a  slight  altcra- 
taon  in  its  nature  andgiyon  it  a  aDother»name,  and 
ita  weerers  flash  it  from  necks,  and  arms,  and  ears 
with  *  profusion  that  would  haye  astonished  and 
■hooked  the  lady  of  twenty  years  ago.  Kow  we- 
oea  Indies  with  brooches  and  ear-drops  of  amazing 
iisoa  suid  patterns;  fingers  loaded  with  rings; 
bfaoeleti^  one  en  each  wrist,  and  from  these  dang- 
fing  numberless  charms,  of  yarious  devices,  all 
gik.  But  the  marked  feature  of  jewelry  is  the 
ahaisft.  The  young  lady  of  to-day  would  scorn  the 
cbnin  of  twenty  years  ago— the  real  ladylike  chain, 
fiaa  and  delioala  in  workmanship,  and  of  undoubted 
pari^  of  metaL  This  must  be  ma«siyo  in  design, 
no  mr^tT  how  roagh  .the  workmanship.  Its  style 
TwH^Tki^iy  proclaims  its  origin— oroide  is  written 
aa  oTor  it.    And  ao  tho  joaag  lady  of  the  period 


^pean  deeirad  in  aharn  f rom  head  to  tet    Jai^ 

airy  has  lost  all  ita  signiieaftwi  aad  ia  (faita  m 
Talnelesa  aa  tha  biasa  and  copper  afls^Sj  anklaiij 
oar  and  naaa  rings  worn  by  the  sayagaa.  It  ia  no 
longer  an  eridenoe  of  a  refined  taste,  bat  of  n  bar- 
blurona  one.  Wo  almost  wonder  how  any  ona  who 
owns  veal  and  yalaabie  jewelry  dare  wear  i^  iaafciA 
ahoold  ha  miatakaa  for  abanv  finiahad  with  a  littla 
mora  cava  than  ordinary. 

In  theaa  days  of  DoIm  hair,  oottoa-yalTolk  and 
tinsel  jawehry,  it  would  not  be  strange  if  thataovl^ 
ward  ahama  ahoald  make  thair  impreaa  upon  tha 
aainda  and  morals*  and  if  we  shoold  baooma  npao- 
pla  of  pvateaaaa  and  anpoifiaialiitiea. 

Howaoer,  tho  faahian  otymniatoa  anaoonoa  that 
TelyateeniaBOtinaogiaatfaroraafensaciy.  fioif 
fashion  daorsea  thera  ahaU  ba  one  aham  tha  laa^ 
her  blind  yotaries  will»  of  aowae^  obey.  If  iba 
would  take  the  trouble  to  decree  that  "  oroide  is  no 
longer  recognised  aa  a  propacinaierial  for  jewelry," 
this  glaring  yulgarity  might  stand  some  ohance  of 
being  done  away  with,  or  at  least  of  being  confined 
to  the  unintelligent  and  unrefined  portion'  of  com- 
munity, 

OUB  GBANDMOTHERS. 

THOSE  who  are  constantly  crying  out  about  tho 
degeneracy  of  tho  times,  should  read  an  arti- 
cle entitled  ''Some  Recollections  of  an  Old  Wo- 
man,'* which  appears  in  the  January  number  of 
the  Onlaxif*    We  make  the  following  extract: 

«Bttt  thoagh,  whatever  my  burden  of  time,  I 
haye  eome  confessedly  to  an  age  when  my  past  is 
aweeter  than  any  future  (earth^')  can  be^  still  X 
maintain  that  X  am  not  notably  a  discontented,  ro- 
troq>ectiye  old  woman.  I  know  well  enough  that 
it  cannot  always  be  May,  and  there  are  compensa- 
tions :  if  I  haye  crows^  feet  and  silyer-thridded  hair, 
there's  my  B«}ssie  with  a  peaoh-blossom  face  and 
shining  chestnut  curls. 

"  I  dare  say  one  of  my  grumbling  oontempororics 
might  find  it  in  his  withered  old  heart  to  declare 
that  Bessie''- mother  7— grandmother? — at  any  rate, 
a  yory  aged  person,  was  of  a  more  substantial  build 
for  a  hard-scrabble  world  \  that  her  long-ago  cheeks 
were  mora  deeply  tinted;  her  hair  ignorant  of 
crimpiug-pins,  hot  slate-pencils,  and  pipe-stems; 
her  gown  nnkilted  and  unfurbclowed;  her  knowl- 
edge more  domestic. 

**  And  if  he  did  ?    Simply,  nonsense ! 

"Didn't  I  build  up  a  tower  of  puffs  on  my  head, 
and  in  so  doing  wear  away  all  tho  hair  upon  its 
sides  ?  Wasn't  I  fVirther  topped  off  with  a  huge 
shell  bookoomb  fit  to  bridge  a  stream  ?  Didn't  I 
wear  padded  leg-o'-motton  aleeyes,  and  a  skirt  ao 

-      (m) 

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ABTHUE'8   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


•kimp  I  oould  barely  step  ia  it?  Wasn't  my 
iraiit  either  honobed  up  to  my  ehin^  or  elongated 
with  savage  pressure  of  whalebone  and  steel  till 
my  movements  bad  the  freedom  and  grace  of  a 
pappoose's  lasbed  to  a  board  ?  And  then  how  mod- 
estly I  was  soqaestered  from  distraotions  and 
MUghty  abservatiea  in  the &r  depthsof  my  tibaiM^ 
top  of  sk  bonaet  1— mmoiuited  (a  lady's  word 
pledged  thereto)  by  eight  tremendou  ostrioh 
feathers,  all  standing  straightly  up  like  the  orest 
of  an  angry  oook>a-too  t 

^  An  old  woman  may  speak  plainly— and  the 
naglaied  trath  Is,  men  are  fools.  What  did  Solo- 
mon. My  of  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid?  I  sup- 
pose it  win  always  be  Just  so  hard  to  understand ; 
and  I  suppose,  too,  that  nature  being  more  potent 
than  grumblers  and  seasiblo  anoientsof  the  people, 
girls  will  always  seek  to  please  these  fools  in  what 
haa  ever  been  the  most  snoeessftil  fashion^-ihrongh 
appeals  to  the  eye  |  the  eye  fkr  oftener  than  other- 
wise a  wholly  uneultlvated  one.  Where  would  my 
beaux  have  been,  and  where  would  Bessie  be^  had 
I  dressed,  or  were  she  to  dre«  like  onr  respeotive 
and  fuspeoted  grandmothers  f" 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  FUTURE  WIFE. 

%  1  /  Jfi  copied  last  month  firom  Mrs.  Stowe'b  story 
YV  in  the  Chrutian  I7»iion— "My  Wife  and  I; 
or  Harry  Henderson's  History."  We  again  make 
another  extract,  an  extract  which  is  worthy  the 
consideration  of  all  mothers  with  young  sons, 
and  of  all  young  men  who  look  forward  to  wives  in 
the  future : 

'*My  fbadow-wife  grew  up  by  my  side  under  my 
mother's  creative  touch.  It  was  for  her  I  studied, 
for  her  I  should  toil.  The  thought  of  providing  for 
her  took  the  sordid  element  out  of  economy  and  made 
it  unselfish.  She  was  to  be  to  me  adviser,  fHend, 
inspiror,  charmer.  She  was  to  be  my  companion, 
not  alone  in  one  faculty,  but  through  all  the  range 
of  my  being — there  should  be  nothing  wherein  I 
and  she  oould  not,  by  appreciative  sympathy,  com- 
mune together.  As  I  thought  of  her  she  seemed 
higher  than  I.  'I  must  love  up  and  not  down,'  I 
said.  '  She  must  stand  on  a  height,  and  I  must 
climb  to  hor — she  must  be  a  princess  worthy  of  * 
many  toils  and  many  labors.''  Gradually  she  be- 
came to  mo  a  controlling  power. 

"  The  thought  of  what  sho  would  think,  closed 
for  me  many  a  book  that  I  felt  she  and  I  could  not 
read  together— hor  fair  image  barred  the  way  to 
many  a  door  and  avenue,  which  if  a  young  man 
enters,  ho  must  leave  his  good  angel  behind — and 
for  her  sake  I  abjured  intimacies  that  I  felt  she 
could  not  approve,  and  it  was  my  ambition  to  keep 
the  inner  temple  of  my  heart  and  thoughts  so  pure, 
that  it  might  be  a  worthy  resting-place  for  hor  at 
last." 


0" 


HAIB  OF  GOLDEN. 

BT    JCATH^niJIA    K.  FILnn. 

\H,  head  in  thy  silken  and  golden  gleams, 
Art  one  oi  thy  own  bright  dreams  ? 

Where  didst  thou  hie  from? 

Where  didst  thou  fly  from  ? 
Out  of  the  precinott  of  Valty  Land  ? 
Or  wert  thou  unwoven  by  wonder-hand? 

Say,  little  one,  0  dear  little  one ! 

Dost  know  of  the  felonous  deed  thou  hast  done— 
Despoiled  the  sun  of  his  golden  rays 
To  circle  thy  face  in  a  silken  maze, 

To  cover  white  shoulders  a-peeping  througlv 

As  though  they  wanted  to  see  life,  too! 

Pink  cheek  dimpled,  and  plump,  and  fhir. 
Hidden  in  waves  of  the  wild,  bright  hur. 
Brown  eyes  glancing  like  wind-tossed  wave. 
Changing  with  thoughts  that  are  oarelesa-gravc^ 
Do  hearf  I  accuse  these  most  guilty  ouria, 
Of  crowning  the  daintiest  queen  of  girls  1 

0  sweet !  with  thy  halo  of  shining  hai^. 
Where  didst  thoulintter  from— where^  oh,  when? 
Bed  Hps  pouting  and  dark  eyes  flashings 
Pink  hands  over  the  bright  hair  dashing. 
Then  rolled  round  in  the  price-ring  fashion; 
For  Vloss  Hair  rises  in  tragical  passion. 

Sweet  little  one,  and  dear  little  one, 
You  know  that  my  teasing  was  all  in  fun ! 
Lkiss  them,  the  curls  of  your  silken  hair— 
The  white  of  your  shoulders — the  pink  foet  bsn, 
The  red  of  your  lips,  and  the  brow's  dear  white ! 

1  kiss  you  to  sleep,  my  delight,  delight! 

Oh,  silken  ringlets  I  good-night.    ''  Dood- night  !* 


NOT  GOOD  FOR  CHILDBEN  "DO  BE 

ALONR 

r[S  one  child  in  a  family  is  always  in  danger 
of  growing  up  narrow  and  selfish.  Some  ose 
has  pertinently  said,  that  it  is  harder  to  bring  up 
one  chUd  well  than  six:  ''In  a  large  fiuni^  tho 
children  help  to  bring  one  another  up.  It  is  sol 
merely  that  the  elder  ones  assist  in  taking  ears  of 
the  younger,  but  they  all  influence  one  another 
profitably  in  other  ways;  vanity  is  sometlBMS 
laughed  into  modesty,  and  arroganee  is  snubbed 
into  humility.  Eaeh  child  is  kept  oonstantity  in 
mind  that  others  have  rights,  and  feelings,  ssd 
preferences,  as  well  as  himself;  he  forms  the  liabit 
of  considering  those  rights,  feelings,  tf nd  prefsrfs- 
ces;  and  he  is  thus  prepared  to  'get  along,'  asm 
say,  with  those  among  whom  his  lot  may  be  eaii 
Parents  with  one  child  have  a  difficult  task,  sad 
their  best  way  is  to  get  for  their  solitary  ehiek  ss 
many  play-follows  of  its  own  age  as  they  eonvesi- 
ently  can.  It  is  bad  for  a  child  to  nssoolats  toe 
much  with  persons  of  mature  age." 


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EVElSriNQS  TTITH    THE   POETS. 


AT    TWILIGHT. 

BT  SBBM  K.SBXVOB]>. 

AT  tiriligbt,  when  the  sbadowB  gather  roand  about 
mo, 
And  evenia^  follows  close  the  footsteps  of  the  day, 
I  tot  the  tide  of  life  drift  slowly  on  without  me, 
iad  patTmy  cares  away. 

And,  sitting  in  the  darkness,  while  the  night  wind 
whispers 
On  the  high  hills  that  lift  their  summits  to  the  sky, 
To  the  pale  stars  of  Heaven,  its  sweet  and  plaintive 
Twpers, 
I M  my  lost  ones  nigh. 

ni7  gather  round  about  me,  and  I  hear  them  calling 
In  tender,  loving  accents,  as  of  old,  my  name ; 

iad  I'joiigh  in  fairer  lauds  their  lines  of  life  ore 

falling. 
They  love  me  Just  the  same. 

iad  so,  while  o*er  the  world  the  night's  grim  shadows 


I  hold  a  tryst  with  those  I  used  to  love  so  well ; 
lojott  may  have  the  day,  and  I,  ah,  I  would  rather 
Astlways  round  roe  fell  I 

T*e  weary  day  is  dying,  and  my  heart  in  yearning 
For  tho  dear  voices  that  can  thrill  my  pulses  so, 

Oires  welcome  to  the  night,  for,  with  its  shades 
returning, 
Vy  loved  wiU  come,  I  know. 


THE  BROOK. 

TTP  in  the  wild  where  no  one  comes  to  look, 
U  There  lives  and  singft  a  lonely  little  brook; 
LiTeth  and  singeth  in  ibe  dreary  pines, 
Tetcreepeth  on  to  where  the  daylight  shines. 

^re  from  their  heaven,  in  mountain  chalice  caught, 
k drinks  the  rain,  as  drinks  the  soul  her  thought; 
And  down  dim  hollows  where  it  winds  along, 
Bmtb  its  Ufe>barden  of  unlistened  song. 

Icttch  tho  murmur  of  its  undertone 
That  slgheth,  ceaselessly,  alone  I  alone  t 
And  hear,  afar,  tho  rivers  gloriously 
ShoQt  on  their  paths  toward  the  shining  sea! 

^ToieeAil  rivers,  chanting  to  the  sun. 
And  wearing  names  of  honor  every  one ; 
Jjotreaching  wide,  and  Joining  hand  in  hand, 
^^  pour  great  gifts  along  the  asking  land. 

Ah,  lonely  brook  I  creop  onward  through  the  pines, 
^  through  the  gloom  to  where  the  daylight  shines ; 
^1  on  among  the  stones,  and  secretly 
'^Ihow  Uie  floods  are  all  akin  to  thee. 

Jrinic  the  sweet  rain  tho  gentle  heaven  sendeth; 
"Old  thine  own  path,  howeverward  It  tendeth, 
J^r  tomswhere,  undemeat*i  the  eternal  sky, 
««>.  too,  Shalt  find  the  rivers  by  and  by. 

^OUXXXVII,— 12. 


THE  PRAYEE  SEEKER. 

BT  JOBS  O.  WHimSB. 

ALONG  the  aisle  where  prayer  was  made, 
A  woman,  all  in  black  arrayed, 
Close-veiled,  between  the  kneeling  host, 
With  gliding  motion  of  a  ghost, 
Passed  to  the  desk  and  laid  thereon 
A  scroll  which  bore  these  words  alone— 
Pray  for  me  I 

Back  ih>m  the  place  of  worshipping 
She  glided  like  a  guilty  thing; 
The  rustle  of  her  draperies,  stirred 
By  hurrying  feet,  nlono  was  heard; 
While,  full  of  awe,  tho  preacher  read, 
As  out  into  tho  dark  she  sped : 
Pray  for  tnel 

Bcwk  to  the  night  Arom  whenoe  she  came. 
To  unimagined  grief  or  shame  1 
Across  the  threshold  of  that  door. 
None  knew  the  burden  that  she  bore ; 
Alone  she  left  the  written  scroll. 
The  legend  of  a  troubled  soul— 
Prajf  formeJ 

Glide  on,  poor  ghost  of  woe  or  sin ! 
Thou  Icav'st  a  common  need  within ; 
Each  bears,  like  thee,  some  nameless  weight, 
Some  misery  Inarticulate ; 
Some  secret  sin,  some  shrouded  dread, 
Borne  household  sorrow  all  unsaid— 
Pray  for  us  I 

Pass  on  I    The  type  of  all  thou  art, 
Sad  witness  to  the  common  heart  I 
With  face  in  veil  and  seal  on  lip. 
In  mute  and  strange  compnnionship. 
Like  thee  wo  wander  to  and  fVo, 
Dumbly  imploring  as  we  go : 
Pray  for  wt 

Ah,  who  shall  pray,  since  he  who  pleads 
Our  wants  perchance  hath  greater  needs  I 
Tet  I  hey  who  make  their  loss  the  gain 
Of  others  shall  not  ask  in  vain. 
And  Heaven  bends  low  to  hear  the  prayer 
Of  love  from  lips  of  self-despair— 
Pray  for  uai 

In  vain  remorse  and  fear  and  hate 
Beat  with  bruised  hands  against  a  finte. 
Whose  walls  of  iron  only  move. 
And  open  to  the  touch  of  love, 
He  only  feels  his  burden  rail 
Who,  taught  by  suffering,  pities  all— 
Pray  for  U8/ 

He  prayeth  best  who  leaves  nngnessed 
'J'he  mystery  of  another's  breast- 
Why  cheeks  grow  pale,  why  oyes  overflow, 
Or  heads  are  white,  thou  need'st  not  know : 
Enough  to  note,  by  many  a  sign 
That  every  heart  had  needs  like  thine— 
Pray  for  us  t 

AUantUMonthiy, 

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ARTSUR'S   LADY'S    HOME    MAGAZINE. 


THE  LONG  WHITE  SEAM. 

BT  JKAN  CfOKLOW. 

AS  I  came  round  the  harbor  baoy. 
The  lights  began  to  gleam, 
Mo  wave  the  land-locked  harbor  stirred, 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream ; 
And  I  marked  my  love  by  candlelight 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 
It's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear, 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea, 
It's  reef  and  furl,  and  haul  the  line, 
Bet  sail  and  think  of  thee. 

I  climbed  to  reach  her  cottage  door; 

Oh  I  sweetly  my  love  sings  ; 
Like  a  shaft  of  lixht  her  voice  breaks  forth. 

My  sonl  to  meet  it  springs, 
As  the  shining  water  leaped  of  old 
When  stirred  by  angel  wings. 
Aye  longing  to  list  anew, 

Awake  and  in  my  dream, 
But  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

Fair  fall  the  lights,  the  harbor  lights, 
That  brought  me  in  to  thee, 
■    And  peace  drop  down  on  that  low  roof 
For  the  sight  that  I  did  see. 
And  the  voice,  my  dear,  that  rang  so  clear, 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 
For  oh !  for  oh  I  with  brows  bent  low 

By  the  flickering  candle's  gleam. 
Her  wedding  gown  it  was  she  wrought, 
Sewing  the  long  white  seam. 

OLD  AGE. 

FLING  down  the  faded  blossoms  of  the  spring, 
Nor  clasp  the  roses  with  regretful  hand; 
The  Joy  of  summer  is  a  vanished  thing ; 
Let  it  depart,  and  learn  to  understand 
The  gladness  of  great  calm— the  autumn  rest, 
The  peace— of  human  Joys  the  latest  and  the  best! 

Ah  I  I  remember  how  in  early  days 
The  primrose  and  the  wild-flower  gre^  beside 

My  tangled  forest  paths,  whose  devious  ways 
Filled  me  with  Joys  of  mysteries  untried, 

And  terror  that  was  more  than  half  delight, 

And  sense  of  budding  life,  and  longings  mfinite. 

And  I  remember  how,  in  life's  hot  noon, 
Around  my  path  the  lavish  roses  shed 

Color  and  fragrance,  and  the  air  of  June 
Breathed  rapture— now  those  summer  days  are  fled ; 

Days  of  sweet  peril,  when  the  serpent  lay 

Lurking  at  every  turn  of  life's  enchanted  way. 

The  light  of  spring,  the  summer  glow,  are  o'er, 

And  I  rejoice  in  knowing  that  for  me 
The  woodbine  and  the  roses  bloom  no  more, 

ITie  tender  green  is  gone  from  field  and  tree ; 
Brown  barren  sprays  stand  clear  against  the  bine. 
And  leaves  fall  last,  and  let  the  truUtful  sunlight  through. 

For  me  the  hooded  herbs  of  autumn  grow, 
Square-stemmed  and  sober;  mint  and  sage, 

Hoarhound  and  balm— such  plants  as  healers  know ; 
And  the  decline  of  life's  long  pilgrimage 

Is  soft  and  sweet  with  marjoram  and  thyme. 

Bright  with  pure  evening  dew,  not  serpent's  glittering 
slime. 


And  round  my  path  the  aromatic  air, 

Breathes  health  and  perfume,  and  the  tarfy  ground 
Is  soft  for  weary  feet,  and  smooth  and  fair 

With  little  thomloss  blossoms  that  abound 
In  safe  dry  places,  where  the  mountain  side 
Lies  to  the  setting  sun,  and  no  ill  beast  can  hide. 

What  is  there  to  regret  ?    Why  should  I  mourn 
To  leave  the  forest  and  the  marsh  behind. 

Or  toward  the  rank,  low  meadows  Fadly  turn? 
Since  here  another  loveliness  I  find. 

Safer,  and  not  less  beautiful— and  blest 

With  glimpses,  faint  and  far,  of  the  long-wlahed-for 
Rest. 

And  so  I  drop  the  roses  from  my  hand, 
And  lot  the  thorn-pricks  heal,  and  take  my  way,  . 

Down  hill,  across  a  fair  and  peaceful  land 
Lapt  Jn  the  goldon  calm  of  dying  day ; 

Glad  that  the  night  is  near,  and  glad  to  know 

That,  rough  or  smooth  tlio  way,  J  have  not  far  to  go. 

Public  Opinion^ 

NOT  KNOWING. 

I  KNOW  not  what  will  befall  me  I    God  hangs  a  mist 
o'er  my  eyes ; 
And  o'er  each  step  of  my  onward  path  He  makes  new 

scenes  to  rise, 
And  every  Joy  Ho  sends  me  comes  as  a  sweet  and 
glad  surprise. 

I  see  not  a  step  before  me,  as  I  tread  the  days  of  the 

year, 
But  the  past  is  still  in  God's  keeping,  the  future  His 

mercy  shall  clear. 
And  what  looks  dark  in  the  distance  may  brighten  as 

I  draw  near. 

For  perliaps  the  dreaded  future  has  less  bitterness 

than  I  think; 
The  Lord  may  sweeten  the  water  before  I  stoop  to 

drink. 
Or,  if  Maroh  must  be  Marah,  He  will  stand  beside  its 

brink. 

It  may  be  there  is  waiting  for  the  coming  of  my 

feet 
Some  gift  of  such  rare  blessedness,  some  Joy  so 

strangely  sweet, 
That  my  lips  can  only  tremble  with  the  thanks  I  can* 

not  f>peak. 

0  restful,  blissful  ignorance!    'Tis  blessed  not  to 

know ; 
It  keeps  me  quiet  in  those  arms  which  will  not  let 

me  go. 
And  hushes  my  soul  to  rest  on  the  bosom  which  lovea 

me  so. 

So  I  go  on  not  knowing  I    I  would  not  if  I  might; 

1  would  rather  walk  on  in  the  dark  with  God,  than  go 

alone  in  the  light; 
I  would  rather  walk  with  Him  by  faith,  than  walk 
alone  by  sight 

My  heart  shrinks  back  from  trials  which  the  future 

may  disclose, 
Tet  I  never  had  a  sorrow  but  what  the  dear  Lord 

chose ; 
So  I  send  the  coming  tears  back,  w>th  the  whispeiod 

word,  **  He  knows." 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


FRUIT   OTJLTTJKB   FOR   LADIES. 

BY  THE  ATJTHOB  OP  "OAKDENIITO  FOR  LADIES." 


AN    EXAMPLE     FOB    AMEBICAX 
LADIEa 

TIE  foUowiDg  item,  which  I  clip  from  a  rooent 
newspaper,  may,  perhaps,  giro  some  cncourago- 
ment  to  such  of  mj  lady  friends  as  are  hesitating 
ibonttiying  their  hands  at  fruit-raising,  from  an 
»ppiehension  that  it  is  an  employment  not  suited 
tolidies: 

"An  English  woman  of  rank  and  title — Lady 
Pifotl— has  devoted  herself  to  scicntinc  and  pras- 
tlei]  agriculture,  thus  setting  a  good  example  to 
kr  MX.  No  work  can  bo  moro  ennobling  to  tho 
ebraeter,  or  moro  remunerative  to  the  purse,  than 
the  lighter  kinds  of  gardening — as  hortioulturo  and 
fnit-raising.  If  women  would  mako  this  a  pro- 
feaioo,  securing  stronger  hands  than  their  own  for 
the  heavier  tasks,  we  should  hear  less  of  tho  in- 
CRssing  cruelty  of  needlewomen's  oppressors.  Tho, 
latter  gentlemen  would  soon  have  nobody  to  op- 
press, and  would  have  to  look  about  for  helpers, 
sad  to  pay  them  well  When  they  found  them." 


THE  APPLE. 

APPLB-TREES  thrivo  best  with  medinm  expo- 
sure to  tho  sun,  and  with  protection  from 
bleak  winds.  The  soil  should  be  a  moist,  friable, 
calcareous  loam,  with  some  gravel.  Any  good  soil, 
liowevcr,  rich  enough  to  produce  fair  crops  of  grass 
sr  grain,  will  answer  very  well.  They  will  even 
neeaed  tolerably  in  a  stiff  clay,  or  a  light,  shift- 
iog  sand,  with  active  manures,  and,  in  the  elay^ 
vith  frequent  fall  ploughing,  while  tho  trees  are 
yoang,  and,  in  tho  sand,  with  compact  culture. 
Springy  or  wet  land  is  decidedly  bad,  unless  thor- 
Mighly  underd rained. 

In  planting,  dig  the  holes  from  three  to  six  feet 
in  diameter,  and  twelve  to  eighteen  inches  deep, 
lecording  to  the  kind  of  soil  and  the  size  of  the 
^>  The  more  compact  tho  soil,  the  deeper  and 
larger  should  be  tho  hole.  Fill  up  with  good  top- 
toil,  80  that  tho  tree  may  stand  about  ono  inch 
lower  than  when  taken  from  the  nursery.  In  tak- 
ing up  the  tree,  be  careful  to  hurt  tho  roots  as  little 
»»  possible.  If  any  are  broken,  cut  them  off  smooth, 
'ith  a  fine  saw  or  sharp  knife.  Spread  the  roots 
oat  to  their  full  extent,  and  fill  up  with  good,  rich 
■oil,  but  use  no  manure.  If  tho  tree  is  crooked, 
tJnd  it  with  a  straw  band  to  a  stake  planted  firmly 
tethe  ground.  In  setting  out  an  orchard,  trees 
ihonld  never  bo  planted  at  less  distance  than  two 
tods. 

Pruning  should  commence  at  the  planting  of  the 
*»*••    If  the  top  be  tall  and  spindling,  shorten  it. 


Let  the  limbs  commenoo  about  six  feet  from  the 
ground.  Tho  top  should  bo  sufficiently  open  to  ad- 
mit tho  sun  and  air. 

In  speaking  of  tho  best  varieties  of  apples  for 
cultivation,  AUen't  Americcm  Farm  Book,  to  whieh 
I  am  greatly  indebted,  says : 

"Almost  every  section  of  the  apple-growing 
region  of  America  has  a  greater  or  less  variety 
peculiar  to  itself,  and  their  valuable  properties  ap- 
pear more  fully  developed  in  these  localities  than 
when  removed  to  others.  There  are  varieties,  how- 
ever, which  are  of  moro  general  cultivation.  *  *  * 
We  name  some  standard  varieties,  all  of  which  are 
now  in  successful  cultivation  in  difi'erent  parts  of 
tho  United  States  and  the  Canadas— 

"SuuMER  Apples. — Early  Harvest,  Red  Astra- 
can,  Largo  Yellow  liough,  William's  Favorite. 

"  Autumn  Apples. — Golden  Sweet,  Fall  Pippin, 
Gravenstein,  Jersey  Sweeting,  Rambo. 

"  Winter  Apples.— Westtield,  Seek-no-furtber, 
Baldwin,  Yellow  Belle  Fleur,  Uubbardston,  Non- 
such, Northern  Spy,  Peek's  Pleasant,  Rhode  Island 
Greening,  American  Golden  Russet,  English  Rus* 
set,  Roxbury  Russet,  Talmau's  Sweeting,  Esopus 
Spittcnberg,  and  King." 

It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  all  of  these  varie- 
ties will  succeed  in  any  ono  locality.  I  would, 
therefore,  recommend  any  one  about  setting  out 
apple-trees,  to  look  around  among  tho  orchards  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  see  what  kinds  have  done 
the  best,  and  then  make  a  seleetion  from  these. 

THE  PEAE. 

WHETHER  for  homo  consumption  or  for  mar- 
keting, tho  pear  is  ono  of  tho  most  desirable 
of  fruits.  Of  a  hardy  habit,  and  flourishing  in 
any  soil  that  will  grow  apples,  it  is  quite  cosy  of 
cultivation.  The  soil  it  prefers  is  a  clay  loam, 
though  I  havo  in  my  own  garden  some  of  tho  finest 
trees,  which  do  rot  know  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  clay.  They  flourish  in  yellow  sand,  leaf  mould, 
and  chip-dirt,  with  an  annual  top-dressing  of  barn- 
yard manure,  and  occasionally  a  slight  sprinkling 
of  ashes  and  salt.  Though  longer  in  coming  into 
bearing,  tho  pear  is  moro  productive  than  tho  apple, 
lives  longer,  and  is  subject  to  fewer  diseases.  It 
requires  less  pruning  than  the  apple,  but,  in  most 
other  respects,  its  cultivation  is  the  same  as  that  of 
tho  apple. 

Grafted  on  tho  quince,  the  pear  becomes  a  dwarf. 
Tho  dwarfed  pear  bears  much  earlier  than  when 
grown  on  its  own  root — generally  in  the  third  or 
fourth  year.  Of  course,  it  docs  not  bear  so  abun- 
dantly as  the  standard,  nor  does  it  keep  in  bearing 
any  great  length  of  time.  Yet,  if  the  tree  be 
planted  deep  enough  for  roots  to  grow  from  th* 

(177) 


Digitized  by  >^OOQ  IC 


178 


ABIHUB'8   LADY'S    MOME    MAGAZINE. 


pear-Btcm,  it  will  beoome  a  standard,  and  attain  a 
rcBpeetable  old  age,  in  good  bearing  condition. 

Plant  as  directed  for  apple- trees — ^standards 
twonty-five  to  thirty  feet  apart;  dwarfs,  twelve  to 
fifteen. 

For  market,  the  best  rarieties,  naming  them  in 
the  order  of  their  ripening,  are  the  Bloodgood, 
Bartlett,  Seckel,  Louise,  Bonne* de- Jersey,  Duchess 
D'Angoulemc,  and  Bearre  D'Aremberg.  The  Vicar 
of  WinkGcId,  one  of  the  last  to  ripen,  is,  to  my 
taste,  one  of  the  finest  of  pears,  but  it  docs  not 
seem  to  obtain  favor  as  a  market  variety.  There 
are  many  other  varieties  of  excellent  pears,  bat 
those  I  have  mentioned  are  the  ones  most  generally 
grown. 

One  great  drawback  to  the  cultivation  of  the  pear 
is  the  fact  that  it  is  subject  to  a  very  formidablo 
disease — the  fire-blight,  as  it  is  called.  Of  this, 
however,  I  shall  speak  more  fully  at  a  later  period. 

THE  CHERRY. 

EASILY  cultivated,  the  cherry  seldom  fails  to 
yield  a  fair  crop.  Planted  lika  the  apple,  it 
loves  a  warm,  deep,  sandy  loam.  Bet  the  trees 
from  sixteen  to  twenty  feet  apart.  For  profit,  tho 
common  Red  Kentish,  or  Pie  Cherry,  is,  perhaps, 
the  besL  A  newer  pie  variety — tho  Early  Rich- 
mond— is  said  to  bo  quite  as  productive,  earlier,  and 
of  richer  flavor. 

The  cherry  requires  little  pruning.  Remove 
suckers,  keep  an  open  head,  and  lop  off  chafing 
branches,  as  in  other  fruit  trees.  It  is  understood, 
I  presume,  that,  in  all  pruning,  regard  is  to  be  had 
to  tho  symmetry  of  tho  tree. 

Besides  tho  Pie  Cherry,  there  are  several  other 
very  desirable  varieties  for  eating.  I  may  mention 
the  Black  Tartarian,  tho  English  Mayduko,  the 
Ox-Heart,  and  the  Gov.  Wood.  The  only  objection 
I  have  to  these  is  the  fact  that  they  arc  too  good. 
Once  the  birds  got  a  taste  of  them,  good-by  to  your 
cherries.  Nothing  will  save  them.  Scarecrows 
avail  not,  and  shooting  is  a  useless  if  not  an  unjus- 
tifiable destruction  of  bird-life.  If  you  have  room 
to  plant  enough  trees  for  the  supply  of  all  tho 
birds,  and  leave  a  surplus  for  yourself,  it  may  be 
pleasant — though  scarcely  profitable — to  try  to  cul- 
tivate the  finer  sorts  of  cherries. 


PLANTING  FRUIT-TREES. 

THE  time  of  planting  may  be  at  any  time  after 
tho  fall  of  tho  leaf  in  autumn,  till  its  reap- 
pearance in  spring,  provided  tho  ground  is  not 
fro  sen. 

As  a  rule,  however,  it  Is  better  to  set  out  your 
oberry,  plum,  and  peach  trees  in  early  spring,  be- 
fore the  bud  is  much  swollen,  if  possible — that  is  to 
say,  during  the  present  month,  in  tho  latitude  of 
Philadelphia. 


The  apple,  pear,  and  quince  do  best  if  planted  in 
the  fall. 

All  fruit-trees  should  be  severely  pruned  at  plant- 
ing. If  any  fruit  sets  in  a  transplanted  tree,  pall 
it  off,  regardless  of  every  temptation  to  leave  it  on, 
''just  to  see  what  it's  going  to  be." 

Trees  that  have  become  dried  during  transporta- 
tion from  the  nursery,  before  being  planted,  should 
be  placed,  for  about  a  week,  in  a  trench,  under  a 
covering  of  fine,  mellow  earth.  This  will  restore  to 
them  their  original  plumpness. 

If  not  ready  to  plant  your  trees  when  they  ar- 
rive, dig  a  trench,  in  which  lay  their  roots,  and 
keep  them  covered  with  moist  earth  till  such  tims 
as  you  are  prepared  to  set  them  out. 

GRAFTING. 

THE  operation  of  grafting,  though  a  very  simple 
one,  is  yet  not  easily  to  bo  explained  on  paper. 
I  shall,  therefore,  make  no  attempt  to  describe  it, 
presuming  that  such  of  my  readers  as  may  desire 
to  know  how  to  graft,  will  bo  able  to  find  aceom- 
modating  neighbors  to  show  them  the  process. 

In  most  localities,  grafting  can  bo  commenecd 
during  the  present  month.  Tho  cherry  and  the  plum 
are  tha  first  to  bo  attended  to.  Apples  and  pears 
do  better  if  left  until  the  buds  commence  to  star . 
For  grafting-wax  take  four  parts  of  rosin  and  one 
port  each  of  beeswax  and  tallow,  and  melt  together. 
If  too  hard,  add  moro  tallow,  and  if  too  soft,  more 
rosin.  The  wax  is  poured  into  water  when  melted, 
and  gathered  in  tho  hands  and  worked  like  eaady, 
after  which  it  is  made  into  convenient  rolls.  A 
handy  way  to  use  it  is  to  tear  up  old  cotton,  old 
sheets  or  dresses,  into  strips  about  two  inches  wide. 
Roll  them  up  and  put  them  into  the  melted  wax, 
and  let  them  remain  until  thoroughly  saturated. 
Remove,  and  let  them  drain.  This  can  be  unrolled 
and  torn  into  convenient  strips. 

HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

CURRAKTS   AND    GOOSEBRRRIES. — Plant   OUt  OUt- 

tings  of  currants  and  gooseberries  as  soon  as  prac- 
ticable. Removo  all  the  buds  except  two  or  three 
at  the  top.  Transplant  cuttings  already  two  years 
started,  to  where  they  are  to  grow.  Give  the  roots 
plenty  of  room,  and  manuro  liberally  with  well-de- 
composed manure.  Prune  currants  freely,  cutting 
shoots  of  last  year  to  within  three  eyes  of  tho 
growth  of  the  previous  year.  Leave  short  spurr, 
an  inch  or  two  long,  upon  the  main  limbs,  which 
should  be  limited  in  number,  and  kept  clear  of 
shoots,  except  these  spurs.  A  similar  process  will 
do  well  >vith  the  gooseberry,  though  it  would  bo 
better  done  in  the  fall 

Peach  Trees. — Prune  out  all  wood  injured  by 
the  cold  of  winter.  Otherwise,  be  sparing  of  the 
knife  at  this  season.  A  handful  of  ooarse  salt  ap- 
plied about  tha  collar  of  each  tree  will  be  of  benefit. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


HOUSEKEEPERS'    DEFABTMENT. 


170 


It  is  said  to  destroj  the  borer.  Do  not  ncglecty 
howerer,  to  examine  joar  trees  for  traces  of  this 
dreaded  enemjr.  Clear  away  the  earth  from  the 
eollar  of  the  tree,  or  with  knife  and  wire  ferret  oat 
the  foe. 

Stbawberkiss. — Clean,  dress,  and  fork  the  beds. 
For  new  beds  disturb  the  ground  thoroughly  to  a 
depth  of  eighteen  or  twenty  inches. 

For  field  culture  have  the  rows  two  and  a  half 
Ibet  apart,  and  set  the  plants  in  the  row  from  ten 
to  twelve  inches  apart.  Keep  the  weeds  down, 
and  be  sure  to  have  the  ground  deep  and  mel- 
low before  planting.  In  the  garden  and  field 
plant  in  hills,  and  allow  no  runners  to  be  formed. 
Remove  all  decaying  leaves  at  planting,  and  shorten 
th«  roots  about  one-third.  Whore  pistillate  sorts 
are  grown,  plant  a  perfect  variety  near  by  to  fer- 
tilise them.  As  soon  as  growth  oommenoes,  a  sow- 
ing of  ^nano  has  been  found  to  be  of  great  benefit 
to  the  crop  of  fruit. 

Orapb  ViirBfl. — Plant  if  the  soil  is  in  proper  con- 
dition. Use  no  manure.  Cut  back  the  vines  to 
three  buds,  but  one  of  which  is  to  grow  into  a  shooL 
Plow  old  vineyards,  and  use  the  hoe  near  the  vines. 
layers  may  be  made  from  last  year's  wood.  Plant 
o«t  enttings  of  grapes.  All  cuttings  should  be  par- 
tially shaded,  or  they  will  not  take  root  with  cer- 
tainty. This  is  particularly  true  with  the  grnpe. 
Oimpe«y  two  years  from  the  cuttings,  should  now  be 
transplanted  inplttee. 


Q rapes  that  have  become  weak  with  ago  may  be 
renewed  by  laying  down  a  branch  some  feet 
just  under  the  surface,  and  then  out  back,  so  that 
one  good  eye  only  be  left  at  the  surface  of  tho 
soil. 

Blackberries. — Set  new  rines  early ;  leave  no 
old  cane;  the  growth  should  be  all  from  tho  buds 
near  the  root.  Six  feet  apart,  each  way,  is  a  good 
distance,  if  they  are  kept  within  bounds  by 
pinching. 

Raspberries. — Set  from  four  to  six  feet  apart, 
according  to  the  size  of  the  variety. 

In  planting  raspberries,  they  should  bo  cut  down 
nearly  to  tho  ground  when  planted.  If  you  leave 
the  canes  long  enough  to  bear,  it  will  probably  be 
the  only  crop  you  will  ever  get  from  them.  Never 
expect  anything  to  hear  the  year  a/ter  traneplantinff. 

Odd  Jobs. — If  not  already  done,  give  your  trees 
a  good  washing,  with  a  suds  made  from  carbolio  or 
whale-oil  soap. 

Now  is  a  good  time  to  take  out  borers.  Wrap 
oiled  paper  round  the  stem  at  the  collar  of  the  tree, 
to  keep  them  out  for  the  rest  of  the  season. 

Pruning  may  still  be  done  where  vegetation  is 
dormaiit     Cover  the  wounds  with  grafting  wax. 

Whitewashing  the  stems  of  orchard  trees  has  a 
very  beneficial  cfi'cct  in  clearing  away  old  bark  and 
destroying  the  eggs  of  innumerablo  insects.  The 
white  color  is  bad ;  throw  in  a  little  soot  or  some 
other  matter  to  make  it  brown. 


HOXJSEKZEEPERS'  DEPA.RT]VrEIsrT. 


HOUSEHOLD  HINTS. 

IUSSD  to  find  it  troublesome  to  always  have 
good  yeast,  and  every  housekeeper  knows  that 
vithoat  it  she  feels  hankntpt.  If  kept  too  long  it 
"  aaur^d,"  and  reotifying  its  acidity  by  eoda  has 
Bofey  ^srUh  me,  proved  as  successful  as  prime,  active 
jcast,  before  it  has  passed  through  any  ohemieal 
eiuuiges,  and  I  tried  making  diy  yeast.  This  is 
I  BM  ordinary  yeast,  and  after  it  is  light,  adding 
B-meal  until  it  is  stiff  enough  to  be  taken  out 
«pon  the  paste  or  "  moulding  "-board,  and  by  the 
haad  shaped  into  rolls  three  inohes  in  diameter. 
Mid  eut  off  into  eakes  half  an  ineh  thick.  They  are 
tlwa  spread  to  dry  upon  some  flat  surface ;  great 
eSiTe  being  observed  that  they  do  not  become  heated 
CDOttgh  to  destroy  the  eMrhonie  aeid,  or  the  li/e  of 
the  yeast  as  familiarly  known.  They  should  be 
tk»romghly  dried,  to  render  powerless  fermentation, 
and  prevent  mould.  It  is  quite  a  task  to  observe 
an  these  conditions,  and  to  be  able  at  last  to 
.  put  it  well  dried  and  not  heated,  in  the  yeast-bag; 
but  when  the  point  is  gained,  and  you  have 
hung  it  np  in  »  dxy  pUee,  yoa  have  yeast  wUh  no 


further  trouble  for  three  months — or  longer,  if 
strong  enough  of  hops — ^with  noihing  to  do  bnt 
soak  a  cake  and  a  half  for  two  loaves  of  bread,  in 
enough  lukewarm  water  to  dissolve  them,  and  with 
this  important  advantage  gained,  that  it  is  pre- 
served from  chemical  change,  with  this  exception, 
that  it  loses  a  portion  of  its  strength  after  being 
kept  several  months^  and  more  should  be  used  for  a 
baking. 


HAKD  AND  SOFT  WATER. 

" T70UMANS,"  in  his  "Household  Soienee,"  re- 
X  marks  that  water  employed  for  making 
in/ueione,  should  be  eo/t,  as  for  tea^  ooffee,  soups, 
or  in  whatevor  process  we  desire  to  extract  the 
qnalUjf  of  the  article  boiled,  and  transfer  it  to  the 
liquid  in  which  it  is  boiled,  and  also  adds,  that 
boiling  water  for  a  length  of  time  removes  a  por- 
tion of  its  hardness^  and  therefore  reoommends 
boiling  hard  water  beforo  using  it,  as  every  minute 
which  it  boils  diminishes  the  hardness.  On  the 
ooDtnuy,  it  is  stated  that  s^  wstor  employed  ia 


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180 


ABTHUR'a   LADY* a   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


cooking  green  peon,  renders  tbcm  ncarlj  insipid, 
by  extracting  too  readily  their  nutri tiro  properties; 
aUo,  oniona;  tho  latter  being  improved  bjr  cooking 
in  salted  water,  tho  salt  hardening  the  water  and 
preventing  tho  flavor  of  the  article  cooked  from 
escaping;  from  which  we  draw  the  inference  that 
articles  of  firm  texture,  as  dried  beans,  iongh 
meats,  etc.,  shoald  bo  cooked  in  9ofi  water,  while 
those  which  aro  tender  should  be  boiled  in  hard 
water,  to  prevent,  as  much  as  possible,  their  prop- 
erties from  escaping. 

CONTRIBUTED  RECEIPTS. 

Delicate  Cake. — Tho  whites  of  six  eggs  beaten 
to  a  light  froth,  one  half  cup  of  sugar,  one  half  cup 
of  batter,  beaten  together  to  a  cream.  Add  one 
half  cup  of  sweet  milk,  one  half  tcaspoonful  of 
cream  of  tartar,  one  fourth  tcaspoonful  of  saleratns, 
two  and  one  half  cups  of  flour. 

Berwick  8poxaB-CAKE. — Beat  six  eggs — yelks 
and  whites  together — two  minutes.  Add  throe  cups 
of  sugar,  beat  five  minutes,  two  cups  of  flour  with 
two  tea^poonfuls  of  cream  of  tartar,  beat  two  min- 
utes. Ono  cup  of  cold  water,  with  one  tcaspoonful 
of  saleratus  dissolved  in  it,  beat  one  minute.  Lem- 
ons, salt,  two  moro  cups  of  flour,  beat  two  minutes. 

Breakfast  or  Tea-Cake. — Two  eggs,  one  table- 
spoonful  of  butter,  ono  of  sugar,  ono  cup  of  milk, 
two  and  ono  half  cups  of  flour,  two  teaspoonfuls  of 
cream  of  tartar  and  ono  of  saleratus.  Eat  while 
warm,  with  butter. 

Mrs.  M's  Dodohncts. — Three  eggs,  ono  cup  of 
sugar,  ono  half  cup  of  milk,  a  small  piece  of  but- 
ter, ono  tcaspoonful  of  cream  of  tartar,  and  ono 
half  tcaspoonful  of  saleratus. 


French  Loap-Cake. — One  pound  of  sugar,  half 
pound  of  butter,  ono  pound  of  flour,  eight  eggs,  one 
cup  of  cream,  grating  and  juice  of  one  lemon,  cream 
of  tartar,  and  soda.  Beat  the  butter  very  light, 
then  stir  in  the  cream,  after  which  beat  in  quarter  of 
the  flour.  Whisk  tho  eggs  and  add  by  dcgreei. 
Then  the  remainder  of  the  flour,  alternating  with 
lemon.    Add  the  soda.    Moderate  oven. 

CocoANUT  Cake. — One  pound  sugar,  half  pound 
butter,  half  pound  flour,  six  eggs.  Beat  the  sugar 
and  butter  to  a  cream,  add  yelks  of  egg,  then  ths 
whites  and  tho  flour.  Grate  a  eocoanut  and  add 
after  tho  other  ingredients  are  in,  saving,  if  desired, 
a  handful  for  tho  frosting.  Flavor  with  bitter  al- 
mond or  rose. 

JuvBLEs. — Ono  pound  of  flour,  half  pound  sugar, 
half  pound  butter,  two  eggs,  cinnamon  and  rose- 
water. 

Plain  Levon  Pie. — Ono  lemon,  ono  cup  of  sugsr, 
ono  of  water,  a  tablespoonfnl  of  flour,  and  one  egg. 
Baked  with  two  erusts. 

Frosted  Leuon  Pie.— One  lemon,  a  little  butter, 
two  tablespoonfuU  of  milk,  tho  3-elk  of  ono  egg, 
mixed  together  and  baked  in  a  crust.  Thicken  the 
white  with  sugar,  spread  it  over  tho  pic,  and  place 
it  in  tho  oven  to  brown  a  little. 

To  HAKE  TWO  quarts  OF  Jelly.— Take  one 
packet  of  gelatine  marked  la,  dissolve  it  in  one  pint 
of  clear  cold  water,  and  let  it  stand  ono  hour.  Then 
add  to  it  tho  grated  rind  of  one  lemon  and  tho 
juice  of  three.  Ono  nutmeg  grated,  and  one  and  a 
half  pounds  of  sugar.  Add  to  tho  mixture  3  pints 
of  boiling  water ;  stir  it  all  together  ten  miniito^ 
and  strain  through  a  flannel  bag. 


nSTE^W   I>TJBLICA.TIONS. 


Goti>  AKD  Nams.    By  Marie  Sophie  Schwarts.    Trans- 
lated from  the  Swedish.    By  Selma  Borg  and  Marie 
A.  Brown.    Boston :  Let  dt  Shepard, 
Birth  akd  Edccatiox.     By  Marie  S' phie  Schwarts. 
Translated  from  the  Swedish.    By  Sclma  Borg  and 
Marie  A.  Brown.    Boston :  Lee  <£  &ficpartL 
Madame  Schwartz  is  ono  of  tho  most  popular, 
and,  judging  from  the  long  list  of  her  novels  an- 
nounced as  in  course  of  translation,  most  prolifio  of 
Swedish  writers  of  fiction.     Of  tho  two  Tolumes 
whose  titles  aro  given  above,  the  first  named  is  a 
story,  thoprinoipal  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  Sweden, 
and  which  possesses,  in  addition  to  whatever  attrac- 
tions may  belong  to  it  in  virtue  of  its  author's 
artistic  abilities,  the  interest  of  comparative  novelty 
in  its  delineations  of  life  and  character.     "Birth 
and  Educations"  opens  in  Pari?,  during  tho  early 
days  of  the  great  Revolution,  and  presents  us  with 
many  graphio  and  powferfnl  pictures  of  that  stormy 


and  eventful  period.  In  this  story  we  are  mors 
than  onco  reminded  of  a  Qerman  contemporary  of 
tho  Swedish  author^Madame  Mtthlbach.  Madame 
Schwartz,  however,  has  more  depth  and  solidity 
than  are  to  be  found  in  the  but  recently  famouf, 
yet  now  almost  forgotten,  Qerman  novelist,  and  her 
popularity  with  American  readers,  while  it  may  be 
of  slower  growth,  will,  wo  imagine,  bo  much  more 
lasting.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Turner  A  Co. 
and  J.  B.  Lippinoott  it  Co. 

Toi!  TojfE  MA8TIRS.  A  Musical  Series  for  Toung  Peo- 
ple. By  Charles  Bnrnard,  Autl.or  of  "Mozart  and 
Mendelssohn,"  « Handel  and  Hadyn,''  etc.  Illus- 
trated. Bach  and  Beethoven.  Boston :  Ut  d  Shcf 
crd. 

Though  designed  to  serve  in  the  musical  ednoft- 
tion  of  the  young,  these  delightfal  little  volun»«i 
Will  be  found  of  interest  to  older  readers,  whose 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


NEW   PUBLICATIONS. 


181 


mosieal  tastes  have  been  deroloped  even  in  a 
moderate  degree.  They  not  only  proaent  in  an 
•Ctraetire  manner  the  more  prominent  incidents  in 
tke  lives  of  tho  great  maaters  of  mnsic,  and  dellne- 
■to  in  a  few  sharp  tonebes  the  salient  points  of 
their  characters^  bat  they  also  describe  with  pleas- 
bg  Tiraeity,  and  in  a  lucid  yet  poetio  style,  the 
more  striking  features  which  distingnish  their  com- 
positions. The  present  Tolnme  gives  a  description 
of  the  performance  of  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony, 
vbicb,  though  not  without  some  blemishes,  is  so 
virid  that  one  can  almost  hear  the  music.  For  sale 
in  Philadelphia  by  Tnmer  k  Co. 

TnToiTfG  r^ioHEiBs  OF  THs  North-Wbst.    By  Dr.  C.  H. 

Pearson,  Author  of  "The  Cabin  on  the  Prairie,"  etc. 

nioscrated.     Boston :  Lu  dk  Shepard. 

A  book  fall  of  thrilling  adventures,  and  presont- 
\a%  lively  pictures  of  the  varied  phases  of  pioneer 
life.  Tho  scene  is  laid  in  Minnesota,  a  State  whoso 
fieaeer  history  is  one  of  especial  yet  mournful 
isterest.  Boys  who  love  hunting  stories,  and 
•toriea  about  Indians,  will  bo  delighted  with  this 
book,  which  is  the  fifth,  and,  wo  believe,  the  last  of 
the  "Frontier  Series."  For  sale  in  Philadelphia 
by  J.  B.  Lippinoott  A  Co. 

Eatbh  Stobxxs.  By  Mi?s  A.  M.  Douglas.  Three  vol- 
umes. Illustrated.  Boston:  Lee <£ Shepard. 
We  have  here,  in  a  neat  box,  threo  cleverly  writ- 
ten and  charming  little  stories  for  the  juvenile 
members  of  the  homo  circle.  They  arc  severally 
entitled,  "Kathie's  Three  Wishes,"  "Kathie's  Aunt 
Rath,"  and  "  Kathie's  Summer  at  Cedarwood."  For 
sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Turner  &  Co. 

Pknu*8  MeLonsox  Scbool.   Kew  Tork:  /.  L.  PtUn, 
ttQ  Broadway. 

This  is  a  well-arranged  book  of  elementary  in- 
ttnietion,  designed  for  those  who,  with  the  aid  of  a 
master,  may  wish  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  music, 
tad  the  ability  to  perform  the  popular  airs  of  tho 
^y,  to  play  an  aocompaniment  to  a  song,  and  to 
cxeeata  with  sufficient  skill  the  generality  of  the 
plain  psalm  and  hymn  tunes  found  in  singing- 
books  for  congregational  use.  The  contents  com- 
prise^ in  addition  to  the  exeroises  and  scales,  a 
tsriety  of  very  prettily  arranged  instrumental 
pieoes  of  easy  performanoei,  and  a  seleotion  of 
popular  songs  and  time-honored  psalm  and  hymn 
tones.    Bent  to  any  address,  post  paid,  for  $1.50. 

Thi  New  Toax  OssEsvca  Tear-Boox  axd  Almanac  roa 
1871.  New  York :  Sidney  E.  Mone^  Jr.^  dJ  Cb. 
Tliis  is  a  valuable  work  of  two  hundred  pages, 
prepared  at  an  expense  of  $15,000,  which  forms  an 
exteasive  enc>Iopa;dia  of  statistical  information, 
both  religious  and  secular.  It  contains  a  directory 
of  the  ministers  of  tho  principal  denominations  of 
tho  United  States,  statistics  of  Christian  churches, 
and  records  of  church  work,  and  a  large  amount  of 
information  with  regard  to  civil  and  commercial 
matters  that  will  bo  found  of  great  use.  A  very 
rare  book— the  first  Directory  of  New  York— a 


oopy  of  which,  four  years  ago,  brought  $100  at 
public  auction,  is  reprinted  entire  in  this  work. 
For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Porter  4  Coates.  Price 
$1.00.  All  subscribers  to  the  New  York  Observer^ 
paying  a  year's  subscription  in  advance,  will  re- 
ceive a  copy  gratuitously. 

PuBUO  LxDoxa  Almakao  roa  1871.  Philadelphia :  Geo. 
W.  ChiUIi 

This  almanac,  containing  much  that  will  interest 
Philadolphians,  is  published  and  distributed  gratu- 
itously to  all  subscribers  to  tho  Ledger. 

iLiusraATED  TaxFBKANCS  ALpnABiT.  New  York :  J.  N* 
SUarm,  172  Williara  Street    Price  25  cents. 

This  is  an  illustrated  pamphlet,  containing  the 
A  B  C  of  Temperance,  with  appropriate  Rhymes,  by 
Edward  Carswell,  which  makes  an  exceedingly 
interesting  and  effective  temperance  lecture  for 
Children.  Each  letter  is  accompanied  with  a  beau- 
tiful illustration,  and  is  printed  in  colors,  making 
it  one  of  the  most  amusing  and  instructivo  temper- 
ance documents  ever  issued  for  children. 

Jonir  SwTO.  An  Illustrated  Temperance  Poem.  By 
Edward  Carswell.  New  York:  /.  N.  Stearru,  172 
William  Street.    Price  15  cents. 

The  National  Temperance  Society  has  just  pub- 
lished an  illustrated  pamphlet  of  twenty-four  pages, 
entitled  "John  Swig,"  giving  a  description  of  his 
"  Bee-IIive  Inn."  It  has  eight  characteristio  en- 
gravings, and  is  printed  on  fine  tinted  paper,  mak- 
ing a  most  attractive  and  useful  tcmperanoe  docu- 
ment. 


NEW  MUSIC. 

We  have  received  from  W.  W.  Whitney,  Toledo, 
Ohio,  tho  following  pieces  of  new  music : 

«  OrioU  Polka,"  By  Frank  M.  Davis,  Thirty 
cents. 

<'  When  You  vere  Seventten,  Nellie.*'  Song  and 
Chorus.    By  Frank  Howard.    Forty  cents. 

"Are  Ynu  Comitujy  Love,  To-night  t"  Words  and 
Music  by  Frank  Howard.    Forty  cents. 

"I  Frel  Pm  Growing  Au-d,  Gude  Wi/e."  A 
Scotch  Ballad.  Words  by  James  Linen;  music  by 
C.  F.  Shattuck.     Forty  cents. 

**  Hearth  and  Home."  Song  and  Chorus.  Words 
and  musio  by  Frank  Howard. 

Wo  are  also  indebted  to  tho  same  publishers  for 
a  set  of  their  "Silvery  Echoeo,"  a  series  of  twelve 
beautiful  waltzes,  polkas,  maxurkas,  and  marobes, 
written  In  an  easy  and  pleasing  style,  for  the  wants 
of  young  people.  By  Frank  M.  Davis.  Their 
titles  are :  Sylvan  Waltz,  Put-in-Bay  Polka,  Rural 
Schottisch,  Blue-Eyed  Daisy  Polka,  Charming  Ma- 
lurka.  Croquet  Schottisch,  Sparkling  Gem  Walts, 
Pacific  Grand  March,  Irving  Quickstep,  Oriole 
Polka,  Signet  March,  and  Yictorine  Schottisch, 
Thirty  cents  each. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


EIDITORS'  I>EPAJlTMK]SrT. 


GAUL  HAUIIiTOK'S  TAI^K  ABOUT 
WOMKH. 

Gail  Hamilton  ia  writing  up,  in  tbo  columns  of 
the  Jndeptudeut,  her  yiews  of  the  woman  question. 
She  is  oocasionally  pretty  serere  upon  women,  but 
we  fear  no  more  so  than  thej  deserve. 

Speaking  of  the  unreliability  of  women  in  a  busi- 
hms  point  of  view,  (Gail !  Gail !  will  you  make  no 
exceptions?  Tonraelf  and  the  writer  of  this  arti- 
ole,  for  instance,)  she  says : 

"The  ignorance,  the  inexactness,  the  nntrnst- 
wortbincss,  the  unbusioess-like  ways  of  women  aro 
appalling  when  you  look  at  them  from  a  commer- 
cial point  of  view.  Men  are  as  bad  as  they  can 
be,  one  is  sometimes  tempted  to  say ;  but  appar- 
ently they  cannot  be  so  bad  as  women  in  these  re- 
spects. Long  ages  of  experience  have,  at  least, 
educated  them  into  a  consciousness  of  the  difference 
between  yes  and  no ;  but  women  have  yet  to  learn 
that  they  are  not  one  and  the  same  word.  The 
carpenter  promises  to  finish  your  new  porch  by  a 
certain  time.  He  runs  weeks  behindnand;  and 
when,  at  length,  the  porch  is  finished,  the  rain 
weeps  in  at  every  seam  and  pours  in  at  every  joint. 
But  he  has  the  grace  to  be  ashamed.  He  knows 
that  it  is  poor  work  and  tardy  work,  and  he  takes 
esre  to  bring  in  his  bill  when  yon  are  not  at 
home. 

"But  women  look  you  blandly  in  the  face  and 
are  not  ashamed.  They  seem  to  lack  a  moral  sense, 
or  a  mental  preception,  or  whatever  the  faculty  is 
which  makes  one  capable  of  contracting  an  en- 
gagement They  do  not  comprehend  its  nature. 
It  has  for  them  no  more  binding  force  than  a  rope 
of  sand.  They  break  it  with  a  serene  nnconsoious- 
ness  that  anything  is  broken,  or  that  there  was 
anything  to  break.  I  do  not  refer  now  to  the  fe- 
male portion  of  our  foreign  population.  Ko  one 
expects  to  find  there  a  scrupulous  adherence  to 
truth.  But  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  is,  I  believe, 
considered  to  be  beyond  all  other  races  truthful; 
Mid  when  a  well-dressed  and  respeotable  Amoriean 
woman  who  knows  how  to  road  and  write,  and 
belongs  to  the  church,  and  goes  to  the  sewing- 
society,  and  changes  her  gown  in  the  afternoon — 
when  she  promises  to  go  east,  and  ealmly  turns 
about  and  walks  west,  and  does  not  see  that  there 
is  any  discrepancy,  does  not  tear  her  hair  or  send 
in  her  confession  to  the  church,  you  say  at  once 
that  here  is  missionary  ground." 

There  is  undoubted  truth  in  the  following  para- 
graph, truth  which  every  woman,  whether  she  it 
valiantly  clamoring  for  her  rights  or  merely  try- 
ing to  earn  a  living,  should  oonstaatly  bear  in 
mind : 

"Granting  and  aflirming  that  woman  ought  to 
live  outside  of  the  laws  of  trade,  it  is  none  the  less 
true  that,  if  she  puts  herself  or  is  brought  by  society 
within  the  scope  of  those  laws,  she  must  conform 
to  them.  Granting  and  asserting  that  woman 
ought  not  to  do  man's  work,  it  is  none  the  less  true 
th*t,  if  she  does  it,  she  must  do  it  in  man's  way, 
or  sufier  the  consequences.  The  produots  of  her 
toil,  the  value  of  her  labor  must  be  brought  into 
(182) 


direct  comparison  with  those  of  man,  and  be  Judged 
solely  by  their  worth,  not  by  the  weakness  sur- 
mounted in  the  doing." 

In  an  article  headed  "What  Women  leal^ 
Want,"  she  is  led  to  exclaim : 

"  I  am  amaied,  I  am  indignant  to  hear  this  onl- 
ery  for  a  wider  sphere  and  greater  opportunities 
for  woman,  while  her  sphere  is  already  a  thousand 
times  wider  than  she  spans,  and  her  opportunitifss 
a  thousand-fold  greater  than  she  has  ever  attempted 
to  measure.  Every  sphere  under  the  sun  is  open 
to  her  but  the  do-nothing  sphere.  Kvery  imagina- 
ble opportunity  is  ofi*ered  her  except  the  opportu- 
nity to  sow  tares  and  reap  wheaL  The  cry  for 
work,  the  clamor  for  a  career,  are  the  cry  and 
clamor  of  weakness.  Strong  eyes  see  work,  and 
strong  hands  do  it,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  Skt 
who  IS  eqnul  to  a  career  euter$  upon  a  cnretr,  and 
there  f  •  no  Jlourith  of  trumpeti.  Be  9ure  •A*  «*• 
complaint  of  obstacle*  ts  nut  the  victim  of  obeta^ 
elee," 

The  italieixation  is  our  own.  Twenty  years  sfs 
this  would  not  be  so  true  as  it  is  now.  But  pio- 
neers have  been  over  almost  every  inch  of  ground, 
and  there  is  literally  no  obstacle  to  prevent  an  am- 
bitious and  persevering  woman  entering  upon  aay 
career  or  vocation  to  which  she  feels  herself  called, 
but  positive  want  of  energy  or  ability. 

Kow  is  the  golden  opportunity  for  all  women 
who  desire  "careers."  They  can  be  lawyers,  doe- 
tors,  clergymen,  or  craters ;  and  if  they  achieve 
even  moderate  success  it  will  be  set  down  as  some- 
thing extraordinary,  and  their  names  and  fames 
will  be  heralded  through  the  public  press  from  the 
Atlantic  coast  to  the  shores  of  the  Pacific.  It  is 
not  at  all  unlikely  that  their  reputations  will  cross 
the  water,  and  help  encourage  our  somewhat  con- 
servative English  sisters  to  similar  exertions.  Bat 
women  must  not  flatter  themselves  that  thislkvora- 
ble  time  will  endure.  There  will  be  a  reaetien, 
when,  it  being  discovered  that  mediocre  female 
talent  is  really  no  more  remarkable  than  mediocre 
male  talent,  they  will  be  judged  as  severely  as  they 
now  are  leniently.  This  time,  when  the  pendulum 
of  public  opinion  shall  swing  clear  to  the  other  ex- 
treme, will  be  the  time  which  will  try  women's 
souls.  They  can  only  hope  to  pass  through  it  by 
calling  to  their  aid  all  their  courage  and  pride  of 
sex.  Then  they  must  not  be  satisfied  with  moder- 
ate aohiovements,  but  must  do  their  very  beet;  when 
they  may  hope  to  win  and  maintain  an  equal  place 
with  and  exact  judgment  from  men.  It  is  only  after 
these  two  phases  of  publio  opinion — tho  present 
and  the  one  to  come — shall  have  passed,  that  women 
will  be  judged  fairly  and  impartially,  notes  womaa 
with  man — as  a  weaker  with  a  stronger — but  as 
individual  with  individual^  standing  on  merit! 
alone. 


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183 


THB  WOMAN'S  JOURKALi. 

n«  Woman'9  Jimrnal,  published  at  Boston,  hns 
JBst  passed  through  a  successful  year,  and  began 
itj  second  volume  in  an  enlarged  form.  It  is  edited 
bj  Mary  A.  Livermore,  with  Julia  Ward  Howe, 
Loej  Stone,  Henry  B.  Blaokwell,  and  T.  W.  Hig- 
ginson  as  associate  editors.  In  addition  to  this  tal« 
ented  corps  of  writers,  Celia  Burleigh  is  a  regular 
contributor,  and  we  see  such  names  as  Frances  D. 
Gage  and  Miriam  M.  Cole  in  its  columns.  Celia 
Barlcigh  recently  contributed  a  series  of  articles 
entitled  "  People  Worth  Knowing,"  which  were  ex- 
oeedingly  interesting,  and  which  we  hope  will  be 
eontinued  during  the  coming  year.  7%t  Woman** 
Journal  is  published  at  $2.50  per  annum. 

ITe  make  the  following  extracts  from  Mrs.  Cole's 
feUer,  in  which  is  illustrated  how  the  unjust  laws 
OMaeeming  married  women  can  sometimes  bo  turned 
to  the  disadvantage  of  the  other  sex : 

"Judge  Dickey,  of  Chiilieotho,  one  of  the  ablest 
■len  on  the  bench,  we  met,  who  is  not  identified 
with  the  woman's  rights  movement,  and  whose  wife 
bitteriy  opposes  it,  and  yet  he  has  helped  us  greatly 
ef  late.  The  case  just  tried  before  oim  is  a  rare 
oea.  This  it  is :  A  man  died,  leaving  a  large  farm. 
His  will  gave  the  power  to  an  executor  to  sell  it 
wheoever  his  widow  should  wish  to  dispose  of  it 
She  died  and  he  sold  it,  and  gave  the  money  to  the 
six  mAiried  daughters.  They,  in  turn,  sued  the 
parshaser  for  the  land.  '  How  do  you  suppose  I 
decided  the  case  V  asked  the  judge. 

"'There  was  but  one  way  to  decide  it,'  was  the 
replj;  'a  fool  can  see  that  those  women  had  no 
riKht  to  both  money  and  land.' 

** '  I  gave  them  the  land,'  laid  the  jndge,  with 
emphsksis. 

**  *  And  the  money  too  V 

"  '  And  the  money  too,'  with  renewed  emphasis. 
'For,  yon  see/  continued  the  judge,  'the  principle 
imrolved  is  this :  A  married  woman  ««  a  nonenMy, 
amd  heimy  eueh  U  ineapakU  of  fraud,  A  similar 
eaea  waa  decided  in  the  same  manner  by  a  Massa- 
rtinseita  eonrt.  A  married  woman,  representing 
herself  as  n&married  at  the  time,  sold  her  farm  and 
raoMTed  the  money ;  then  she  eonfes?ed  to  being 
Berried,  sued  him  for  her  land  and  gained  the  suit. 
Men  ought  to  be  bitten,'  said  the  judge,  '  if  they 
will  allow /smjNtf  eooert  a  place  in  their  statutes  1' 

**  Said  a  eynical  bachelor,  '  Don't  you  think  the 
eeees  joa  have  cited  rather  hard  on  the  women  ? 
Don't  jiiVL  think  it  shows  them  up  as  unscrupulous 
Mid  deeeitfnl  persons  Y 

"  We  grant  that  those  women  lacked  a  substratum 
of  honesty  and  tmtlifttlness,  but  they  stood  on  a 
per  with  the  Uw." 


eOVSRHOR  GI«AFLiIlf«  OF  MASS^  AHO 
THB  DirOHABI  (^UBSTION. 

Goremor  Claflin,  of  Massachusetts,  in  his  recent 
nsessai^  to  the  legislature  of  that  state,  refers  to 
the  injustices  done  women  by  statute  and  common 
lew,  and  recommends  that  the  consideration  of  the 
legislatttre  be  directed  toward  these  subjects.  He 
says: 

"  With  regard,  then,  to  the  abstract  right,  it  is 
diftevlt  to  see  why  one  sex  only  should  exereise  the 
privilege  of  voting,  and  there  certainly  are  many 


strong  considerations  why  those  now  excluded 
should  be  permitted. to  share  in  public  affairs. 
Whatever  conclnsions,  however,  we  may  reach  on 
this  point,  there  can  be  no  question  that  great  in- 
justice is  done  to  women  by  many  existing  laws, 
and  it  is  our  duty  to  relieve  the  statute-books  of 
those  relios  of  barbaric  ages.  I  allude  particularly 
to  those  laws  affecting  the  rights  of  propei*ty." 

The  governor  proceeds  to  point  out  various  laws 
which  bear  heavily  upon  women — laws  which,  with 
various  modifications  rendering  them  either  more 
lenient  or  more  severe  upon  women,  are  still  to  be 
found  on  the  statute  books  of  oveiy  state  in  the 
Union.    He  goes  on  to  say : 

"There  are  laws,  also,  affecting  the  rights  of 
woman  in  regard  to  children,  which  bear  severely 
upon  her  in  the  tenderest  relations.  The  courts 
have  often  shielded  her,  of  late  years,  in  these  mat- 
ters, realizing,  doubtless,  that  precedent  SAd  the 
usual  strict  interpretation  of  laws  often  bring  great 
injustice  to  many  worthy  and  suffering  mothers,- 
and  lasting  injury  to  children.  All  such  injastice 
and  hardship  should  be  eliminated  from  our  laws, 
and  this  is  peculiarly  your  function.  Tho  laws  of 
a  State  ought  to  express  the  sentiments  and  opin- 
ions of  the  people,  out  our  statutes  now  fail  to  do 
this  in  many  particulars  deeply  affecting  the  rights 
of  woman." 

If  the  legislature  of  Massachusetts  responds  to  the 
appeal  of  its  liberal-minded  and  progressive  gov- 
ernor, in  the  spirit  which  he  desires,  that  State  will 
soon  present  a  model  to  her  sisters. 

That  there  is  justice  and  reason  in  what  Gover- 
nor Claflin  says,  especially  in  the  existing  laws  re- 
lating to  the  rights  of  women  to  their  children,  was 
exemplified  in  that  State  during  the  past  year,  when, 
by  order  of  a  judge,  a  child  was  literally  torn  from 
its  mother's  arms,  and  borne  crying  away  from  the 
court-room,  at  the  instance  of  a  person  who  held  a 
guardianship  over  it  jointly  with  Its  mother,  and  who 
claimed  (and  obtained  the  support  of  the  oourt  to 
that  claim)  that  the  mother,  by  contracting  a  sec- 
ond marriage,  had  forfeited  her  right  of  goardian- 
ship. 


<«  TUB  RBTURH  OF  THB  RUHA1¥AT.»« 

The  cartoon  which  we  give  this  month  is  from  a 
fine  painting  by  J.  Clark,  an  Enghsh  artist,  who 
has  achieved  considerable  success  as  a  delineator  of 
home  scenes.     The  Art  Journal  says  of  it : 

"His  'Return  of  the  Runaway,'  exhibited  at  the 
British  Institution  in  1862,  is  undoubtedly  one  of 
the  best  works  Mr.  CUrk  has  painted.  When 
English  boys  leave  their  homes  clendestinely,  it  is 
generally  to  get  to  sea ;  and  often  one  or  tu  e  voy- 
ages curb  their  wandering  spirits.  But  this  '  run- 
away' has  evidently  been  abscAtfor  years,  and  has 
grown  into  manhood,  so  that  whan  he  again  seeks 
the  parental  roof  he  is  as  a  stranger  to  the  old 
folk :  the  expression  of  doubt  on  the  father's  face, 
as  the  seaman  declares  his  relationship,  is  capitally 
rendered,  while  the  mother  fixes  her  eyes  on  him 
with  a  kind  of  half-reoognition,  as  if  to  traee  out 
some  line  or  mark  that  would  set  all  aneertainty  at 
rest.  Tho  picture,  like  all  Mr.  Clark  doesi^is  vexy 
carefully  painted  in  all  its  details," 


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184 


ARTEUR'8   LADY'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


▲INSERT  BARN1&8  AND  TBMPSRANCB. 

The  l&te  Rev.  Albert  Barnes  was  a  life-long  ad- 
Tooate  of  Temperanoe.  In  early  manhood,  he  set 
bis  face  as  steel  against  the  mannfactnre  and  sale 
of  intoxicating  driuksj  and  in  his  later  years  he 
said: 

"  I  have  maintained  pnblicly  the  same  principles 
ever  since.  I  have  defended  the  cause  of  temper- 
ance in  every  way  in  my  power.  I  have  advocated 
the  principle  of  total  abstinence  from  all  that  can 
intoxicate;  I  have  vindicated  the  nse  of  'the 
pledge  \*  I  have  argued  against  those  laws  which 
contemplate  the  licehthig  of  that  which  is  admitted 
to  bo  an  evil:  I  have  exhorted  the  Church  to  set  an 
example  of  total  abstinence ;  I  have  endeavored  to 
show  that  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  ardent 
spirits  for  drinking  pur}>oses  can  be  reconciled 
neither  with  the  principles  of  sound  morality  nor 
religion ;  I  have  defended  the  propriety  of  a  law 
which  would  wholly  prohibit  the  sale  of  alcoholio 
drinks  except  for  purposes  of  medicine  and  manu- 
factures. I  have  endeavored  to  show  you,  that  as 
yon  would  not  suffer  a  powder  manufactory  to  be 
set  up  in  Washington  Square,  as  you  would  not 
allow  a  cargo  of  damaged  hides  to  bo  landed  at 
your  wharves,  as  you  would  not  permit  a  vessel 
from  an  infected  region  to  come  into  port,  so  the 
true  and  the  safe  principle  would  be  to  exclude  and 
prohibit  forever  that  which  spreads  woe,  poverty, 
disease,  crime,  pollution,  and  death — that  a  com- 
munity is  bound  to  protect  itself,  and  that  do  class 
of  men,  for  private  gain, can  have  a  right  to  scatter 
death  and  ruin  around  the  land." 

Though  dead,  he  yet  speaketh,  and  we  send  his 
voice,  in  utterance  of  these  impressive  words,  to 
our  tons  of  thousands  of  readers. 


INDIANA  D1VORCB8. 

Gorenor  Baker,  of  Indiana^  in  his  reoent  ; 
•age,  refers  to  the  sabjeot  of  divorces.  He  calls 
the  laws  as  they  now  stand  upon  the  statute  book 
of  that  State  a  reproach  to  the  civilisation  of  the 
age»  He  recommends  that  the  laws  be  so  amended 
that  divorces  cannot  be  obtained  without  real  and 
auffioient  cause,  and  that  there  shall  be  changes  in 
the  practice  of  divorce  cases  which  will  render 
fraudulent  divorces  impossible. 

OUR  FASHIONS. 

One  of  our  Western  correspondents  writes  us : 

"  A  young  lady  whose  life  is  devoted  to  the  be- 
nevolent institution  of  dress,  as  well  as  to  other 
things,  recent^  said  that  Mr.  Arthur's  Hohr 
MAOASiirB  furnished  better  patterns  than  any 
other  lady*!  book  with  which  she  was  acquainted." 

OUR  lilTERART  MAGAZINK8. 

A  comparison  of  The  Atlanficy  LippineoU't  Mag- 
atine,  The  Galaxy,  and  Senbner't  Monthly^  with 
English  Magazines  of  the  same  class,  is  highly  fa- 
vorable to  the  former.  Our  magazines,  in  aU  the 
elements  of  freshness,  interest^  progress  of  thought, 
and  variety  of  topics  dieouMed,  are  getting  far  in 
advance  of  their  English  eotemporaries.  We  notice 
the  fact  with  pride  and  pleasure. 


BOCIALi  INFLUBNCX:. 

The  indifference  of  most  young  women  to  the 
cause  of  intemperance,  is  deeply  to  be  regretted. 
If  they  would  set  their  faces  as  steel  against  social 
drinking,  discountenance  the  visits  and  discourage 
all  friendly  intimacy  with  those  who  use  liquor, 
they  would  save  thousands  and  thousands  of  young 
men  from  a  fearful  vice,  and  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  their  own  sex  from  tho  wretched  fate  of 
drunkards'  wives. 

But,  so  far  from  this  being  the  rule,  it  is,  alas! 
almost  the  exception.  In  social  parties,  whers 
wine  is  served,  you  see  young  women,  with  scarcely 
an  exception,  drinking  with  young  men,  and  giving 
their  smiling  countenances  to  the  most  dangerou 
form  of  all  self-indulgence. 

And  who  suffers  most  in  the  end  for  all  this? 
Woman  herself.  On  her  head  falls  the  sorrow  and 
the  suffering.  As  society  now  is,  every  generation 
grows  its  harvest  of  drunkards,  and  women  reap 
the  sad  fruits  of  that  harvest  in  broken  hearts  and 
premature  graves. 


DTSPUPSIA. 

Our  people  are  martyrs  to  this  disease  more  thia 
any  other.  It  takes  many  forms,  but  is  occasioned 
in  nearly  all  oases  by  bad  eating  habits.  One  of 
the  forms  of  dyspepsia  is  expressed  in  the  words, 
"  Eating  does  me  no  good." 

Dr.  Hall,  in  his  recent  book  entitled,  "  Bealik  Uf 
Good  Living,"  explains  the  trouble,  and  gives  ths 
remedy.    Hesajs: 

"  This  arises  from  the  fact  that,  although  then 
is  a  plenty  of  food  in  the  stomach,  there  is  no  |)ower 
to  get  nourishment  out  of  it ;  but  nourishment  is  tke 
thing  which  is  wanted,  the  system  feels  itself  almoit 

{)erishing  for  want  of  it,*aiid  cries  in  louder  aad 
ouder  tones,  just  like  a  hungry  baby.  This  is  tbs 
false  appetite  of  the  dyspeptic,  and  is  one  of  his 
chief  tormentors.  He  i«  always  hungry,  alwaja 
craving,  yet  never  satisfied.  He  gets  so  hungry 
sometimes,  about  an  hour  before  the  regular 
meals,  that  he  feels  as  if  it  was  impossible 
to  wait  till  that  interminable  time  of  an  hour  shoiild 
pass  along.  Just  at  this  point  almost  all  dyspeptiei 
will  eat,  and  thus  aggravate  the  disease,  and  make 
it  more  incurable;  they  eat  a  little  'to  stay  the 
stomach,'  as  they  express  it,  to  quiet  the  painful 
gnawings  within ;  but  by  so  doing  they  only  in- 
crease the  burden,  for  before  this  can  be  digested 
the  regular  meal  comes  on,  tho  digestion  of  tlie 
'  snack  '  is  arrested,  and  is  kept  thereby  so  long  io 
the  stomach  that  it  decomposes,  sours,  aggravate! 
all  the  symptom!!,  and  aids  to  perpetuate  the  dis- 
ease. 

In  the  case  above,  it  is  more  nutriment  that 
the  system  is  crying  for,  rather  than  more  food; 
and  nutriment  must  be  given  by  taking  more  exer- 
cise rather  than  more  food,  for  exerciso  preparei 
more  gastric  juice. 

''  The  severe  gnawing  in  dyspepsia,  ezperienecd 
before  the  regular  hour  for  eating  arrives,  should 
be  heroically  resisted ;  for  to  eat  a  little  to  appeiM 
it,  is  but  to  parley  with  your  worst  enemy,  to  aid  is 
fixing  tho  malady  so  deep  into  the  constitution  at 
to  defy  all  human  means  of  extirpation." 


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EDITORS'    DEPAltTMENT. 


185 


A  BBCORD  OF  DirOMAIV'8  VirORK. 

A  circular  from  the  Pennsjlvania  Freedman's 
Relief  Association,  gives  manj  interesting  facts  in 
regard  to  the  schools  for  colored  people,  which  it 
has  established  at  the  south,  and  which  are  mostlj 
in  the  hands  of  female  teachers.  During  the  school 
Tear,  ending  July,  1870,  the  Pennsylvania  branch 
of  this  association  were  able  to  maintain  one  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  teachers,  who  had  about  six  thoa- 
saad  freed  people  under  instruction.  Very  little 
cioChin^  or  other  aid  was  sent  to  them.  The  col- 
ored people  hare  assumed  a  larger  share  in  the 
sapport  of  their  schooU  than  heretofore.  In  many 
instanoes  they  have  built  good  school-houses,  and 
the  establishment  of  a  church  has  been  frequently 
the  outgrowth  of  a  school. 

Id  the  circular  above  referred  to,  an  appeal  is 
made  for  aid  in  the  work  of  paying  teachers.  It 
says :  "  Almost  every  day  brings  entreating  letters, 
praying  with  touching  earnestness  that  former 
schools  may  be  resumed,  or  new  ones  planted; 
promiaing,  in  many  cases,  that  the  freed  people 
will  pay  two-thirds  of  all  expenses.  The  thirst  for 
education  seems  unabated.  It  is  with  grief  that 
this  asflociation  refuses  aid  to  any  of  these  people, 
and  feeling  that  it  may  lay  just  claim  to  public 
eonfidence  for  its  past  record,  it  appeals  for  aid  to 
maintain  an(l  enlarge  its  work." 

We  eopy  from  the  eiroular  a  few  extracts  from 
letters  written  by  teachers,  which  cannot  fail  to  in- 
terest onr  readers,  both  North  and  South.  It  will 
be  seen  that  this  self-denying  work  is  chiefly  in  the 
hands  of  women : 

••The  fruits  of  the  work  begin  to  show  on  the 
8ca  Islands,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  following  ex-> 
traet  from  Miss  Towne's  letter,  in  which  she  states 
she  is  supplying  the  main  land  with  teachers  from 
her  normal  class : 

** '  At  present,  one  of  onr  normal  class — a  young 
nan — is  teaching  the  primary  department.  I  told 
him  yott  had  authorised  me  to  employ  him  at  a 
■alary  of  ten  dollars  a  month,  which  he  considers 
enough  for  the  present.  I  saw  him  on  the  first  day 
of  his  teaching :  he  was  hearing  a  class  in  reading, 
aod  keeping  a  school  of  sixty-five  in  very  good 
order. 

"  *  Miss  Landon  has  given  up  all  hope  of  an  as- 
sistant from  the  State — indeed,  I  believe  she  prefers 
the  assistant  from  our  normal  cla^s.  He,  however, 
has  an  appointment  under  the  State  at  a  salary  of 
thirty  dollars  a  month,  and  by  my  advice  has  ao> 
eepted  it.  I  think  he  will  not  be  obliged  to  leave 
for  some  weeks  to  go  to  his  new  school  on  the  main 
land,  and  by  that  time  Miss  Landon  can  probably 
take  all  the  pupils.  A  new  school  opened  near  hers 
has  ^ready  taken  from  her  such  pupils  as  must 
eross  the  oreck  to  attend  her  school.  Should  she 
still  require  an  assistant,  we  could  send  another 
papO  from  the  Normal  class. 

'''Shall  Mrs.  Strong  continue  throughout  the 
teraiy  or  stop  at  the  end  of  February  ?  The  school 
is  very  large  now,  and  many  children  are  waiting 
for  admission.  I  think  she  will  gladly  stay,  if  you 
iwiiili  iL  Ton  know  it  was  proposed  that  (as  the 
rands  were  low)  she  should  teach  but  half  a  term. 
Please  give  oar  warmest  thanks  and  best  respects 


to  the  fViends  who  stiU  care  for  ns  and  the  poor  of 
this  region/ 

"  Miss  Hancock  writes  from  Mt.  Pleasant,  near 
Charleston,  S.  C,  December  24,  1870  : 

"'Don't  give  up  your  schools  where  you  have 
influential  teachers,  for  there  never  was  a  mission- 
ary labor  so  good  in  its  results.  The  growing  intel- 
ligence of  these  children  fills  me  with  the  deepest 
gratitude  that  I  have  been  permitted  the  charge  of 
one,  through  the  liberality  of  persons  having  real 
sympathy  for  these  people.  For  I  think  with  truth 
we  may  say,  the  schools  thi*  yeivr  are  supported  by 
those  persons  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  wants 
and  needs  of  the  frewl  people.' 

"  Miss  Baldwin  writes  from  one  of  our  most  in- 
teresting schools,  at  Dr.  Tucker's  plantation,  near 
Okolon,  Miss.: 

**  *  We  find  that  the  people  are  not  quite  through 
with  their  cotton  picking,  and  we  have  enjoyed 
seeing  them  for  the  first  time  in  the  "  cotton  patch." 
The  children  were  at  work  when  they  first  heard 
we  were  going  to  return,  and  "  Uncle  Jacob  "  says 
it  *'  li/Ud  th4M  riyhi  tip  "  to  hear  it. 

" '  We  could  not  have  received  a  more  hearty 
welcome  from  old  and  young ;  and  I  hope  and  ex- 
pect to  accomplish  more  than  I  did  last  year.  Dr. 
Tucker  seems  gratified  that  wo  wished  to  return, 
and  in  every  way  tries  to  make  it  pleasant  for  us. 

" '  I  am  enjoying  the  work  more  than  ever  before, 
and  this  I  feel  every  year.  Teaching  the  Preed- 
men  will  be  one  of  the  bright  spots  of  my  life,  I  am 
sure ;  and  I  more  and  more  believe  that  work  for 
Je$u9  brings  happiness  anywhere.' 

"Miss  Lewis,  from  Portsmouth,  Va.,  writes: 
" '  Our  school  has  paid,  during  the  two  months, 
$87.71.  Mrs.  Scott  (an  assistant  teacher),  is  sup- 
porting a  daughter  in  the  Hampton  Normal  School. 
She  expects  her  to  make  an  efficient  teacher  by  and 
by.  By  giving  the  mother  employment,  we  help 
eduonte  a  coming  teaoher.  After  all,  there  is  a 
leaven  of  progress  among  the  people.  I  hope  your 
sending  me  down  here  may  be  the  means  of  drift- 
ing Ambrose's  (an  assistant  teacher)  life  into  a 
channel  where  he  may  be  of  real  service  to  his  peo- 
ple. He  was  without  means,  and  obliged  to  go  to 
work.  He  said  there  seemed  to  be  no  opening  but 
to  learn  the  trade  of  a  cigar- maker.  I  hope  to 
rouse  his  ambition,  so  that  he  will  not  be  satisfied 
until  he  has  made  something  of  himself.  His  merit 
lies  in  his  thoroughly  good  character,  and  this 
without  the  restraint  of  a  church  relationship.  He 
is  a  regular  attender  upon  churefa,  and  a  teacher 
in  the  Sabbath  school,  but  not  a  professor.' 

"From  Okotona,  Miss.,  Miss  Cbamberlin  writes: 
" '  Contrary  to  our  expectations,  wo  are  having  a 
large  day  school  this  month — ^larger  than  through 
Deoember.  We  have  reduced  our  price  of  admis- 
sion somewhat,  as  we  are  teaching  only  one  session 
this  month  (from  four  to  five  hours);  but  I  think 
we  will  raise  more  money  than  we  did  in  Decem- 
ber. We  found  it  very  bard,  last  month,  to  teaoh 
two  full  sessions  and  a  night  school.  My  impres- 
sion is,  that  the  public  schools  of  Okolona  will 
commence  soon  atter  the  beginning  of  the  new 
year.'" 

Mr.  Bobbrt  R.  Cohsov,  711  Saasom  street,  Phila- 
delphia, is  the  Corresponding  Secretary  of  th« 
Association. 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


OUB.  KUSIGAIi  BXCHANGBS. 

From  the  Urge  nnmber  of  periodicalB,  devoted 
to  mutio  and  masical  mattere,  which  we  are  pleased 
to  find  upon  our  exchange  list,  we  shoald  infer 
that  the  people  of  this  oonntry  are  eminently  a 
masical  people.  The  annaal  improvement  and 
enlargement  of  these  excellently  oonduoted  maga- 
sines  and  papers,  indicating  as  they  do  an  increase 
in  their  sobsorlption  list,  serves  to  show,  moreover, 
that  this  love  for  music  is  constantly  angmenting. 
For  the  information  of  such  of  our  readers  as  may 
wish  a  good  musical  weekly  or  monthly,  wo  give 
in  this  number  of  the  Homb  Maoazinb  a  partial 
list  of  our  masical  exchanges,  all  of  which  we  take 
pleasure  in  recommending: 

Peters'  Musical  MoitTMLT. — Published  by  J. 
L.  Peters,  599  Broadway,  New  York.  Terms,  $3.00 
a  year;  $1.50  for  six  months.  This  gives  during 
the  year,  216  pages  of  vocal  and  instrumcnUl 
music,  which  if  bonght  separately,  in  sheets  from 
the  same  plates,  will  cost  $60. 

The  Soxo  Messbnobr  Monthlt. — Published  by 
Boot  k  Cady,  Chicago,  Illinois.  Literary  and 
masical.  Terms,  $1.00  a  year.  Twelve  copies,  one 
year,  $10.00.    Single  numbers,  10  cents. 

The  Amateur. — A  repository  of  music,  litera- 
ture, and  art  Publishod  monthly  by  Leo  A  Wal- 
ker, 022  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia.  Terms, 
$1.00  a  year ;  six  copies,  $5.00 ;  12  copies,  $9.00. 
Single  numbers,  10  cents. 

Benham'b  Musical  Rbtxsw.— A  monthly  jour- 
nal  of  music,  art,  and  literature.  Published  by 
Benham,  Bros.,  Indianapolis,  Indiana.  Terms, 
$1.00  per  year;  six  copies,  $6.00;  twelve  oopies, 
$0.00.    Single  numbers,  10  cents. 

The  Folio.— a  joamal  of  rnosie,  art,  and  litera- 
tnre.  Published  by  White,  Smith  4  Perry,  298 
and  300  Washington  Street,  Boston.  Edited  by 
the  popular  song  writer  and  composer.  Dexter 
Smith,  Terms,  $1.00  a  year ;  single  nambers,  10 
oants. 

The  Silter  Tonothi  aitd  OROAmsTS*  Repbr- 
TORT. — A  monthly  miscellany.  The  music  in  this 
publication  is  arranged  for  the  parlor  organ.  The 
only  periodical  of  its  kind,  we  believe,  in  the  coun- 
try. Price,  60  cents  a  year;  single  oopies,  6  cents. 
Published  by  B.  P.  Needham  k  Son,  New  Tork. 

Loovis'  Musical  Jovreal. — This  is  a  monthly, 
devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  musical  profession. 
Masonic  fraternity  and  Odd  Fellowship.  Published 
by  C.  M.  Loomis,  New  Haven,  Conn.  Terms, 
$1.00  a  year ;  six  copies,  $6.00 ;  twelve  oopies,  $8.00. 
Ten  cents  a  number. 

WHiT!rET*9  Musical  Quest.— A  monthly  musl- 
oal  joamal,  containing  sketches  and  biographies  of 
noted  musicians,  complete  records  of  the  various 
musical  events  in  this  country  and  Europe,  to- 
gether with  new  and  popular  music.  Published 
by  W.  W.  Whitney,  No.  Ill  Summit  Street,  Toledo, 
Obi#.    Terms^  $1.00  a  year;  six  copies,  $5.00; 


ten  oopies,  $8.00 ;  twenty  ooplei,  $16.    Tea  cents 
a  number. 

Brauiaro'b  Musical  World.— A  literary  and 
musical  monthly.  Published  by  S.  Brainard  A 
Sons,  Cleveland,  Ohio.  Terms,  $1.00  »  year;  sin- 
gle numbers,  10  cents. 


TAKSS  VOTICB. 

BBvrrTAVCEi.— Send  post-office  order  or  a  draft 
on  Philadelphia,  New  Tork,  or  Boston.  If  yoa  can 
not  get  a  P.  0.  order  or  draft*  then,  if  the  sum  be 
five  dollars  or  upward,  have  your  letter  registered 
at  the  post-office. 

If  yoa  send  a  draft,  see  that  it  is  drawn  or  en- 
dorsed to  order  of  T.  S.  Arthur  4  Sons. 

.Always  give  name  of  your  town,  county,  and 
state. 

When  you  want  a  magaiine  changed  from  one 
office  to  another,  be  sure  to  say  to  what  post-ofSoe 
it  goes  at  the  time  you  write. 

When  money  is  sent  for  any  other  publication 
than  our  own,  we  pay  it  ever  to  the  publisher,  and 
there  our  responsibility  ends. 

Subscriptions  may  commenoe  with  any  nsmber 
of  the  year. 

Let  the  names  of  the  subsoribers  and  your  own 
signature  be  written  plainly. 

In  making  up  a  club,  the  subscribers  may  be  at 
different  post-offices. 

Canada  subscribers  must  send  twelve  cents  in 
addition  to  subscription,  for  postage. 

Postage  on  "  The  Ladt's  Homb  MAOAinnB "  is 
twelve  cents  a  year,  payable  at  the  office  where  the 
magasine  is  received. 

In  sending  a  club  in  which  our  different  maga- 
sines  are  included,  be  careful  to  write  each  list  of 
names  by  itself.  This  will  make  our  entry  of  the 
names  in  the  different  subscription  books  easier 
and  prevent  many  mistakes. 

Before  writing  us  a  letter  of  inquiry,  examine 
the  above  and  see  if  the  question  you  wish  to  ask 
is  not  answered. 


OCR  PRBMICTM  BVGBATIffOfl. 

These  are  all  expressly  engraved  for  us  at  a  large 
eost,  and  afford  a  rare  opportunity  to  those  who 
love  g^od  pictures  to  obtain  them  at  less  than  one- 
lifth  the  price  at  which  the  foreign  oopies  are  sokL 

For  1871,  all  who  make  up  dubs  will  have  the 
choice  of  four  premium  plates,  vis : 

The  Wreath  of  Imhortellbs, 

The  Aegbl  or  Peace, 

Bed-Time, 

Rice's  Large  and  Five  Steel  PoRTRArr  or  T. 
S.  Arthur. 

One  of  which,  as  may  be  desired,  will  be  sent  to 
the  getter-up  of  each  club.  And  every  sabscriber 
to  "The  Horn  MAOAXiirE"  will  be  entitled  to 
order  one  or  all  of  them  at  a  dollar  eaoh. 


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WAITING  FOR  FATHER. 


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b-/- 


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'yj/' ,.  m 


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§ 


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TRIMMING.  FOR  CHILDBBITS  DRAWERS,  OR  INSERTION  FOR  PETTICOATS. 

(o.  20.  a  pieo«  of  fine  braid,  and  tmall  crochet  hook. 

)  braid  and  tarn  it  in  a  round  loop,  containing  16  small  loops  of  the  braid  in  the  inside ; 
I  needle  and  thread. 

1  crochet  hook,  make  1  doable  crochet  over  this  crossing,  then  2  chain,  and  one  doaUe 
lie  small  loop  till  the  last;  then  work  a  doable  crochet  m  each  of  the  two  loops  that 
Take  out  the  hook  and  draw  the  loop  of  the  stitch  underneath  the  crossing  of  Ihe 
9  crochet  in  each  of  the  two  small  loops  that  will  be  close  together  on  the  other  side ;  tlleb 
into  the  straight  part  of  the  braid,  missing  one  small  loop. 

)  of  braid,  and  work  it  in  the  same  manner,  then  4  chain,  miss  a  small  loop,  double 
t  part  of  the  braid,  and  repeat,  looping  the  stitch  underneath  the  braid,  so  that  the 
rfect  on  the  right  side. 

required  is  complete,  iSuten  off,  loin  the  cotton  on  to  the  side.  7  chain,  miss  a  loop  of 
in  next,  7  ohain,  miss  a  loop,  double  crochet  in  next,  7  chain,  double  crochet  in  the 
It  Repeat  to  the  end.  Then  on  this  same  side  work  thus  in  the  first  loop :  twelve 
thain  between  each  4th  stitch ;  then  the  oentre  loop  4  double  crochet,  4  chain,  4  double 
» loop  the  miM  m  tbe  first. 


BRAIDING  PATTERN. 


MUSLIN  EMBROIDSRT. 


dint 


NAME  FOR  MAR&DiOb 


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FABHION   r>EI>^IlTMENT. 


FASHIONS  FOR  APRIL. 
i«i«  it  M  moAth  ia  the  jaar  the  fiuhioiii  of  whieh  ii  U  mora  dlffioslt  to  fontoU  tiua  April. 
Ij  ft  fiokU  month,  and  in  oar  northoni  Utitadei  we  OMinot  depend  upon  innihine  and  mild 
)  Maj.    Therefore  it  la  thought  beat  to  preaent  oar  readers  with  itylei  of  eoitamea  whiob, 

eaailj  be  modified  to  rait  poMible  pleaaant  weather,  are  jet  half  winterish  in  their  eharae- 
•  worn  on  thoie  cold  and  diiafreeable  dayi  with  whioh  oar  northern  springs  abound.  Our 

reaching  iu  readers  as  it  does  during  the  month- of  April,  is  in  time  to  post  them  on  aaj 
I  for  the  season. 

.-iped  goods,  both  fbr  street  and  indoor  wear,  promise  to  predominate  this  season.  Delieate 
sir-striped  and  line-striped  in  bright  eolors,  on  light  gronad,  will  be  the  most  popular  for 
alking  suiU;  while  muslins  of  the  same  oharaoter  will  be  worn  for  home  toilets.  These 
;  be  larishlj  trimmed,  as  the  simplloitj  of  the  pattern  demands  simplicity  in  the  making, 
asque  ia  black  silk  promises  to  be  the  most  fashioaable  street  garment  for  spriag.  It  is 
d  flUed  to  the  figure,  the  fufaiess  Uid  ia  a  single  plait  at  the  hips.  It  may  be  dosed,  or 
roTon  ia  froat 
costumes  are  made  of  two  shades  of  Irish  popUa. 

bonnet,  with  a  somewhat  larger  orowa  aad  broader  brim,  promises  to  be  the  spriag  style. 
ade  ia  chip  or  English  straw.  Black  is  the  roost  stylUh  trimming  for  the  season.  Black 
•e  used,  but  heary  gros-grain  ribbon  will  take  the  place  of  relret  Lined  brims  aad  iaside 
Doming  iato  use  agala. 

ittle  used  this  seasoa,  except  for  purposes  of  protecUoa  whea  they  are  worn  at  all ;  large, 
of  blue  or  browa  ganse,  that  serve  the  purpose  for  which  they  are  inteaded,  should  be  used. 

marriage  of  the  Princess  Heleaa,  the  fourth  daughter  of  Queen  Victoria,  with  the  Marquli 
lade  the  Argyle-Campbell  elan-tartaa  exceedingly  fashioaable.    The  plaid  is  very  haacl- 
ists  of  white  twilled  ban  upoa  a  blue,  green,  aad  black  grouad,  aad  is  beoomiag  to  both 
uaettes.    It  ihould  be  trimmed  with  broad,  black  tcItcL 
noes  are  used  at  all  the  oomiag  seasoa,  they  will  be  aanrow,  and  put  on  with  little  fUneae 


ng  these  details  of  fashion,  we  cannot  refreia  from  eadorsing  the  fashion  editor  of  Dem^- 
whea  she  says :  "  lastead  of  makiag  on*  style  fashion,  aad  running  after  it  until  it  is  thread- 
ill  learn  that  what  is  fashion  at  one  time,  or  in  one  place,  is  not  fashion  in  aaother,  and 
i  fashioa,  as  well  as  the  most  correct  tast^  is  showa  ia  fitting  oae's  dress  to  oae*s  oiroum- 
sition." 


8TRBBT  COSTUMES  FOR  SPRING. 
(iSe«  doubU  Engraving,) 
stylish  walkiag  suit,  especially  appropriate  for  a  youag  lady.    It  is  made  ia  blue  serge, 
red  with  a  deep,  straight  flounce,  caught  up  oa  both  sides  nader  a  large  bow,  disclodag  a 
lash  falling  from  uaderaeath.    The  flouaee  is  edged  with  a  broad  band  of  black  gros-grain, 
aarrow  binding  of  relyet ;  and  a  similar  band,  surmounted  by  a  fluted  rulBe  of  the  material, 
iTet,  forms  the  heading.    The  simple  overekirt,  trimmed  with  the  silk  bands  aad  staading 
without  ioopiag,  the  sides  being  disposed  to  conreipond  with  the  flouaee  oa  the  underekirt 
Id  be  of  silk,  bound  with  TelTeL    The  jaunty  jacket,  trimmed  simply  with  bands,  is  of  an 
ign,  and  destined  to  become  a  favorite.    Direetoire  hat  of  English  straw,  trimmed  with 
re?en  faced  with  yelTCt,  and  sustained  by  a  haodsome  bow  and  a  garland  of  flowers, 
visiting  toilet,  made  of  Irish  poplin,  in  prettily  contrasting  shades  of  gray  and  brown. 
one  of  the  dress  are  of  gray,  the  garniture  of  brown.    The  skirt,  which  trains  slightly,  is 
doep,  kilt-plaited  flounce  of  brown,  very  deep  in  the  back,  and  headed  with  a  plaiting  of 
ilh  velvet  of  the  same  shade,  bows  of  bro^wn  velvet  being  plaeed  at  intervals  between  the 
ont  garniture  is  composed  of  plaiting,  disposed  in  the  style  of  a  very  deep  double  apron, 
forming  the  heading  to  the  flounce.    The  skirt  of  the  overgarment  extends  only  to  the 
lorioe  eape,  square  in  front,  and  extending  to  the  bolt  in  a  point  at  the  back,  is  a  new  fea- 
geaerally  becoming.    Gyp^  bonnet  of  browa  aad  gray  velvet,  trimmed  with  blaok  lace. 
House  dress  o#*  g»rtaads  of  blue  flowers. 
«rmiM>n  silk  m^  lady-like  toilet,  made  ia  garnet  Irish  poplin,  trimmed  with  bands  of  velvet  of  the  same 
po  ^^Mqae,  of  an  entirely  new  design,  combines  a  basque  and  overskirt  in  a  very  graoefU  man- 

^0  S7P*7  ^'^  o'  garnet  silk,  trimmed  with  garnet  velvet,  and  a  white  plume. 


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FASHIONABLE  COIFFURES. 


COIFFURE  "CECEUA." 

Aa  ezce«dinff1y  becoming  eTening  ooiflUre  for  a 
tiU,  graceful  lady. 

Th«  back  hair  is  diapoaed  in  a  seriea  of  small  puffs, 
aepaimted  by  cable  rolls  intertwined  with  pearl  beads, 
one  Tery  heavy  roll  forming  a  corouet,  ornamented  on 
one  side  by  an  aigrette  of  ostrich  tips,  matching  the 
drees  in  color,  confined  by  a  handsome  pearl  cla^p. 
One  long  tress  is  allowed  to  fall  gracefully  oyer  the 
opposite  shoulder. 

The  front  is  arranged  very  high  in  careless  waves, 
with  small  poA  at  the  sides. 


lOOIFFURE  "STELLA." 

Another  simple  and  generally  becoming  ooifl\ire. 
The  back  hair  is  arranged  in  the  ordinary  chntclnine 
braids.  The  front  hair  is  then  thrown  lightly  bnck 
oyer  a  roll  a  la  Pompadour,  caught  together  under  a 
bow  on  the  top.  and  the  ends  allowed  to  (Ul  in  light 
curls  between  ihe  braids. 


OOIPFUBE  ••  EGLANTINE.* 

Another  lovely  evening  coifnire.  espeoially  appro- 
plate  and  becoming  for  a  petite  blonde.  The  entire 
voBi  and  top  of  the  head  is  covered  with  short,  airy 
cnti,  shoiwlng  no  parting,  the  back  hair  falling  in 
long  light  treases,  low  dowv  on  the  shonlders.  No 
ornaments  are  really  required ;  but  if  any  are  used, 
"    r  shoald  be  timple  iowen,  with  graoertil  trailing 


OOIFFUKB  "LIZETTE." 

A  simple  and  stylish  coUTtire  for  ordinary  use.  The 
front  hair  is  arranged  over  medium'Sised  rouleau.x, 
extending  along  the  sides  of  the  head  to  below  the 
ears.  The  back  is  disposed  In  two  long  braidK  of 
three  strands,  not  braided  from  the  roots,  but  left 
plain  a  short  distance,  so  that  when  they  are  looped 
np  between  the  rouleaux  they  form  the  semblance  of 
a  pfHin  waterfall.  Ther  are  brotight  forward  between 
the  rolls,  and  terminate  in  front  under  a  cluster  of 
short  flngerKiurls.  Oroe-grain  ribbon  bow  en  the  left 
side. 


(IW) 

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POPSY  WOPSY  POLKA. 

ARRANGED  BY  CHARLES  J.  ihERS 


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[Eittered  Aceording  to  Act  of  Congress,  i.  ».  1870,  by  Ln  4  Walske,  iu  tho  OfBoe  of  the  Libfwlaa  of  0» 

gr«8s,  at  Washington,  D.  C] 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


POPBT    W0P8T  POLKA. 


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Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


V|SITmO  DBESS. 

x^  y^'^S'filL^H^  purple  silk,  m^d^'^nCfi  two  sKtKs ;  t|le  lover  «Be  trimmed  with  a^uTo#  mlllee  mmI  - 
Mads  of  teiTel;  the  npper  one  cut  ehort  in  front,  deep  in  the  twok,  and  trimmed  to  correspond.  Poe- 
MJlionbMque  waist,  with  vest  in  frontvOUt  iorplice  at  tha  throat  Hat  of  white  chip,  trlnf  med  with  por- 
plo  yeWet  and  feather.  *^     'h  '^  .  "  '^ 

(200)  .       •  .  ! 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


ARTHUR'S  LADY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE 


APRIL,   1871. 

MAKING  THE  BEST  OP  IT. 
A  STOBY  OP  A  CARPET. 


BSr  MB&  X.  B.  DUFFE7, 


CHAPTEB  L 

THEY  aai  there — mother  wad  daaghter—one 
1  dumal,  minj  day  in  April,  in  a  low,  small, 
Qofiinitahed  room,  which  bore  the  traces  of 
neeot  icrubbing.  The/  were  working  away  at 
in  old,  worn  carpet,  ripping,  cutting,  patching, 
WingiDg  the  beat  into  the  moat  prominent 
plaoo,  and  changing  the  thi^Knd  mended 
bnadtha  to  out-of-the-way,  shady  comers,  and 
to  places  where  the  furniture  would  partially 
coooeal  the  glaring  defects.  The  day  had  been 
nnghiny  to  begin  with,  but  now  the  rain  was 
pooring  without  promise  of  cessation. 

The  mother  was  a  woman  of  thirty-fire^ 
though,  with  her  worn  fiice  and  gray-streaked 
hair,  she  might  easily  have  passed  for  forty. 
6ke  was  carelessly  dressed,  her  garments  re- 
hiring mending  in  more  than  one  place.  She 
vore  no  collar,  and  her  hair  was  put  back  with 
the  sole  idea  of  being  out  of  the  way ;  for  she 
iBonied  "waterfalls" — or  thought  she  did, 
vliich  results  in  the  same  thing. 

The  daughter,  a  slender,  awkward  girl  of 
fcarteen,  had  her  thinness  and  awkwardness 
enhanced  by  her  manner  of  dress.  From  their 
cat  and  color,  her  garments  might  have  been 
vora  by  a  very  unfashionable  woman  of  sixty. 
H«rface  possessed  that  certain  charm  which 
youth  and  health  always  impart,  but  it  was 
iomewhat  marred  by  a  look  of  discontent  and 
nprtasion  which  had  become  habitual  to  it. 
When  she  spoke,  there  was  a  lightening  of  the 
eje,  however,  which  showed  its  capabilities, 
flnch,  in  appearance,  were  mother  and  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Smith  and  Sarah. 

There  had  been  a  silence  for  a  long  time  be- 
tvccQ  the  two.  Indeed,  they  were  often  silent 
when  they  were  together^  for  they  were  not 


given  to  the  interchange  of  thoughts  and  con- 
fidences, which  is  the  wont  of  mothers  and 
daughters. 

The  silence  had  been  unbroken  so  long,  that 
Mrs.  Smith  had  forgotten  the  present  in  a  long 
retrospect.  The  woman's  mind  was  filled  with 
bitter  feelings,  for  she  was  taking,  as  it  were, 
the  sum  of  her  existence,  and  had  found,  as  she 
thought,  the  result  to  be  naught.  It  seemed  as 
though  her  life  had  been  robbed  of  something 
that  of  right  belonged  to  it — that  it  had  been 
her  fate  that  all  brightness  should  have  been 
taken  from  it  And  though,  at  all  times,  she 
was  morbid  on  the  subject,  and  her  thoughts 
particularly  gloomy,  now  there  teemed  some 
show  of  reason  in  her  feelings. 

Her  early  life  had  been  narrowed  by  poverty; 
still  a  certain  beauty  and  refinement  had  clung 
to  it.  But  then  it  had  been  rich  in  possibilities. 
She  had  grown  to  be  a  woman,  and  then,  for  a 
brief  season,  in  the  atmosphere  of  youth,  life 
had  seemed  to  blossom  into  beauty. 

Then  had  come  her  marriage ;  and  with  it 
how  many  hopes  which  were  destined  to  wither 
short  of  fruition.  Her  husband  was  not  fault- 
less, she  well  knew.  But  she  had  married  him, 
not  because  she  was  regardless  of  these  flaws  in . 
his  character,  but  because,  seeing  that  she  pos- 
sessed an  influence  for  good  over  him,  she  was 
hopeful  of  correcting  these  in  time,  and  of 
helping  him  to  make  himself  all  that  she  be- 
lieved him  capable  of  being.  He  was  a  young 
man  of  promise.  An  honesty  industrious  me- 
chanic, sober  and  frugal,  he  bid  foir  to  become 
one  of  the  best  of  husbands  and  worthiest  of 
men.  But  his  middle  age  belied  the  promises 
of  his  youth. 

Somehow  her  hold  upon  him  had  slipped. 

Digitized  by  (J^^gle 


202 


ARTHUR' 8    LADT8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


awajy  Imperceptibly  but  surely.  Aud  now,  in- 
stead of  being  united  in  one  existence,  with 
every  thought  and  feeling  in  oommon,  as  had 
been  her  early  dream  of  married  life,  they 
were  walking  entirely  difOinct  and  difierei;^ 
paths.  Ifi V'ccitild  koi  tep  liow  i)  (»i^#  i^ii, 
hf  Which -bad  beeft  iirost  to  bla^.  Most  |te4- 
ple,  hearing  a  bare  statement  of  the  case,  would 
have  said  that  she  was  unreasonable  in  her  dis- 
content. For  was  he  not  a  good  and  iaithful 
husband  7  Did  he  not  provide  a  living  for  his 
wife  and  children,  and  supply  them  with  all 
things  that  he  considered  necessary  for  their 
comfort  and  well-being? 

And  he  was  quite  as  good  as  most  men — ^bet- 
ter,  perhaps,  than  many.  Food,  shelter,  and 
clothes — these  are  what  a  woman  bargains  for 
when  she  marries.  What  more  conld  a  rea- 
sonable woman  want  ?  Moreover,  he  was  affec- 
tionate in  his  way.  Yet  here  was  this  woman^ 
starving  for'  affection,  and  longing  with  her 
whole  soul  for  something  better — something 
more  beautiful  than  she  had  yet  found  in  life. 

Their  natures  were  entirely  different  She 
was  sensitive  and  delicate,  with  a  passionate 
yet  not  sensuous  love  of  beauty  in  all  its  forms ; 
with  exalted  ideas  of  honor ;  and  with  almost 
unconquerable  pride.  Not  a  day  passed  that 
some  sensitive  nerve  of  her  nature  did  not  re- 
ceive a  shock  from  some  act  or  speech  from  him. 
Yet  he  was  no  ruder  in  speech  and  action  than 
most  men  consider  themselves  privileged  to  be 
with  their  wives.  What  though  he  did  swear 
occasionalTy  in  her  presence  ?  she  ought  to  be 
used  to  it  by  this  time,  so  as  not  to  mind  it,  he 
would  have  thought — if  it  had  occurred  to  him 
to  think  about  it  at  all — without  a  suspicion  of 
the  shudder  that  thrilled  her  whenever  an  oath 
fell  upon  her  ears.  Then,  when  she  saw  petty 
meannesses  in  the  man— little  things  from 
which  her  own  upright  nature  would  have  re- 
coiled— a  feeling  of  contempt  woold  fttise  in 
spile  of  herself. 

They  were  both,  perhaps,  somewhat  sensaous 
in  their  natures,  but  yet  so  different  each  from 
the  other.  His  was  the  grosser  sensuality  that 
delights  in  tangible  pleasures;  hers  of  the 
more  delicate  and  refined  kind,  that  ministers 
to  the  mind  through  the  medium  of  the  senses. 
For  instance,  he  would  have  been  satisfied  to 
■it  down  in  a  sUbfe  to  dinner,  and  eat  off  a 
wooden  plate,  with  a  pewter  spoon,  so  that  the 
viands  were  appetizing  and  plentifuL  She, 
thongh  she  revolted  at  coarse  fare,  would  be 
contented  with  the  simplest  in  quality  and  the 
smalleat  in  quantity,  so  that  she  might  have  it 
daintily  served.    Thia  was  not  the  acquired 


habit  of  the  woman.  It  was  the  innate  nature 
that  had  never  yet  been  gratified,  bot  that  eoo- 
stantly  persisted  in  asserting  itselC  She  vu 
capable  of  developing  into  a  sybarite  if  ci^ 
cumstances  had  favored  such  development  Bat 
tli^y  li:Mi  riolL      j  •  «  "  .  i  i  •    • 

'  -So^tOo/  tilers  #ere4rer*i«  wfpibluictf  AbM 
her,  that  had  been  equally  suppressed.  As  it 
was,  she  could  not  do :  she  could  only  endure- 
that  hardest,  most  trying  of  all.  And  she  wa 
not  naturally  a  patient  woman,  which  made  her 
lot  in'life  all  the  harder. 

One  of  the  first  shocks  she  received  after  her 
marriage^  #at  lb  fir  discovery  that  her  hosbaod 
disapproved  of  her  retaining  the  friendshipiof 
her  maiden  days.  She  was  naturally  nodal, 
and  could  see  no  just  reason  why  she  shoold 
crucify  her  longings  after  companionship.  Bot 
when  lier  husband  told  her  distinctly  thit  he 
did  "  not  believe  in  married  women  gaddisg 
about,"  and  thai  "a  woman  shoald  find  the  fi^ 
ciety  of  her  husband  sufiScient  for  her*  ehe 
started  inwardly,  as  though  cruelly  wonnded, 
and — submitted.  And  the  place  that  might 
have  known  her  in  society  was  empty,  or  filled 
by  some  one  else,  and  the  influence  she  might 
have  exerted  utterly  lost.  But,  oh !  the  lone- 
liness she  felt  in  the  first  years  of  her  married 
life ;  for,  let  husbands  be  all  that  they  can  be, 
there  are  needs  in  a  woman's  nature  which  onlr 
the  friendship  of  another  woman  can  patisfr. 
And  he  is  a  wise  husband  who  makes  the  best 
of  it,  and  smothers  all  incipient,  unreasonable 
jealousy. 

Next  went  her  finery.  Not  that  she  was  ever 
gay  in  dress.  But  whatever  was  not,  in  color 
and  make,  simple  and  quiet  to  quakerlihe 
plainness,  was  deemed  unbecoming  to  ''an  old, 
married  woman,^'  and  condemned.  So  that  Id 
less  than  two  years  from  her  marriage-day, she 
might  have  been  taken  for  her  own  grandmother, 
from  the  sombrcness  and  old-fashiouedneas  of 
her  attire.  And  so  the  woman,  finding  that  her 
husband  was  so  entirely  insensible  to  the  at- 
tractions which  a  tasteful  toilet  confers,  and 
having  no  outside  incentive  to  dress  herselfbe- 
comingly  and  suited  to  her  age,  had  gradual!/ 
lapsed  into  untidiness.  She  still  loved  to  see 
other  women  dressed  in  bright  colorp,  with 
silks,  laces,  and  jewelry ;  but  these  things  some- 
how seemed  to  belong  to  a  world  apart  from 
her  own,  and  to  which  she  had  no  right 

Then,  when  children  came — and  at  (he  end 
of  fifteen  yean  there  was  a  full  hoosehold- 
though  she  loved  them  doubtless  as  other  moth- 
ers do  their  children,  still  she  soon  found  she 
had  no  right  to  take  pleaiare  in  them  as  othtf 

"Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


MAKING    THE    BEST    OF   IT. 


20d 


motben  do.  There  were  no  bright  fanciful 
dresBes,  do  embroideries,  no  tasteful  little  hoods, 
ind  baUt,  and  doaks,  snch  as  all  70a ng  mothers 
nataxally  take  delight  in.  The  children  were 
"not  to  be  made  monkeys  of;"  and  if  their 
dren  was  healthful  and  comfortable  it  would 
"do.'*  She  had  become  so  used  to  this,  that 
ibe  Dov  accepted  it  of  her  own  accord,  and 
when  she  saw  other  children  apparently 
brifEbter,  livelier,  and  more  attractive  than  her 
own,  she  did  not  stop  to  analyze  the  difference 
to  find  that  it  was  only  superficial,  but  came  to 
the  ooodusion  that  it  was  one  of  the  fated 
hardships  of  her  lot,  that  even  in  her  children 
ifae  should  be  denied  that  pleasure  which  was 
the  nataral  right  of  other  women. 

8be  could  even  now  hear  her  two  boys 
Ssmmy  and  Tommy  quarreling  in  the  next 
nom,  and  in  her  mind  she  contrasted  them  in 
tiwir  ugly  patched  trowsers,  and  jackets^  and 
doie-shaven  heads,  with  the  **  cnrled  darlings" 
of  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Cameron.  And  why  were 
other  giris  brighter,  more  graceful,  and  more 
Might  after  than  her  own  daughter,  who 
Kerned  the  impersonation  of  uncoothness  and 
diffidence. 

Even  her  name^  which  had  been  a  subject  of  * 
nerriment  in  her  early  married  life,  had  begun 
to  gall  her  sorely.  That  she  should  be  only 
yin^  John  Smith  I  Indeed,  how  could  she  ex- 
pect any  but  the  most  commonplace  and 
dretiy  of  lives  bearing  such  a  name  I  But  one 
feather  too  much  was  added  to  the  load  when 
htr  husband  urged  the  desirability  of  calling  a 
ion  ''  John,"  because  himself  and  his  father 
Wweit;  and  a  daughter  "Mary,"  because  it 
vai  the  name  of  his  mother  and  sister.  She 
nmmoned  courage  to  revolt.  Ko  child  of  hers 
ihould  reproach  her  for  making  him  or  her  an 
iotignificant  portion  of  an  indefinite  number  of 
John  or  Mary  Smithsw  Still  the  victory  was 
iearcely  less  bitter  than  defeat  would  have 
been,  for  she  had  eagerly  accepted  the  first 
Btmes  her  husband  had  suggested,  and  not 
one  of  them  was  pleasing.  However,  she 
philosophised  that  she  ought  Xo  be  contented 
to  make  things  *'  do,"  so  long  as  they  were  not 
•tterly  unbearable.  That  seemed  to  have  been 
ihe  key-note  of  her  married  life.  So  long  an 
anything  would  ''do^"  it  was  pronoanoed  satia- 
fiietory.  It  was  not  that  her  husband  be- 
gradged  the  expense  of  better  things;  but  he 
did  not  see  the  use  of  them ;  and  his  decision 
was  law. 

He  chose  to  be  steward  and  general  purveyor 
tir  the  hoQsehold ;  but  if  he  did,  on  rare  occa* 
■OMf  tros^  his  wife  with  money,  it  was  with  a 

VOL,  xxxvn.— 14. 


strict  inquiry  into  the  proposed  use  of  it.  If 
he  could  have  realised  how  this  galled  the 
sensitive  woman  who  was  so  dependent  upon 
him,  I  do  not  think  he  would  have  been  so 
cruel. 

Nevertheless,  his  wife  was  the  person  best 
fitted  to  hold  the  strings  of  the  family  purse, 
and  could  have  managed  their  financial  affairs 
with  far  more  economy  and  judgment  than  did 
he,  who  spent  weekly,  without  a  thought,  on 
personal  indnlgencea  an  amount  which  would 
have  added  materially  to  the, comfort  and  hap- 
piness of  his  family.  I  use  the  word'  happi- 
ness advisedly,  for  money  rightly  applied  is 
capable  of  procuring  happiness. 

Yet  Mr.  Smith  was  not  a  dissipated  man  in 
the  strict  sense  of  the  terra.  He  used  tobacco 
habitually.  He  d  rank  occanonally,  never,  per- 
haps, to  excess,  but  with  a  frequency  that 
tended  to  stultify  his  moral  nature.  And  when 
it  was  a  question  of  penonal  gratification 
against  economy,  he  always  allowed  his  desires 
what  he  considered  a  moderate  indulgence. 
That  his  wife  should  ask  for  the  same  liberty 
with  the  privilege  of  exercising  it  in  a  different 
way,  he  would  have  considered  absurd.  His 
wife  was  his  property,  and  he  attended  to  her 
comfort  and  well-being  the  same  as  he  did  for 
his  stock,  perhaps  even  more  carefully,  and 
with  about  as  mach  thought  of  consulting  her 
as  them  in  regard  to  personal  wishes. 

In  their  early  married  life  there  had  been 
some  sort  of  intellectual  companionship  be- 
tween them.  But  when  they  chanced  todififer, 
the  man's  sense  of  his  own  superiority  was  so 
dictatorial ly,  so  offensively  expressed,  that  it 
was  sufiicient  to  silence  her  for  the  time ;  and 
she  gradually  acquired  a  habit  of  repression 
that  finally  resulted  in  complete  reticence. 

The  most  superior  lord  of  creation  some- 
times feels  the  need  of  an  intelligent  companion* 
in  his  home;  but  her  heart  was  too  bitter  with 
the  remembrance  of  the  checks  she  had  re- 
ceived to  meet  Lis  advances  cordially.  Then 
as  time  wore  on  her  mind  became  narrowed 
down  to  the  sphere  in  which  it  was  confined, 
and  she  really  lost  interest  in  all  but  household 
affairs. 

Her  husband  was  a  petty  politician.  She 
being  shut  out  of  all  participation  in  political 
life,  came  to  view  politics  as  something  which 
took  her  hasband  away  from  his  home  and  her 
society  more  than  ever ;  dragged  him  into  low 
haunts ;  led  to  the  companionship  of  ruffians ; 
involved  an  expenditure  of  money  that  neces- 
sitated still  meaner  economies  in  the  home  de- 
partment ;  and  often  sent  him  home  in  a  state 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


30i 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   EOUE   MAGAZINE. 


vhioh  caused  shuddering  uid  loathing  on  her 
part^  bat  against  which  protest  was  useless.  In 
fine,  politics  in  the  phase  in  which  it  presented 
itself  to  her,  was  something  which  dragged 
them  still  further  apart.  White  it  led  her 
husband  still  lower,  and  debaned  him  still 
more,  she  felt  that  the  reflex  action  upon  her- 
self, creating  di^^st,  resentment  and  rebellion, 
was  far  from  beneficial.  And  who  can  say  that 
she  was  wrong  in  this  7 

The  wife's  heart  was  not  in  a  constant  state 
of  active  rebellion.  It  had  become  numbed, 
and  her  sensibilities,  though  frequently  pricked, 
had  acquired  a  habit  of  sinking  into  torpor 
when  the  torture  was  not  upon  them.  For  the 
most  part  she  had  learned  to  accept  her  life  as 
she  found  it,  with  apathetic  acquiescence.  The 
fierce  yet  silent  struggles  of  the  first  few  years 
had  long  since  ceased.  Indeed,  much  that  she 
had  at  first  rebelled  against,  she  had  come  to 
think  was  right  and  proper.  It  was  seldom 
,that  the  mood  of  to-day  was  upon  her.  It  was, 
.no  doubt,  the  gloom  of  the  weather,  the  silent, 
uninterrupted  work  that  gave  occasion  for  such 
;  a  retrospect 

Yes,  she  had  had  her  hopes  like  all  young 
people,  but  she  had  given  them  up  long  ago. 
While  she  must  live  she  would  try  to  accept 
life  as  she  found  it;  and  when  it  came  her  turn 
.  to  die,  she  would  be  more  than  content. 

She  had  borne  children,  and  she  was  necea- 
^aary  to  them,  and  to  her  husband,  inasmuch  as 
that  she  looked  after  their  physical  comforts. 
But  if  she  were  to  die  it  would  not  much  matter. 
Her  husband  might  learn  how  dependent  he 
had  really  been  upon  her  for  the  small  com- 
forts of  life;  but  still  a  servant  oould  be  found 
to  fill  her  plaoe^  and  it  could  scarcely  make 
any  difiference  to  him.  Yes,  life  had  been  a 
valueless  gift  to  her,  and  she  did  not  care  how 
soon  she  was  called  upon  to  relinquish  it 

'Ut  isu't  of  much  account  any  how,  but  we 
;must  try  and  make  the  best  of  it" 

It  was  Sarah  who  spoke,  and  the  mother 
rstarted  in  surprise  that  her  child  had  been  able 
to  detect  her  thoughts.  But  the  spoken  words 
recalled  her  to  the  actual  present,  and  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  showed  her  that  they  had  no 
reference  to  what  was  passing  within  her  mind, 
but  to  the  work  on  which  they  were  engaged — 
the  faded,  frayed,  and  worn-out  carpet. 

Still,  who  shall  say  they  were  not  an  answer 
to  her  thoughts?  At  least,  they  startled  her 
out  of  her  moodiness  "  To  make  the  best  of  • 
it" — her  life.  In  all  the  many  years  she  had 
never  once  thought  of  that  She  had  felt 
bound  to  accept  it  at  its  worsts  and  her  only 


struggle  had  been  to  accept  that  worst  resign- 
edly. 

'*  To  make  the  best  of  it  I"  Was  it  ponible 
to  find  any  best  to  it?    She  could  not  tell. 

There  had  been  no  reply  to  Sarah's  wordti, 
and  the  girl  now  added :  "  I  wiah  we  oonld 
have  things  like  other  folks  I" 

The  echo  of  the  yearning  cry  of  the  mother's 
heart  through  all  these  years  put  into  the 
plainest  language!  Why  could  she  not  hare 
things  like  other  folks?  Everything— not 
carpets  merely,  but  a  pleasant  home,  floweni, 
books,  music,  beautiful  and  dainty  things 
around  her,  an  afiectionate,  considerate  hus- 
band, and  delightful  children?  She  did  not 
ask  for  wealth  or  luxury ;  only  fbr  the  happi- 
ness and  the  elegance  compatible  with  dis 
most  moderate  means.  She  asked  for  so  little 
that  it  seemed  cruel  she  was  denied  that  little. 
But  no,  it  was  not  her  privilege  '*to  have 
things  like  other  folks ;"  and  perhaps  it  was 
not  her  daughter's.  Poor  child  I  her  heart  was 
filled  with  a  sad,  yearning  pity  for  her  child, 
and  if  she  could  she  would  have  taken  her  bor^ 
den  in  addition  to  her  own. 

"  This  hateful  old  thing  1  It  is  almost  worn 
than  none.  I  am  sure  a  rag  carpet  would  be  a 
great  deal  better.  There  are  the  Pierce's,  thej 
have  nothing  but  a  rag  carpet  in  their  best 
room,  and  it  looks  very  nice,  too." 

The  mother's  mifid  reverted  to  the  Pierce's 
snug  little  parlor,  with  its  bright  new  rag  ca^ 
pet,  stands  of  books,  vases  of  flowers,  prettily 
papered  walls  covered  with  engravings^  and 
she  could  not  imagine  her  own  dismal,  dark 
room  transformed  into  any  such  place.  It  bad 
become  part  of  her  creed  that  all  her  belong- 
ings were  necessarily  dismal,  and  nothing  could 
make  them  otherwise.  But  she  replied  some- 
what apathetically :  "  You  can  have  a  rag  car- 
pet if  you  choose  to  make  it,  and  your  £ither 
will  give  you  money  for  its  weaving." 

"  Oh,  I'll  make  it  quick  enough  if  you  will 
let  me,  and  I  will  try  and  manage  about  the 
weaving.  There,  my  part  of  the  carpet  is  fin- 
ished, and  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  sew  the 
two  sides  together.  Let  us  spread  them  out 
and  see  how  they  look.  Dear  1  dear  I  the  whole 
thing  is  wretched  I  I  am  glad  I  thought  oi 
the  rag  carpet  This  is  hardly  fit  for  a  garret, 
much  less  a  parlor.  There,  now  while  J(«i^ 
are  getting  supper  I  will  finish." 

The  mother  left  the  room  and  busied  herself 
in  preparations  for  the  evening  meaL  But  she 
worked  mechanically.  Her  thoughts  were 
still  busy  as  ever.  The  rag  carpet  was  a  n«^ 
idea,  and  any  new  idea  was  welcome  to  her  m 


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MAKING    TEE    BEST    OF   IT. 


the  life  of  stagnation  she  lived.  She  had  never 

ffltde  one,  for  it  seemed  each  a  foolish  waste  of 

time^  this  cutting  and  sewing  of  rags  together. 

fiat  aAer  all,  what  was  her  time  really  worth  7 

And  if  she  and  her  daughter,  in  their  spare 

Bomentis  could  make  one,  there  would  be  no 

loo,  and  just  so  much  palpable  gain,  to  say 
Bothiog  of  clearing  the  house  of  an  accumula- 
tion of  old  garments,  which  were  always  a 
lOQrce  of  perplexity.  Perhaps  there  was  a 
'beet"  in  this  matter  of  the  carpet  at  least  that 
ihehsd  not  regarded  beforp. 

8inh  finished  her  work  so  quickly  that  she 
finnd  time  to  ran  out  into  the  fields — it  had 
•topped  raining — and  came  in  before  supper 
villi  a  bunch  of  spring  flowers.  The  mother's 
ere  brightened  at  sight  of  them.  Ordinarily 
Aewoold  haye  taken  no  notice,  avoiding  them 
vfth  a  morbid  feeling  that  even  flowers  did  not 
bloom  for  her.  But  just  now  life  had  seemed 
iMmentarily  brighter. 

"Do  you  love  floweni,  mother?^ 

*I  used  to,"  was  the  response.  She  could 
aot  connect  them  with  the  present.  Sarah 
placed  them  in  a  tumbler  and  set  them  on  the 
upper  table ;  and  under  their  influence  Mrs. 
Smith  began  to  feel  that  she  had  denied  herself 
nedlessly  of  ranch  beauty  and  happiness  that 
B^t  have  been  hers. 

"Mother,  come  and  see  how  the  old  carpet 
loob  now  it  is  done,''  said  Sarah,  when  the 
ttriy  supper  was  finished ;  and  she  led  the  way 
lo  the  parlor. 

"Why,  child  r*  was  the  mother's  exclama- 
tion, "what  have  you  done?  You  have  sewed 
Ae  wrong  sides  together,  so  that  all  the  worst 
piiees  come  in  the  middle  of  the  room  T' 

"Why,  so  I  have  I"  said  Sarah,  with  ap- 
parent ingenuoosness ;  but  a  certain  twinkle  in 
Weye  for  a  moment  puzzled  her  mother. 

**I  believe  yon  did  it  purposely ;  though  why 
70a  should  do  it  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell." 

"Well,  mother,  never  mind  whether  I  did  it 
purposely  or  not  It  isn't  worth  while  to  rip  it 
apart  now  and  do  it  over  again,  when  we  are 
ping  to  have  a  new  carpet  sc  soon.  So  I  will 
drive  a  few  tacks  down  just  to  hold  it  in  place, 
nd  bring  in  the  old  traps  that  pass  with  us  for 
famitnre." 

Sarah  was  somewhat  given  to  slang,  as  indeed 
nems  to  be  a  habit  of  '*  the  girl  of  the  period." 

That  business  was  soon  finished,  and  Sarah 
dottd  the  door  on  the  prim,  gloomy  apartment 
with  the  parting  apostrophe:  "You  ugly  old 
place,  yon !  Fve  half  a  mind  to  take  you  in 
huid,  and  see  what  I  can  make  of  you.  If  I 
^  700  won't  know  yourself  when  I  get  through. 


And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  *  I  will  I  But  I'll  have  to 
do  a  deal  of  ra  anaging  to  get  any  help  from  father. 
Mother  don't  understand  managing  people." 

Which  was  a  fact,  and  which  might  account 
for  half  the  miseries  of  her  existence. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  carpet  was  begun  forthwith,  and  Mrs. 
Smith  found  herself  working  upon  it  with  a 
zeal  which  was  only  excelled  by  her  daughter's. 
There  were  piles  of  old  clothes — cotton,  flannel, 
and  woollen — which  were  utterly  useless  for 
any  other  purpose.  The  number  of  balls  grew 
apace.  Ten  cents'  worth  of  aniline,  with  three 
cents'  worth  of  alum,  served  to  dye  cotton  and 
flannel  to  every  shade  of  red,  from  a  deep 
crimson  to  a  light  pink.  Two  boxes  of  bluing 
at  six  cents  each,  three  cents'  worth  of  tumeric, 
and  a  little  more  alum,  furnished  blue,  yellow, 
and  green ;  so  there  was  no  danger  of  their 
carpet  not  being  bright  enough. 

I  give  these  statistics  for  the  benefit  of  those 
who  arc  about  to  make  rag  carpets,  and  wish  to 
make  them  cheaply;  and  unless  they  can  be 
made  cheaply,  they  should  never  be  made  at 
all.  And  I  am  further  led  to  deal  in  facts  and 
figures  by  the  reading  of  a  recent  controversy 
on  the  rag  carpet  question,  in  which  some 
writers  declared  they  bought  bright-colored 
flannel  and  cut  into  carpet  rogs  to  brighten 
their  carpets,  while  still  another  writer  set 
down  the  cost  of  dyeing  at  two  dollars  and  fifty 
cents,  and  thought  it  cheap  at  that.  Now  here 
was  abundance  of  bright  colors  for  twenty  yards 
of  carpeting  furnished  for  about  thirty  cents ; 
and,  moreover,  a  great  quantity  of  old  white 
cotton  and  flannel  disposed  of,  of  which,  led  in 
its  original  color,  only  a  small  portion  could 
have  been  used. 

Two  weeks  found  the  requisite  number  of 
pounds  dyed,  cut,  and  sewed  ready  for  the 
weaver.  And  the  next  question  was  how  to 
obtain  the  money  for  the  weaving.  Sarah 
called  her  father  into  the  parlor  one  day  and 
directed  his  attention  to  the  condition  of  the 
carpet.    It  certainly  was  an  object  I 

"Just  look  at  itr  said  she.  "Poor  mother 
and  I  spent  a  whole  day  two  weeks  ago  mend- 
ing it  up.  And  just  see  how  it  looks  after  all 
our  work  I" 

The  mending  was  certainly  conspicuous. 
There  were  several  patches  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  floor,  and  other  darned,  worn,  and  faded 
places.  Mr.  Smith  was  struck  with  its  appear- 
ance, and  was  further  surprised  that  he  had 
never  noticed  lis  unsightliness  before.    Poer 


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206 


ARTHUR' 8   LADY' 8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


man  1  he  never  discovered  that  the  worst  parts 
were  put  in  the  most  prominent  places.  He 
looked  dolefully,  and  gave  a  low  whistle. 
Sarah  was  his  favorite  child,  and,  knowing  it, 
she  determined  to  make  the  best  of  her  posi- 
tion. 

**  Don't  yoa  think  we  ought  to  have  a  new 
carpet?" 

*'l  don't  know  about  that.  The  floor  is 
\vhule  under  the  carpet,  iiui't  it?" 

*'  O  father  I  you  don't  mean  we  should  have 
a  bnre  floor  in  our  parlor,  do  you  ?"  and  she 
looked  very  much  as  if  she  were  ready  to  cry. 

The  man  wan  quite  capable  of  meaning  it, 
and  very  likely  would  have  done  so  if  it  had 
been  his  wife  instead  of  his  daughter  address- 
ing him.  But  he  answered :  *' Why,  no,  child ; 
but  the  fact  is,  I  can't  afford  to  buy  a  new 
car|>et  now.  You  must  try  and  make  this  last 
awhile  longer.  Next  fall  I  will  see  what  I 
can  do." 

''  Next  fall  I  That  is  so  long  to  wait  I  Well, 
if  you  can't  buy  a  new  carpet  now,  will  you 
pay  for  the  weaving  of  one?  That  will  be 
much  cheaper  for  you,  and  a  rag  carpet  will  be 
better  than  nope." 

In  short,  ailer  a  little  persuasion,  she  gained 
a  reluctant  consent. 

"And  how  much  will  it  cost?" 

"  Not  more  than  ten  dollars." 

The  little  diplomatist  knew  that  eight  was  a 
plenty,  but  she  knew  also  that  she  could  find 
abundant  use  for  the  remaining  two  dollars. 

"  And  when  do  you  want  the  money  ?" 

"Why  now,  of  course.  The  rags  are  all 
ready  to  be  sent  to  the  weaver." 

"Whew I  that  is  it,  is  it?  And  you  never 
told  me  anything  about  it?  Well,  there  is  the 
money." 

And  he  counted  out  the  notes  into  her  hand. 
If  it  had  been  hid  wife,  and  he  had  yielded  so 
far  as  to  consent,  he  would  probably  have  told 
her  to  send  the  rags  to  the  weaver,  and  he 
would  pay  the  bill  when  done.  But  he  liked 
to  see  the  bright  look  of  pleasure  flush  his 
daughter's  face,  and  so  this  gratification  coat 
him  two  dollars. 

Sarah  came  dancing  back  to  her  mother,  the 
money  in  her  hand. 

"  I  told  you  I  would  get  it  I  Enough  to  pay 
for  the  carpet  weaving,  and  to  buy  some  paper 
for  the  walls,  too.  We  can  put  the  paper  on 
ourselves,  you  know." 

Her  mother  did  not  "know  "  anything  of  the 
sort,  but  she  was  willing  to  take  upon  trust  the 
word  of  this  bright  young  thing. 

The  carpet  was  tent  to  the  weaver's^  and  the 


paper  bought  for  the  parlor  wall— a  cheap^ 
common  paper  of  a  delicate  creamy  tint,  striped, 
because  the  room  was  low,  and  with  an  inex- 
pensive but  pretty  border  of  crimson.  This 
paper  Sarah  insisted  on  keeping  a  secret,  so  it 
was  put  on  with  closed  doors  while  the  childrea 
were  at  school. 

Mrs.  Smith  found  paper-hanging  easy  enough 
when  she  once  "got  the  hang  of  it."  And  the 
room  when  finished  began  already  to  take  oo  a 
more  cheerful  aspect 

"Those  ugly  blinds  I"  was  Sarah's  ezchiiDa- 
tion.  "  They  look  iso  prim.  I  hate  primneM." 
Mrs.  Smith  looked  disconsolately  at  the 
faded  green  Venetian  blinds,  and  sliook  her 
head.  She  hated  primness — or  she  had  onee 
hated  it— quite  as  much  as  her  daughter;  and 
she  was  now  beginning  to  feel  an  interest  in 
the  renovating  of  the  room  which  she  had  not 
felt  in  anything  for  years. 

"Mother,  you  said  you  loved  flowers;  why 
should  we  not  have  them?"  It  seemed  as 
though  the  girl  was  going  wild. 

"  Because  we  have  no  time  to  bother  with 
such  nonsense." 

"Oh  I  yes,  we  have.  At  least  I  have,  and  I 
want  you  to  help  me.  I  know  you  will  like  it" 
She  did  not  know  herself,  until  her  daughter 
said  it,  how  much  she  would  like  it  It  seemed 
as  though  there  sprung  up  in  her  heart  a  sud- 
den yearning  love  for  these  delicate  children  of 
the  fields.  They  seemed  to  bring  back  to  her 
the  aroma  of  the  old  days  when  she  had  tended 
and  cared  for  them  in  her  pretty  little  garden 
at  home.  She  would  like  it  indeed  I  But  then 
there  were  pressing  household  duties ;  and  the 
was  not  a  woman  ever  to  lay  aside  a  duty  for  a 
pleasure.  So  she  felt  it  necessary  to  resist  the 
double  temptation  of  her  daughter's  words  and 
her  own  heart. 

"  I  cannot,  Sarah.  I  cannot  neglect  my  work, 
no  matter  how  much  I  would  like  it" 

"I  tell  you  what,  mother,  I  will  make  a 
bargain  with  you.  For  every  hour  you  wiU 
work  with  me  out  of  doors,  I  will  help  yon  two 
hours  at  housework  or  sewing^  or  at  whatever 
you  choose  to  set  me  at" 

The  mother  reflected.  Sarah  -wa^  handy 
about  domestic  duties,  and  quick  with  h9 
needle,  but,  like  most  girls  of  her  age,  prefetred 
idleness  to  work,  unless  she  had  some  strong 
incentive.  So,  perhaps  for  the  daughter's  good, 
she  had  better  accept  her  oflFer.  Though  she 
had  some  qualms  of  conscience  when  she 
thought  how  slight  was  the  sacrifice  on  her  own 
part— only  to  yield  to  her  inclinationa  I 
So  mother  and  daughter  tfpaded  and  hoed^ 


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207 


imroed  the  straggling  roee-baBhefl,  cot  Btraight, 
trim  edgM  to  the  valki*,  and  made  one 
litUe  bed  for  flowers,  in  the  hope  and  faith 
that  thej  might  obtain  enough  seeds  for  that  at 

ICMt 

One  morning,  as  they  were  at  work  as  nsnal 
ia  their  garden — for  it  had  got  to  be  a  matter  of 
ooiuw  with  them — ^Mrs.  Cameron,  their  next 
neighbor,  was  occupied  in  the  same  manner  in 
ber  own.  Mrs.  Smith,  glancing  up,  saw  her 
neighbor  bending  over  the  fence,  apparently 
waiting  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  them.  Mrs. 
Smith  involuntarily  passed  her  hand  oyer  her 
hair,  trying  to  smooth  away  a  little  of  its 
longhness,  and  had  a  painfully  conscious  feel- 
ing that  she  was  collarless.  As  she  approached 
the  dividing  line  between  the  two  premises,  she 
readjosted  a  pin  or  two,  and  had  a  sensation 
nther  tlian  a  thought,  approaching  a  wish  that 
her  outward  appearance  was  a  little  more  pre- 
leatable.  The  morning  salutations  passed 
between  them,  then  followed  some  comments 
00  their  mutual  labon. 

''Mw.  Smith,"  said  Mrs.  Gameron, "  I  wonder 
if  I  dare  ask  a  favor  of  yon.  I  see  yon  have 
■0  many  lilao  trees,  and  I  have  none  at  all. 
Om  you  spare  me  one  or  two  of  the  smaller 
onesf 

The  traosplsnting  of  the  lilac  bushes  brought 
them  into  closer  contact,  for  Mrs.  Cameron  was 
mmmoned  into  their  yard  to  take  her  choice 
of  the  boshea,  while  they  followed  her  back 
again  to  assiei  in  the  replanting. 

''Now,"  aaid  Mrs.  Cameron,  ''I  wonder  if  I 
may  ask  another  favor.  My  garden  is  so  over- 
rtoeked  with  plants  of  all  sorts,  I  wish  you 
would  take  a  portion  of  them  off  my  hands. 
Nearly  all  my  ponennials  need  dividing,  and  it 
aaeBM  a  pity  to  throw  these  things  away." 

A  bright  light  leaped  into  Sarah's  face,  while 
her  mother  was  conscious  that  she  had  not  felt 
a  Hke  pleamire  for  a  long  time — ^a  long,  long 
time.  Why,  she  was  almost  ashamed  to  find 
hcnelf  so  much  of  a  child. 

''Yon  see,"  continued  Mrs  Cameron,  ''how 
foil  my  beds  are,  and  I  want  to  take  out  at  least 
half  they  contain,  to  make  room  for  annuals. 
Do  yon  think  you  can  find  space  for  any  of 
themr 

Coold  they  ?  Would  they  not  find  room  for 
everyone?  At  last  Sarah  found  words,  and 
Hm  Cameron  had  no  reason  to  doubt  that  her 
delicately  bestowed  charity  was  misunderstood, 
or  not  iblly  appreciated. 

''But  whero  shall  we  put  them  allf'  was 
finah'a  next  dismayed  question. 

"  Yon  aee  your  garden  la  as  large  as  mine,  and 


there,  in  that  sunny  south  corner,  will  be  a 
beautiful  place  to  make  your  flower  beds." 

That  evening  Mr.  Smith  was  about  to  pass 
out  the  gate  to  join  the  loungers  at  t((e  nearest 
corner,  and  talk  politics,  as  was  his  usual  man- 
ner of  spending  the  evening,  when,  seeing  his 
wife  and  daughter  busy  at  work  in  a  new  field 
of  operations,  he  stopped  a  moment  to  watch 
them,  and  finally,  with  the  instincts  of  a  work- 
man who  sees  tools  clumsily  handled,  he  took 
the  spade  from  his  wife's  hands^  and  began  dig- 
ging himsel£  Seeing  the  rapid  progress  her 
father  made,  Sarah  stopped  too,  but  her  tongue 
ran  on  about  their  intended  improvements,  and 
Mrs.  Cameron's  kindness,  and  her  father  soon 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  their  doings.  In- 
deed, before  the  dusk  brought  their  labors  to  a 
close,  he  had  unconsciously  identified  himself 
with  them,  and  constituted  himself  chief 
manager. 

Mrs.  Smith  was  conscious  of  having  passed 
a  happy  day — not  a  day  of  negative  happiness, 
because  free  from  physical  or  mental  pain— but 
a  positively  happy  day.  And  its  influence  still 
lingered,  as,  when  twilight  closed  in,  f^he  sat 
down  on  the  doorstep  and  took  her  baby  on  her 
lap.  A  noisy  troop  of  children  gathered  around 
her,  but  she  hunhed  them  with  more  than  her 
usual  gentleness,  and  began  singing  one  of  their 
simple  Sunday-school  hymns.  One  after  an- 
other the  voices  joined  in,  and  song  after  song 
was  sung.  Then  she  sang  songs  she  had  sung 
years  ago,  which  her  children  did  not  know, 
and  her  voice,  though  never  a  loud  and  full 
one,  still  retained  much  of  its  early  sweetness. 
These  songs,  which  she  had  not  remembered 
for  many  a  day,  seemed  to  bring  back  old 
times.  She  noticed  that  her  husband,  who 
loved  music  above  all  things,  drew  near  and 
quietly  listened. 

As  she  dismissed  the  children  for  the  night, 
her  heart  softened,  and  she  drew  one  after  an- 
other to  her  and  kissed  them.  It  was  not  with- 
out a  feeling  of  embarrassment  that  she  did 
this,  for  she  could  not  remember  when  she  had. 
done  it  before.  And  the  older  ones  seemed 
awkward  and  shy  under  this  new  demonstra- 
tion of  affection.  But  little  Tilly,  the  five-year- 
old,  threw  her  arras  around  her  mother's  neck, 
and  whispered :  "  I  do  love  you,  mother ;"  and 
Susy,  younger  still,  said,  with  smiling,  upturned 
face,  ^  Me,  too,  mamma." 

**  Can  it  be,"  thought  the  mother, "  that,  after 
all,  my  children  are  affectionate,  like  other 
children,  only  I  have  not  encouraged  any 
demonstration  —  that  I  have  taken  them  at 
their  wont  instead  of  their  best  7" 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S  HOME   MAGAZINE. 


"Wbj  don't  70U  eing  oftener?  I  like  to 
hear  jou/'  her  husband  said,  aa  ahe  came  down 
atairs  alone. 

He  drew  her  oat  to  the  step  again,  and  aat 
down  besicle  her,  and  together  they  aung  oyer 
the  old,  favorite  songs ;  and  the  past  yeara^ 
with  their  grievous  burden  of  petty  miseriea, 
seemed  to  glide  away,  and  her  youth  came 
back  to  her  again.  And  she  wondered :  "  Is  it 
possible  now  to  begin  life  anew ;  or  is  it  impos- 
sible to  undo  all  that  has  been  done  ?" 

That  night,  when  she  went  to  bed,  she  was 
haunted  with  the  ghoet  of  a  basket  of  mending 
that  she  ought  to  have  been  doing,  instead  of 
idling  her  time  away  on  the  steps ;  and  thrifty 
housewives  will  perhaps  blame  her  for  her 
negligence. 


CHAPTEE  ni. 

Whole  basketfuls  of  plants  found  their  way 
into  the  new  garden— phloxes,  larkspurs,  sweet- 
williams,  foxgloves,  primroses,  lilie^  and  all 
the  dear  old  flowers  that  everybody  knows  and 
loves.  And  Sarah  and  her  mother,  relieved  of 
the  heavier  portions  of  the  work  by  the  father 
and  husband,  found  it  only  delightful  labor  to 
set  out  these  flowers.  Meantime,  the  friendly 
relations  between  theCamerons  and  Sraitlis  had 
not  ceased.  Sarah  made  it  a  point  to  go  regu- 
larly to  Mrs.  Cameron  for  advice  about  the 
management  of  her  flowers.  She  became  con- 
fidential and  communicative,  as  girls  of  that 
age  are  prone  to  do,  and  revealed  her  plans  for 
the  renovation  of  their  parlor,  and  Mrs.  Came- 
ron was  soon  as  well  posted  as  Sarah  herself 
concerning  the  new  carpet,  and  paper,  and  the 
ugly  blinds,  and  old  chairs,  and  horsehair 
sofa. 

"And  what  do  yon  think,  mother,"  said  she^ 
"  Mrs.  Cameron  wants  me  to  help  her  do  some 
sewing,  and  she  will  pay  me  for  it  And  then 
I  can  buy  some  curtains.  She  wants  me  to 
make  her  little  girls  some  new  suits.  There  is 
so  much  work  on  children's  dresses  now-a-daya 
that  she  won't  have  time  to  do  it  alL'' 

So  Sarah  made  the  pretty  little  dresses,  with 
overskirts,  ruffles,  and  aashes ;  and  when  they 
were  finished,  made  fancy  suits  for  the  boys  aa 
well — full  Knickerbockers,  and  velveteen  jack- 
ets, handsomely  trimmed,  and  aa  different  as 
could  be  from  the  rough,  plain,  roundabonta 
and  trowsers  of  her  brothers. 

The  curtains  were  earned  and  bought,  plain 
white  muslin  ones ;  and  the  carpet  came  home. 
And  such  a  carpet  aa  it  was  I  If  Sarah  ahould 
ever  live  to  put  down  velvet  pile  in  a  parlor  of 


her  own,  it  will  not  give  her  the  pleasure  that 
did  thia  carpet  of  her  own  contriving.  Her 
thoughts  seemed  somehow  all  woven  into  it. 
She  could  recognize  strips  that  she  had  aewn 
together,  and  remember  the  thoughts  she  had 
while  sewing  them.  It  waa  not  merely  a  web 
of  bright  and  sombre  colors,  woven  together  as 
chance  would  have  them ;  but  of  though ts,  and 
ideas,  and  purposes,  some  equally  brigbty  some 
equally  sombre. 

'*  Father's  birthday  cornea  thia  month,  doesn't 
it,  mother  7"  asked  Sarah. 

"  In  about  ten  days." 

"  Then  let  oa  keep  the  parlor  for  a  aurpriw 
for  him." 

None  of  the  improvementa  had  yet  been  dis- 
covered,  for  the  "  best  room"  was  not  one  that 
any  of  them  often  entered. 

''  Very  well,"  waa  the  reply,  though  Mn. 
Smith's  heart  misgave  her.  It  was  not  likely 
he  would  care  how  the  parlor  looked,  when  1m 
had  been  eatisfied  to  let  it  remain  so  dismal  all 
these  years.  But  then  her  daughter  would  be 
pleased  at  the  thought  So  in  ten  days  their 
innovadona  would  be  made  public. 

The  carpet  was  made  and  put  down,  the  car- 
tains  hung;  and  then  Sarah  looked  around  with 
a  dissatisfied  countenance. 

''Isn't  there  something  elae  we  ean  do  to 
make  the  room  more  cheerful?  How  I  do 
hate  that  horrid  old  sofii  and  chairs  to  match  f 

Mrs.  Smith  waa  at  last  fairly  aroused.  With 
its  light  walls  and  graceful  drapery,  the  room 
already  looked  so  entirely  unlike  its  old,  ugly 
self;  that  she  b^gan  to  believe  it  capable  of 
something  that  heretofore  ahe  had  only  dreamed 
of.  In  her  young  days  she  had  been  accounted 
almost  a  genius  in  the  way  of  planning  and 
contriving.  Why  ahould  ahe  not  call  into  ao- 
count  these  long-disused  fiicnlties? 

There  waa  an  old  lounge,  originally  coveved 
with  oil-cloth,  that  had  done  service  in  the 
kitch^i  for  many  years,  but  the  oil-cloth  was 
worn  and  torn,  and  the  whole  thing  was  almost 
too  ugly  to  look  at  This  ahe  re-covered  with 
the  best  breadths  of  an  old  green-merino  dresii 
while  the  border,  ripped  from  an  old-fiiahioned 
shawl,  striped  it  beantifiilly.  A  big  rocking- 
chair  was  cushioned  and  covered  with  the 
shawl  itself-- a  red  one.  Some  smaller  chairs 
were  coahioned — ^the  enahions  covered  with  the 
quilted  lininga  of  ooata.  These^tsuahiona  were 
stuffed  with  the  rags  and  scraps  of  doth  re- 
maining from  the  carpet  Stools  found  oush- 
iona  and  covers  in  the  aame  way,  and  pretty, 
bright-colored  haaaocka  were  made  oat  of  bits 
of  cloth  and  carpet 


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209 


She  showed  Sarah  how  to  frame  Bmall  en- 
gray  inga  cheaply  and  simply  by  fronting  them 
with  glass,  backing  them  with  pasteboard,  and 
binding  all  together  by  pasting  narrow  strips 
fif  silk,  cambric,  or  paper  over  the  edge.  Their 
little  stock  of  pictares  was  brought  out — and  I 
must  oonleas  it  was  very  small,  for  their  oppor- 
tanities  had  been  few  for  collecting  things  of  \ 
this  sort — and  framed  in  this  manner,  or  else 
with  easily  made  frames,  of  pasteboard,  cofiee, 
noe»  acorns,  pine  cones,  and  shells.  These  were 
trifling  things  bat  they  gave  a  new  air  to  the 
room. 

Then  she  broaght  out  from  where  she  had 
hoarded  them  these  long  years  many  cherished 
keepsakes  of  old  friends,  books,  vases,  and 
pretty  nicknacks,  the  possession  x>f  which  dated 
back  prior  to  her  marriage,  and  which  gave  a 
still  greater  air  of  refinement  to  the  room.  She 
had  hoarded  them  all  tbb  time  with  a  sense  of  i 
incongruity  between  them  and  the  room  in  its 
old  sMpect,  and  with  a  kind  of  indefinite  feel- 
mg,  that  some  day  might  come  a  time  when 
she  would  need  to  use  them,  though  when  she 
expected  that  time  to  come,  or  in  what  manner, 
or  by  whom  brought  about,  she  had  never 
asked  herself.  She  felt  it  had  come  now, 
though  so  different  from  the  manner  in  which 
she  had  looked  for  it  Still  she  was  cooecious 
that  the  finest  room  and  the  richest  furniture 
ooald  not  give  her  the  pleasure  her  homely 
little  parlor  was  giving  her.  She  was  happier 
all  day  long  for  It,  and  went  about  bursting 
into  snatches  of  song,  which  was  wit  her  wont, 
and  which  made  her  husband  look  up  in  as- 
tcmishment.  The  whole  household  seemed 
somehow  to  feel  in  a  new  atmosphere.  She  did 
not  have  to  scold  her  sons  so  often,  nor  was  her 
patience  so  much  tried  with  her  daughters. 
She  still  worked  in  her  garden  in  spare  times, 
and  she  was  surprised  to  find  how  much  time 
she  ooold  really  spare  without  neglecting  any- 
thing, and  how  much  better  she  felt  both  in 
body  and  mind  tot  it. 

Mrs.  Gameron  showed  Sarah  how  to  make 
haoging-baskets  out  of  wire  and  moss,  and  two 
were  filled  with  pretty  trailing  plants,  and 
bung  at  the  windows  between  the  parted  folds 
of  the  muslin  curtains.  And  when  the  room 
was  all  complete,  Mrs.  Smith  felt  that  these, 
with  the  beautiful  bouquets  of  early  roses  and 
other  spring  flowers  which  stood  on  mantel  and 
tablei,  were  the  crowning  grace  of  the  metamor- 
phosed room. 

The  day  came  at  last,  and  two  prouder,  glad* 
der,  and  happier  women  are  seldom  to  be  found 
these— mother  and  daughter,  as   they 


headed  the  procession  of  wondering  and  de* 
lighted  children  which  conducted  Mr.  Smith 
into  the  renovated  parlor. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Smith's  surprise  and  pleasure 
did  not  quite  come  up  to  Sarah's  anticipations, 
but  they  more  than  satisfied  his  wife,  who  was 
only  too  glad  to  escape  positive  disapproval. 

''And  you  did  all  this?''  said  he  at  last. 

"  Yes,  every  bit,  fether." 

''It  is  all  very  nioe^  only  it  is  too  good  to 
use." 

"Oh,  no,  father;  the  room  as  it  used  to  be 
with  its  ragged  carpet,  dingy  paper,  Venetian 
blinds,  horsehair  sofa,  six  chairs  and  table,  was 
too  ugly  to  use^  but  this  is  just  pretty  and  good 
enough." 

"We  must  have  something  good  to  eat," 
Sarah  had  said  the  day  before,  though  Mrs. 
Smith  had  not  thought  of  it.  So  a  nice,  appe- 
tizing, though  inexpensive  feast  was  served  up 
in  honor  of  the  day  and  of  the  parlor.  And  in 
his  excessive  good  humor  Mr.  Smith  promised 
to  buy  his  wife  and  Sarah  each  a  new  dress  the 
next  day ;  though  he  did  not  add,  as  he  might 
have  done,  that  in  devoting  his  time  to  the 
flower  garden,  instead  of  spending  it  in  his 
usual  evening  haunts,  he  had  already  saved 
more  than  the  promised  dresses  would  cost 
him. 

"  And  may  we  select  them  ourselves,  father  ?" 

A  reluctant  "yes**  vas  accorded,  on  condi- 
tion that  he  was  at  liberty  to  put  a  veto  on  what 
he  might  deem  extravagance.  A  definite  sum 
was  finally  settled  upon,  and  this  sum,  by  care- 
ful husbanding,  aided  by  Mrs.  Cameron's  ad- 
vice,  was  made  to  cover  not  only  dresses  for 
them  both,  hot  a  hat  for  Sarah  and  materials 
for  a  bonnet  for  her  mother.  Sarah  was  al« 
lowed  to  wear  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a 
strictly  fashionable  dress,  gored  skirt,  over- 
skirt  and  all,  and  at  last  she  felt  that  she 
"  looked  like  other  girls."  Even  Mr.  Smith 
said  to  his  wife :  "  Our  Sarah  looks  quite  as 
pretty  as  the  rest  of  them  when  she  is  dressed 
up,"  and  she  gave  a  glad  acquiescence. 

She  had  made  one  important  discovery ;  her 
children  did  not  really  difier  from  others;  it 
was  only  the  way  she  had  of  regarding  them. 
They  would  soil  their  clothes  and  quarrel 
sonietimec^  but  they  were  afiectionate,  geneiw 
ous  little  creatures  after  all.  I  believe  the 
woman  was  really  made  happy  one  day  by 
seeing  Mrs.  CSameron's  well-behaved  little  boys 
engaged  in  a  regular  rough-and-tumble  fight. 
"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  she,  that  somebody  else's 
children  quarrel  as  well  as  mine." 

"That  is  only  boy  nature,"  Mrs.  Cameron 


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ARTHVR*S   LADY'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


had  replied;  "we  mant,  of  course,  keep  it  in 
check  as  much  as  possible,  but  we  needn't  let 
it  worry  us." 

Sarah,  as  the  ruling  spirit  of  renovation, 
found  ways  and  means  of  remodelling  her 
brothers'  and  sisters'  wardrobes;  and  though 
her  father  expressed  his  disapproval,  and  her 
mother  looked  doubtful,  her  impetuous  will 
carried  the  day;  and  Mrs.  Smith  discovered 
that  it  had  been  onlj  her  odd,  old-fashioned 
way  of  dressing  her  children  which  had  made 
them  seem  so  different  from  the  rest 

Her  own  dress  had  been  made^  almost  in 
spite  of  her,  aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Cam- 
eron, in  a  fashionable  style,  thongh  in  a  very 
quiet,  retiring  fashion.  When  she  put  it  on, 
she  felt  as  though  she  could  never  get  used  to 
its  youthful  appearance. 

"  It  will  never  do  for  an  old  woman  like  me  T' 
she  had  said  in  dismay. 

"  An  old  woman,  indeed  I"  repeated  Sarah ; 
"  and  you  are  only  thirty -five.  Don't  dare  to 
call  yourself  old  until  you  are  a  grandmother. 
I  have  taken  your  wardrobe  under  my  especial 
supervision,  and  I  mean  to  dress  you  in  pink, 
with  flowers  and  feathers,  until  yon  are  seventy. 
You  must  next  have  a  waterfall ;  and  as  for 
your  bonnet,  when  I  get  it  made  we  will  see 
what  we  will  see." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

''What  can  have  oome  over  Mrs.  Smith?" 
asked  Mrs.  Draper  of  Mrs.  Cameron  one  day, 
as  the  former  was  calling  on  the  latter.  "  She 
was  dressed  out  last  Sunday  in  fioonces,  fash- 
ionable bonnet,  and  chignon.  She  used  to  be 
so  very  old-fashioned,  you  know,  and  she  really 
looked  odd  for  a  woman  of  her  age." 

Mrs.  Draper  was  herself  dressed  in  the  height 
of  the  fashion. 

''  She  is  not  so  old  aa  you  may  think,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Cameron ;  ''not  more  than  two  or 
three  years  older  than  we  are.  I  was  glad  to 
see  her  returning  to  her  youth  again.  There 
18  no  good  reason  why  she  should  not  take 
pleasure  in  pretty,  tasteful  clothes,  so  long  as 
she  does  not  spend  money  extravagantly.'' 

"No^  I  suppose  not;  only  it  seemed  so 
strange,  I  could  not  help  remarking  it." 

Mr.  Smith  hardly  approved  of  his  wife's  ap- 
pearance. He  had  so  long  considered  her  as 
merely  a  useful  appendage  to  his  house,  that  it 
was  difficult  for  him  to  accept  the  fact  that  she 
might  be  ornamental  as  well.  But  be  over- 
heard two  of  his  sons  talking  about  their 
mother  as  they  were  coming  homa  from  church. 


"  Don't  you  think,  Tom,  mother  looks  nice 
to-day  V  asked  Sammy. 

''  Yes,  indeed,  she  just  does.  Just  as  nice  as 
anybody's  mother,"  was  the  response. 

''I  didn't  know  she  was  so  good  looking 
before,"  added  Sammy.  "  I  used  to  be  almost 
ashamed  of  her,  she  looked  so  old  fashioned — 
just  like  an  old  woman." 

Mrs.  Smith  overheard,  too,  and  her  misgiv- 
ings about  her  dress  were  set  to  rest.  If  her 
dress  gave  pleasure  to  her  children,  there  was 
so  much  positive  good  to  balance  against  the 
absurdity  of  it,  which  was  at  most  only  a  nega- 
tive evil,  inasmuch  as  it  harmed  no  one. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Smith  was  fashionably  dressed  for 
almost  the  first  time  since  she  had  been  mar- 
ried. This  fiict  alone  would  not,  perhaps,  be 
worth  recording,  did  it  not  have  a  significance 
deeper  than  itself.  It  meant  that  she  was 
learning  to  take  her  place  as  a  woman  among 
other  women,  and  finding  that  she  need  forbid 
herself  no  pleasure  that  same  in  her  way  which 
was  in  itself  harmless,  and  which  did  not  inter- 
fere with  any  duty.  In  consequence  of  it,  two 
things  could  never  happen  again.  She  could 
never  again  fret  and  worry  herself  because  other 
women  **  made  themselves  ridiculous  "  follow- 
ing the  fashions.  She  could  never  again  feel  a 
self-abasement  in  the  presence  of  other  women 
because  she  was  not  dressed  the  same  as  they. 
Two  things  of  not  very  much  importance,  per- 
haps, when  viewed  from  the  stand-point  of  a 
healthy,  well-balanced  mind;  but  two  things 
which,  in  her  morbid  condition,  acted  as  the 
Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  her  mental  state,  and 
caused  her,  sometimes  the  one,  sometimes  the 
other,  not  very  sharp  or  intense  suffering,  bnt 
a  kind  of  heavy,  numb  pain.  She  was  getting 
to  be  foolish  as  other  women,  and  there  was 
wisdom  in  her  folly. 

Do  you  wonder  why  I  have  written  this 
story  ? — ^why  I  have  so  mingled  the  sentimental 
and  the  practical  ? — why  mixed  up  the  sorrows 
of  a  sensitive  and  morbid  woman  with  the  de- 
tails of  rag-carpet  making?  It  is  because  in 
real  life  we  find  the  comic  and  the  tragic,  the 
sentimental  and  the  commonplace,  so  inextri- 
cably confiised  that  it  is  impossible  to  separate 
them ;  because  one  life  takes  its  tone  from  the 
trifling  and  constantly  occurring  events  of  every 
day,  and  its  color  from  the  most  insignificant 
surroundings;  because  we  get  our  ideas  of 
higher  things,  and  our  aspirations  after  a  bettw 
life,  through  the  medium  of  material  objects; 
becaase  through  all  things,  howsoever  humble^ 
there  runs  a  language  of  symbols  which  is  plain 
to  those  who  have  learned  to  reed  it 


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FAL8E.--THE    WATERFALL    OF   PV PPANA88UM. 


211 


lo  real  life,  comedj  often  has  a  certain  pathos 
in  it,  aod  tragedy  ifl  not  wholly  tragic  in  its 
aprenioD.  The  passion  of  Medea  may  be 
more  terrible,  yet  it  is  not  more  sincere  than 
that  of  Bridget  O'Flaherty,  who,  on  the  death 
of  her  child,  with  hand-wringings  and  geslicu- 
htion^  cries  out :  "  Wirra,  wirra,  me  darlin', 
dariin'  child  1"  Yet,  pat  the  two  apon  the 
ftige^  the  former  is  called  tragedy,  the  latter 
frice. 

Then,  too,  the  sorrows  and  troubles  of  a 
woman  are  so  dovetailed  between  homely  dcH 
neRtic  duties,  that,  as  they  so  often  spring  from 
them,  so  they  cannot  be  considered  apart  from 
them  without  giving  a  picture  untrue  to  na- 
tnie. 

So,  whether  I  shall  have  learned  some  woman 
how  to  brighten  up  adull,  monotonous  existence, 
htre  taught  another  certain  lessons  in  economy 
nd  thrift,  or  have  indicated  to  still  another 
how  to  manage  a  somewhat  intractable  huA- 
biad,  I  shall  in  either  case  be  content. 


wi 


FALSE. 

BT  EBEN  B.  REXFORD. 

9Y  is  it  that  we  read  so  many  times 
Of  tDornan*9  falseness,  while  you  all  pass  by 
The  treachery  of  man  ?    Perhaps  you  think 

His  falseness  hidden  from  th'  observing  eye. 
lot  that  all  men  are  false — I  mean  not  that; 

Bot  I  am  weary  of  this  story  old 
Of  i0oiiaii'«  weakness,  for  I  know  of  mtn 

Who  have  proved  false  for  fame,  and  plaee,  and 
gold, 
iad  yet,  if  we  believed  all  things  we  read. 

We  woold  not  dream  that  iiuia  was  ever  base 
iad  weak  enoagh  to  do  as  toomtn  do.    Instead, 

Ton  tire  not  talking  of  our  fiekle  ways. 
Why,  I  ooald  point  yon  to  a  man  who  holds 

A  place  high  op  on  Fortune's  hill  to-day 
Who  won  a  woman's  heart  with  tender  words. 

And  then,  for  gold,  he  threw  the  thing  away. 
The  poor,  poor  thing !  a  woman's  loving  heart, 

Filled  with  a  faith  that  trusted  all  mankind ! 
What  was  a  woman's  trust  to  that  proud  man 

Whose  words  were  empty  as  the  lightest  wind  ? 
He  eared  not  for  the  heart  that  owned  him  king ; 

Lore — gold — ^he  weighed  them,  and   the  gold 
went  down. 
To«  think  a  woman's  love  so  light  a  thing  ,* 

We  women  think  that  love  is  life's  true  crown. 
Some  women  may  be  false,  but  men  are,  too ; 

There  are  false  hearts  among  them  both,  I  know; 
Bat  ttill  the /al9e»t  heart  I  ever  knew 

Was  a  man*M  heart !     His  soul  must  tell  him  so. 
Bot,  then^wfaat  use  to  talk  f    The  world  will  say 

Just  what  ft  pleases.     False  things  role  the 
d»y. 


THE  WATERFALL  OF  PUPPANASSUM. 

BYC. 

fl  HE  traveller  in  British  India  seldom  fails 
■L  to  visit  this  curious  and  beautiful  water- 
fall. The  signification  of  Pnppanassum  is  the 
washing  away  of  sins.  It  is  situated  in  the 
province  of  Tinnevelly,  near  Madras,  at  the 
soQth  extremity  of  tlie  Indian  Peninsula.  In 
the  old  divisions  of  India  this  province  was 
called  the  Gamatic,  and  its  climate  is  the 
hottest  in  all  India.  The  approach  to  these 
lalls  lies  through  a  long,  narrow  valley,  at  the 
termination  of  which,  in  turning  the  angle  of  a 
hilly  which  rises  abruptly  from  the  valley,  the 
falling  water  bursts  suddenly  on  the  sight  of 
the  traveller.  It  is  a  magnificent  spectacle. 
The  impression  received  is  so  startling^  that 
one  is  obliged*  to  dose  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
in  order  to  recover  from  the  sudden  and  great 
surprise.  Though  the  roar  of  the  cataract  is 
heard  long  before  reaching  it,  so  that  one  is  not 
entirely  unprepared  for  something  more  than 
usually  imposing ;  yet  the  reality  far  transcends 
the  expectation.  The  water  falls  from  a  height 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  pouring  over  the 
rocks  in  an  enormous  body,  and  forcing  its  way 
among  the  intervening  rocks,  where  it  boils  and 
hisses  with  great  energy,  till  it  falls  into  the 
deep,  dark  pool  beneath,  with  a  din  and  tur- 
moil almost  deafening.  It  is  the  roost  stupen- 
dous object  of  its  kind  in  the  Gamatic 

From  the  unfathomable  pool  in  whi4^  the 
fall  deposits  its  waters,  a  new  river  seems  to 
issue,  winding  its  placid  course  through  a  plain 
nearly  level  with  the  sea. 

On  their  way  to  the  falls  may  be  seen,  along 
the  banks  of  this  river,  a  great  number  of 
devotees,  who  are  going  to  bathe  in  those 
sacred  waters,  and  to  offer  their  genafleximis 
and  prostrations  at  that  place,  which  is  con* 
secrated  by  extreme  antiquity  and  very  awful 
local  traditions.  These  people,  who  are  the 
most  superstitious  in  the  world,  do  not  appear 
to  be  at  all  pleased  with  tlie  idea  that  the  un- 
hallowed feet  of  Christians  should  pro&ne  that 
sacred  spot,  for  they  hold  the  name  of  Christian 
in  absolute  abhorrence,  and  look  upon  them 
with  an  expression  of  malignant  soora. 

While  the  nabobs  of  Arcot  ruled  in  this  part 
of  India,  strong  and  elegant  fortresMH^  buih 
in  a  very  superior  style,  were  to  be  seen  in 
all  exposed  situations;  but  these  are  now 
rapidly  fklling  into  decay,  it  being  almost  a 
century  since  this  coantry  was  conquefed  by 
the  British. 

Delafield^  Wm. 


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JOHN  ARMOS'S  SOAEK 


BT  KATE  SUTHERLAND. 


**  \  MAN  would  never  BDap  me  up  after  that 
jlL  faahion  more  than  once,"  said  Mus  Blair, 
sharply,  aa  Mr.  Armor  left  the  breakfast  room, 
and  she  saw  the  tears  coming  into  Mrs.  Armor's 
eyes.  *'  What  right  had  John  to  speak  to  you 
sor 

The  young  wife's  lips  quivered,  and  a  tear  or 
two  dropped  over  her  cheeks. 

"  Unless  you're  the  spiritless  thing  I  never 
dreamed  you  were,  Jenny  Armor,"  added  Miss 
Blair,  warming  with  indignation,  "  you'll  teach 
John  the  lesson  he  needs  to  learn,  and  that  at 
once.  The  sooner  yon  make  him  understand 
that  in  marrying  you  did  not  give  yourself  \ 
OTer  to  a  master,  the  better  for  you  both." 

Now,  quick-tempered,  good-hearted  John 
Armor  felt  sorry  for  his  unguarded  speech  the 
moment  it  passed  his  lips,  and  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing spoken  unkindly  to  his  wife  before  a  third 
person.  As  he  was  closing  the  door  lie  heard 
the  first  indignant  sentence  uttered  by  Mias 
Blair,  and  pausing  with  the  door  lyar,  got  the 
benefit  of  ber  further  utterances. 

Anger,  regret,  and  mortification  were  the 
disturbing  elements  that  made  our  young  hus- 
band feel  anything  but  comfortable  as  be  left 
the  bouse. 

The  hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  some  peo- 
ple is  to  acknowledge  themselves  in  the  wrong; 
and  of  this  class  was  John  Armor.  He  migbt 
have  gone  back  and  made  it  all  up  with  Jenny, 
afUr  a  little  struggle  with  his  pride,  if  she  had 
been  alone;  but  to  confess  his  fault  before  Miss 
Blair  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment. 
So  he  went  ofi*  to  his  store  feeling  mean,  miser- 
able, and  angry  by  turns, 

"  Teach  me  a  lesson  I"  dropped  from  his  lips 
as  be  strode  along.  The  accuser  and  self-justi- 
Ber  was  at  his  ear,  trying  to  work  evil  between 
him  and  his  Jenny.  ' 

"  Teach  me  a  lesson  I  She  had  best  not  try 
any  experiments  of  that  sort." 

Then  his  good  angel  got  audience  and  said : 
**  Is  this  the  gentle  husband,  the  strong,  true 
man,  who  was  to  love  and  cherish?  Who 
gave  you  the  right  to  speak  unkindly  ?  To  re- 
buke and  reprove  ?** 

Bat  the  evil  counsellor  made  angry  speech, 

saying:  "Has  a  man  no  right  to  complain 

when  met  with  discomfort  in  consequence  of 

his  wife^s  neglect?    If  he  toil  early  and  late, 

(212) 


while  she  sits  in  ease  at  home,  shall  he  not  dare 
to  speak  a  word  oi  remonstrance,  though  eveiy- 
thing  goes  wrong?  There  may  be  spiritlea 
husbands,  who  will  meekly  submit,  but  John 
Armor  is  not  one  of  them  1" 

And  now,  coming,  it  seemed,  from  a  distance^ 
far  inward  or  upward,  sounded  a  gentle  but 
pleading  voice,  and  it  said : 

"  This  is  not  well,  John  Armor." 

And  at  the  words  a  figure  grew  into  distinet- 
ness  in  his  mind.  He  saw  his  Jcainy — his  tmc^ 
and  pure,  and  loving  young  wife — sitting  with 
bowed  head,  and  sorrowful  face,  and  wet  eye% 
the  picture  of  suffering,  and  all  because  of  kii 
harsh,  unkindly  speech. 

Almost  instantly  this  picture  faded,  sod  a 
new  one  grew  out  of  the  confused  images  thst 
remained.  The  form  of  Jenny  became  distincft 
once  more ;  but  her  attitude  and  countensnoe 
were  changed.  She  stood  erect,  with  a  cold, 
unloving  face,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with 
angry  defiance,  and  at  the  same  time  out  of  hit 
memory  into  his  thoughts  came  tliese  words: 

**  A  woman  moved,  is  like  a  foantain  troubled ; 
Dark,  unseemly,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty." 

But  his  better  angel  pressed  near  again,  and 
turning  another    leaf,  brought  out  from  his 
memory  into  his  thought  these  lines : 
**  Oh,  woman !  in  thine  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please; 
When  pain  and  sickness  rend  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  V* 

And  then  another  page  of  memory  vat 
turned,  on  which  a  never-to  be-erased  ]N^ 
ture  was  painted  in  strongest  outlines  and  deep- 
est colors — the  picture  of  a  sick  bed,  and  a  dear, 
loving,  self-denying,  patient,  ministering  aogel 
bending  over  it. 

"  John  Armor,  he  exclaimed,  half  aloud,  ss 
this  picture  held  him  like  the  spell  of  a  magi- 
cian, ''you  are  a  wretch  to  hurt  that  loving 
heart  I" 

The  accuser  and  self-justifier — ^the  evil  spirit 
that  loved  only  to  work  alienation  and  give 
pain  to  human  hearts — ^passed  in  again  and. 
tried  to  obscure  the  picture,  but  in  vain.  John 
Armor  held  to  his  better  feelings,  and  repented 
of  his  unkindness.  Still,  the  words  of  Miss  Blake 
were  a  power  in  the  hands  of  the  evil  spirit, 
who  kept  perpetually  thrusting  them  innin- 
guarded  moments  into  the  thoughts  of  Jobs 
Armor. 


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JOHN   ABMOR'a   SCARE. 


213 


"John  k  not  mj  maaler  f  anBwcred  Jenny 
Armor,  with  a  flash  in  her  wet  ejes,  as  she 
hetrd  her  hiuband  shatihe  street  door  with  a 
heayjjar. 

''Of  course  he  is  not ;  and  the  sooner  he  is 
made  conscious  of  the  fact,  the  better  for  you 
both,  as  I  have  said.  No  man  has  a  right  to 
qwak  to  his  wife  in  the  way  he  spoke  to  you 
jut  now.  If  you  bear  it  tamely,  ho  will  be 
master  and  you  slave — there  will  be  a  hus- 
band and  wife  only  in  name/' 

A  hard,  half-angry  expression  grew  slowly 
in  the  £aoe  of  Jenny  Armor*  She  did  not  an- 
sirer,  bot  an  evil  oonnsellor  within  was  seoond- 
ing  the  evil  counsellor  without.  She  began 
writing  bitter  tilings  on  the  tablet  of  thought 
against  her  repentant  husband. 

"  Better  grapple  with  the  enemy  now,  while 
you  are  young,  and  strong,  and  free^"  said  the 
fiUse  friend. 

**My  enemy  r*  replied  Jenny,  turning 
qaickly  upon  Mh«  Blair.  The  word  startled 
her.    "My  enemy  r 

**  Yes ;  your  enemy.  I  call  things  by  the 
right  name.  Is  the  man  or  woman  who  seeks 
to  make  you  a  slave,  a  friend  or  an  enemy  7* 

*^  John  Armor,  my  enemy  V*  A  dazed  kind 
of  look  came  into  Jenny's  face.  It  flushed  and 
paled  by  turns;  then  grew  fiexy  red,  while 
flashes  leaped  from  her  eyes. 

^  Nancy  Blair  l"  Jenny's  voice  trembled  with 
suppressed  feeling.  ''  This  has  gone  &r  enough." 

"Oh  1  Just  as  you  please,"  answered  Miss 
Blair,  in  a  tone  meant  to  annoy.  "  You  are 
like  the  rest  of  them."  And  she  tossed  her 
head  with  as  much  contempt  of  manner  as  she 
felt  it  safe  to  assume.  "  John  will  come  home 
at  dinner  time  and  snub  you  as  he  did  this 
morning ;  and  you  will  drop  a  tear  meekly, 
and  bear  it  all  with  wifely  submission."  It  is 
woman's  lot.  Oh,  dear  I  Don't  I  wish,  some- 
times, that  I  had  one  of  these  top-lofty  fellows 
to  deal  with.    Wouldn't  I  take  him  down  I" 

Jenny  kept  silent.  She  felt  that  she  was  in 
dangerous  company.  That  a  person  like  Miss 
Blair,  if  permitted  to  influence  her,  would  lead 
her  into  trouble. 

Miss  Blair  tried  to  pursue  the  subject ;  but 
Jenny  turned  it  aside,  and  at  last  resolutely 
ignored  it  Miss  Blair  was  disgusted  with  her 
friend,  and  went  home  early  in  the  day,  much 
to  Jenny's  relief  of  mind. 

"Have  you  heard  about  the  trouble  between 
Ckrman  and  his  wife?"  said  a  friend  of  John 
Armor,  that  morning. 

"No.    What  is  it r  asked  the  latter. 

"She  was  a  Miss  Lewis r 


"  Yes;  I  know  her  very  well.  A  beautiful, 
spirited  girl. 

"  High  strung,  as  we  say.  Well,  her  hus- 
band undertook  to  be  a  little  stifiT  on  the  mari- 
tal prerogative  question — assumed  the  role  of 
head  and  master  of  the  household,  and  set  him- 
self to  fault-finding  when  things  were  not  just 
to  his  fancy.  One  morning — so  the  story  goes — 
he  was  particularly  sharp  on  his  wife  at  the 
breakfast  table  in  presence  of  a  lady  visitor — 
one  of  that  class  not  greatly  troubled  with  the 
man-fearing,  man-pleasing  spirit.  After  he 
had  gone  away,  this  lady — so  the  story  con- 
tinues— took  occasion  to  animadvert  pretty 
strongly  on  the  tyranny  of  husbands,  and  tlie 
duty  of  wives  to  protect  themselves  against 
their  oppressions  and  exactions ;  and  succeeded 
in  so  exasperating  Mrs.  Carman,  that,  in  a  fit  of 
blind  jKission,  she  left  her  home  and  has  not 
since  returned." 

"A  most  unfortunate  afioir,"  said  Armor, 
as  a  low  shiver  of  concern  went  down  to  his 
heart.  "  A  meddlesome,  mischief-making  wo- 
man like  that  ought  to  be  hung  I" 

"Hanging  is  rather  severe,"  answered  the 
friend,  smiling  at  Armor's  almost  savage 
warmth. 

The  young  man's  peace  of  mind  was  gone. 
How  nearly  parallel  were  the  cases  I  He  had 
been  sharp  on  his  wife  at  breakfast  time,  and 
in  presence  of  a  visitor;  and  this  visitor  had, 
as  he  knew,  advised  Jenny  to  set  herself  against 
him — to  teach  him  a  lesson.  What  if,  in  a 
moment  of  anger,  she  had  gone  off  as  Mrs.  Car- 
man had  done?  The  thought  stunned  him. 
He  was  filled  with  pain,  alarm,  and  anxiety. 

"  If  she  has  done  this,  it  '^%i  be  the  saddest 
day  in  her  life  and  mine,"  he  said  to  himself, 
a  bitter  realization  of  the  truth  of  what  he 
uttered  in  his  heart.  He  was  proud,  and  not 
given  to  concession.  For  a  crisis  in  life  like 
this,  he  was  peculiarly  unfitted.  There  waa 
nothing  so  hard  for  him  as  to  acknowledge  a 
wrong.  He  could  render  seven  fold  of  repara- 
tion, if  he  might  withhold  confession.  Feeling 
how  impossible  it  would  be  for  him  to  go  after 
and  seek  a  reconciliation  with  Jenny  if  she 
should  try  the  mad  experiment  of  going  away, 
he  saw  that  such  a  step  on  her  part  would  be 
the  shipwreck  of  happiness  to  both. 

Slowly  the  hours  went  by.*  It  seemed  to 
John  Armor  as  if  the  time  for  going  to  dinner 
would  never  come.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  eai^ 
lier  than  usual  he  left  his  store  and  took  his 
way  homeward.  How  still  the  house  seemed 
as  he  entered  I  A  shadow  of  evil  portent  fell 
upon  him  as  he  opened  the  door  of  their  cosey 


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214 


ABTHUB'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


•itting-room  and  found  no  one  there.  Every- 
thing waa  in  order — not  a  book  nor  a  chair  oat 
of  place — nothing  to  show  that  Jenny  had  used 
the  room  that  morning.  He  stood  still,  heark- 
ening ;  but  only  the  strong,  heavy  beat  of  his 
heart  was  audible  in  his  ears. 

With  quick  steps  he  went  over  to  the  cham- 
ber. Jenny  was  not  there  I  He  did  not  call 
her.  He  shrunk  in  strange  dread  and  reluct- 
ance from  that.  To  send  her  name  into  the 
ofiensive  stillness  and  get  back  only  an  echo, 
was  more  than  he  felt  that  he  could  bear. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Armor?"  he  asked.  He 
had  gone  down  to  the  dining-room  and  spoke 
to  a  servant  who  was  setting  the  table. 

The  girl  started  as  she  looked  into  his  scared 
face. 

"  Isn't  she  in  her  room?"  she  inquired. 

"No." 

"  Nor  in  the  sitting-room?** 

"No." 

"The  girl's  face  now  reflected  the  anxious 
expression  that  Armor  was  not  able  to  conceal. 
But  suddenly  he  saw  it  change,  and  a  queer 
smile  dimple  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
At  the  same  moment  a  hand  was  laid  on  his 
arm.  Turning  quickly,  he  looked  into  the 
bright,  loving  eyes,  and  smiling  face  of  Jenny. 

"  Oh,  darling  1"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  tender- 
ness and  fervor  that  was  like  an  old  love- 
passage;  and  he  kissed  her  half-wildly,  not 
heeding  the  presence  of  a  servant. 

There  were  no  explanations.  John's  pride 
would  not  let  him  make  confession  of  all  he 
had  heard,  thought,  and  suffered ;  but  the  les- 
son he  had  receispd  needed  not  to  be  learned 
over  again. 

Miss  Blair  would  hare  wrought  an  evil  work 
between  Jenny  and  her  husband  if  she  could 
have  done  so ;  but  instead  of  an  agent  of  evil, 
she  had  been  made  an  instrument  of  good. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  John  Armor  got 
well  over  the  scare  of  that  day ;  and  its  memory 
is  a  perpetual  restraint  on  his  quick  temper 
and  readiness  for  overbearing  speech. 

Never  attempt  to  do  anything  that  b  not 
light.  Just  so  sure  as  you  do,  you  will  get 
into  trouble.  Sin  always  brings  sorrow  sooner 
or  later.  If  you  even  suspect  that  anything  is 
wicked,  do  it  not  until  yoa  are  sure  your  sus- 
picions are  groundless. 

Weigh  thyself  by  thy  own  balances,  and 
Ixost  not  the  voice  of  wild  opinion ;  observe 
thyself  as  thy  greatest  enemy,  so  shalt  thou  be-  \ 
oome  thy  greatest  friend. 


TIME  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

BT  KATS  WOODI^AND. 

ALITTLB  girl  rooked  in  a  laiiy  boat. 
By  the  waves  of  the  rirer  of  life  afloat^ 
And  her  golden  treasesy  and  laughter  gay 
Floated  baok  on  the  breeie  as  she  sped  away ; 
And  she  gayly  cried  to  the  boatman  gray, 
"  Ply  futer  your  tardy  oars,  I  pray, 
And  bear  mo  away  from  this  blossoming  wood 
To  the  beautiful  island  of  maidenhood." 
The  maiden's  isle  has  been  reaehed  and  passed— 
Still  on  and  beyond  is  her  fond  gaxe  east. 
As  she  cries  again  to  the  boatman  gray, 
"  Ply  faster  yonr  tardy  oan,  I  pray. 
For  my  lover  is  waiting  by  yonder  shota^ 
With  a  gilded  bark  and  a  golden  oar» 
Love  sits  at  the  helm  to  oheer  and  guides 
And  he  waiteth  for  me»  his  ohosen  bride.'' 
Oh,  love,  what  a  beautiful  Areight  hast  thonl 
Thy  bark  is  laden  from  stem  to  prow. 
And  the  mother  gazes  with  loving  pridf^ 
On  her  mate,  and  the  dear  ones  who  throng  her  side; 
Yet  still  she  cries  to  the  boatman  gray, 
"  Ply  faster  your  tardy  oars  I  pray. 
For  Wealth,  and  Fame,  and  Honor  await 
My  loved  ones  when  they  shall  reach  man's  estate." 
And  now  the  river  is  deep  and  wide, 
And  branches  flow  from  its  cither  side, 
And  the  children,  to  man,  and  womanhood  grown, 
Are  lannching  forth  in  boats  of  their  own, 
And  the  mother  cries  with  a  sndden  fear, 
"  Oh,  tarry,  gray  boatman  yet  longer  here^ 
Why  harry  on  with  such  speed,  I  pray. 
Yon  are  bearing  my  loved  ones  all  away.** 
Again  she  rooks  in  a  boat  alone, 
And  her  heart  ko^s  time  to  the  waves'  low  mosa, 
As  she  feebly  eries  to  the  boatman  gray* 
"  Ply  £uter  year  tardy  oars,  I  pray. 
For  the  dear  ones  have  gone  from  my  loving  csrc^ 
They  have  drifted  out  on  the  sea  so  fair. 
And  I  long  to  bo  with  them  and  part  no  more 
On  the  tireless  waves  of  the  golden  shore." 

KEEP  YOUB  TOP  COOL. 

Artemus  Ward  once,  during  a  journey  across 
the  Plains,  ofTered  a  stage-driver  a  drink  of 
whisky  from  his  flask,  which  was  refused  in 
most  decided  terms.  Said  the  driver :  "  I  don't 
drink.  I  won't  drink.  And  I  donH  like  to 
see  anybody  else  drink.  I  am  of  the  opinion 
of  those  mountains — keep  your  top  cool.  They've 
got  snow  and  I've  got  brains;  that's  all  the 
difference." 

There  is  a  wealth  of  wisdom  in  the  senten- 
tious remark,  "Keep  your  top  cool.**  The 
fountain  of  man's  power  and  happiness  is  in 
his  brain.  Alcohol  is  a  foe  of  the  brain,  and 
when  it  gets  there,  either  benumbs  it  or  perverti 
its  action.  Bemember  the  stage-drivei^s  cart 
philosophy. 


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OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BY  FlfSnSlWAY  POTTS. 


NO.  II. 


COUSIN  SASAH  came  in  this  afternoon,  and 
almoet  the  first  words  sbe  said  to  Lily  were : 
"Nell,  are  70a  enjoying  vacation,  and  getting 
rested?" 

To  which  the  child  replied :  "  1  will  be  glad 
vben  the  next  term  begins,  because  I  have 
noUuDg  to  do  but  read  and  sit  idle  since  we 
bare  got  all  our  sewing  done." 

"Nell,"  said  she,  decidedly,  ''if  your  folks 
am  find  nothing  for  you  to  do,  I  will  look 
iboat  the  house  and  see  if  there  is  not  some 
kind  of  work  for  idle  hands." 

Saying  this,  she  went  np  stairs,  and  into  the 
dark  closet,  on  the  wide  shelves  of  which  I 
keep  the  bedclothes ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  she 
came  down  with  her  arms  full  of  sheets  and 
blankets. 

"Now  here/'  said  she,  **h  work  enough  to 
keep  you  a  fortnight.  You  will  carefully  rip 
apart  all  these  half- worn  sheets  and  blankets, 
pick  out  and  bum  all  the  bits  of  stitches  and 
thread,  and  then  turn  them  and  put  the  best 
parts  in  the  middle.  Because  you  are  a  little 
girl,  you  must  be  sure  and  baste  your  work 
erenly  together  before  you  begin  it.  It  will 
learn  yen  a  good  habit)  and  will  be  the  first 
■tep  in  making  you  a  good  seamstress.  Now . 
this  is  a  nice  lot  of  little  girls'  work,  and  as 
•oon  as  yon  finish  one,  fold  it  evenly  and  neatly 
•nd  lay  it  away  where  it  belongs.  I  don't  want 
to  meddle  with  Pipsey's  afiairs,  but  really  I 
did  see  that  very  same  sunflower  quilt  that  I 
helped  her  to  qnilt  long  ago,  long  afore  I  ever 
nw  my  man  Hiram ;  and  there  it  lies  in  the 
clothes  closet  not  bonnd  yet.  When  you  are 
out  of  work  again,  dear,  just  take  a  half  dozen 
of  eggs  and  go  to  the  store  and  buy  the  worth 
of  'em  in  blue  calico,  and  tear  it  in  narrow 
•trips  and  bind  that  quilt.  It  onght  to  be  done 
for  pity's  sake.  Then  sometime  gather  np  an 
vmfal  of  old  aprons,  pantaloons,  drawers, 
■hirts,  and  such  like,  and  bring  'em  over  to 
me,  and  I'll  make  you  a  nice  lot  of  carpet  rags 
to  be  sewing  together.  But  yon  must  be  neat 
About  it,  and  keep  your  rags  all  in  a  basket, 
ud  your  carpet  balls  in  a  paper  sack,  put  away 
Mt  of  sight ;  and,  my  oh,  what  a  little  woman 
you'll  make  some  of  these  days  I  Leave  cro- 
c^ng  and  all  such  fol-de-ral  for  silly  girls; 
yon  must  tiy  to  be  uaefiil,  and  good,  and  sensi- 


ble, and  be  quiet,  and  not  brag  and  grow  con- 
ceited and  spoiled.  By  the  way,  Lily,  I  see  a 
little  hole  in  the  skirt  of  your  dress,  and  the 
first  time  you  pass  a  nail-keg  or  a  fence  comer, 
something  will  catch  into  it  and  make  a  big 
hole  of  it.  Always  sit  right  down  and  mend 
your  dress,  dear,  as  soon  as  you  have  torn  or 
burnt  it.  Do  it  neatly,  taking  care  to  match 
the  flower,  or  stripe,  or  check  exactly ;  then 
press  it  out  with  a  hot  iron,  And  it  is  quite  as 
good  as  new.  Remember  and  keep  all  pieces 
of  dresses  and  garments  in  a  certain  drawer  or 
basket,  each  kind  rolled  up  separately,  and  it 
will  save  you  a  great  deal  of  time  and  worry, 
besides  learning  yon  a  habit  that  will  help  to 
make  you  even-tempered  and  happy.  I  have 
always  liked  you,  Lily  Potts,  and  I  hope  to  see 
you  make  the  right  kind  of  a  .woman."  And 
here  good,  honest  Cousin  Sarah  flapped  her 
stifily  starched  buff  sun  bonnet  on  her  head  in 
a  way  that  made  me  think  the  tidy  bonnet  was 
a  great  broad-winged,  ravenous  bird,  just  alight- 
ing on  its  prey. 

Cousin  is  a  very  plain-spoken  woman,  and 
sometimes  has  a  rasping  way  of  saying  things 
that  does  hurt,  but  her  heart  is  so  kind  that  we 
all  love  her.  As  she  went  out  she  turned  to 
me  with :  *'  I  tee  one  thing  about  your  house- 
keeping that  Hike.  Your  pantry  is  not  crowded 
with  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends ;  yonr  shelves 
only  hold  snch  articles  as  yon  are  likely  to 
need  nearly  every  day.  That  gives  one  a 
chance  to  keep  'em  clean  and  neat. 

.  **  I  was  down  to  old  Miss  Mowers's  when 
they  were  getting  ready  to  have  km  help  'em 
to  move  their  smoke-house,  and  I  never  did 
see  snch  a  pantry.  The  shelves  were  heaped 
np  with  old  tin- ware,  and  buckets,  and  baskets^ 
and  empty  bottles,  and  tin  cans,  and  jngs,  and 
jars,  and  seed-bags,  and  parcels,  and  knitting- 
work,  and  nearly  everything  that  one  could 
mention.  I  even  saw  the  old  work-basket  with 
one  lid  off  and  a  string  for  a  handle,  that  she 
used  to  carry  Esau's  linen  in  when  he  was  a 
baby,  and  we  used  to  go  to  quarterly  meeting 
together,  in  ourpung,  down  to  the  riffle;  and  her 
Esau  is  thr^  months  younger  than  my  Marier, 
and  she  will  be  thirty  years  old  the  second  day 
of  next  February. 

"Old  MisB  Mowen  ia  called  a  good  heon^ 

(215) 

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216 


ARTHUB'a   LADY* 8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


keeper,  too,  and  she  is,  but  then  there's  more 
than  half  the  women  whose  pantry-shelves  are 
as  cluttered  up  as  hers.  Anything  I  don't  have 
to  use  more  than  twice  a  week,  I  pat  in  the 
dosety  out  of  sight  I  never  delighted  in  try- 
ing how  much  tin-ware,  and  how  many  kitchen 
utensils  and  fixings  I  could  hang  up  to  make  a 
display  of  in  my  pantry.  I  think  the  fewer 
things  (here  are  to  handle  and  have  around, 
the  easier  one  can  keep  things  clean  and  in  or- 
der. Now  some  women  would  just  as  lief  a 
stranger  would  go  into  their  bed-rooms  as  into 
their  pantries ;  but  I  keep  mine  so  that  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  have  my  men-folks,  and  my 
boarders,  and  the  preacher,  or  the  doctor,  or  the 
professor,  go  right  in  and  help  themselves  to  a 
fresh  drink  of  water,  or  a  golden  pippin,  and 
■mell  around  as  much  as  they  like." 

I  waa  awakened  in  the  night  by  a  moaning 
that  came  from  Jonathan's  bed,  and  on  going 
to  him  learned  that  he  had  been  snfiering  se- 
verely with  the  toothache.  He  had  been  warm, 
and  had  taken  ofi'  his  coat  and  sat  down  by  the 
window  to  study.  I  used  to  take  him  in  my 
arms,  and  hold  him  closely  and  warmly,  and 
rook  him,  and  soothe  away  the  pain ;  but  now 
about  four  feet  of  Jonathan  would  have  to  lie 
sprawling  on  the  floor  if  I  would  txy  the  same 
cure.  But  I  have  one  that  is  infkllible  when 
the  toothache  ariaes  from  taking  cold. 

Slipping  on  my  clothes,  I  went  to  the  kitchen- 
•tove,  and  found  plenty  of  hot  ashes,  which  I 
drew  out  on  the  hearth,  and  dampened  with 
water,  and  tied  up  in  a  towel,  all  hot  and 
steaming.  This  I  put  on  his  jaw,  and  op  over 
his  ear,  and  bundling  his  head  up  in  a  shawl, 
and  tucking  the  blankets  in  nicely,  left  him 
alone  to  quiet  and  to  sleep.  "  Oh,  Pip,"  he 
said, "  that  is  so  good  I  I  can  feel  a  cold  stream 
of  air  coming  out  of  my  poor  ear,  and  it  viznes 
like  the  wind  in  the  thick  top  of  an  old  pine 
tm." 

<'  That  is  a  good  tymptom,"  I  said.  *^  It  is 
the  cold  and  the  toothache  rushing  out  together ; 
and  now  go  to  sleep  and  wake  up  in  the  morn- 
ing a  wiser  boy,  and  be  more  careful  hereafter 
about  taking  off  your  coat  and  sitting  down 
quietly." 

Sure  enough,  in  the  morning  he  awoke  as 
erisp  and  bright  as  a  new  paper-dollar.  This 
cure  never  fails  to  bring  relief,  unless  it  is  a 
case  of  neuralgia,  and  it  only  aggravates  that 
and  makes  it  worse. 

Nothing  would  ever  relieve  me  of  neuralgia 
only  to  go  without  eating,  and  withont  drinking 
tM  and  oofiee,  for  at  least  four  meals.    When 


the  pain  was  overpowered^-oompletely  starved 
out — the  most  delicious  languor,  or  luxuriant 
lassitude,  would  manifest  itself;  the  perspira- 
tion would  start  freely,  the  hands  would  lie  any 
way  in  which  they  were  dropped,  and  the  in- ' 
teilect  would  be  unshadowed  and  unfettered, 
and  it  would  be  easier  to  write  poetry  than  to 
twirl  my  thumbs.  That  is  a  good  time  b 
which  to  solve  riddles  and  rebuses.  Strange 
that  I  never  found  a  woman  willing  to  try  my 
recipe.  One  poor  woman — a  ragged  remnant 
of  morphine  she  was— 4aid :  ^  No,  indeed,  I 
'\  wouldn't  do  that!  If  I  ever  want  my  good, 
\  strong  cawfe*  I  want  it  then,  when  I  am  saffie^ 
ing  so  I"  Another,  a  little,  thin,  nervous,  band- 
boxy  creature,  a  waify  wife  whom  I  found  in 
excruciating  pain,  and  told  her  what  to  do^ 
screeched  out,  shrilly  as  a  toneless  little  fiddle: 
'*  I'm  just  as  weak  as  a  doll  already,  and  I  mean 
to  have  a  good  biled  dinner  of  jowel  and  cab- 
bage, and  taters  and  onions,  now  if  ever;  and 
I  don't  thank  any  lathy  old  maids  for  comiDg 
about  me  with  their  starvation  cures  t"  I  tell 
you  I  dropped  her  little,  throbbing  head  out  of 
my  hands  as  quickly  as  if  it  had  been  a  torpe- 
do, and  I  whipped  round  the  comer  of  her 
house  so  suddenly  that  my  skirts  cracked  like 
the  end  of  a  silken  whiplash. 

It  is  very  strange  that,  as  soon  as  a  person 
gets  sick,  the  first  thing  he  laments  about  is 
that  he  cannot  eat;  and  then  the  house  is  in  a 
commotion,  and  the  anxious  faces  glide  hither 
)  and  thither  in  search  of  something  that  he  can 
I  eat.  Nature,  asserting  her  claim,  is  shoved 
aside. 

I  knew  a  woman  once  whose  youngest  son,  a 
promising  boy,  lay  ja!(t  on  a  balance  between 
life  and  death.  In  the  evening  the  physician 
said  the  hour  of  midnight  would  determine  the 
case.  He  left,  giving  strict  orders  to  the  mother 
about  the  medicine,  and  told  her  not  to  give 
any  food  whatever,  and  to  quit  worrying  about 
the  boy  not  eating.  The  symptoms,  at  the  hoar 
of  midnight,  were  favorable ;  heperRpired  and 
slept  sweetly  and  restful  ly,  and  lay  quietly. 
"  Oh,  Johnny,  you'll  get  well,  dear,  if  your  ap- 
petite would  only  come  again,"  said  the  moth- 
er; ''can't  you  think  of  something  you  would 
like  to  eat— just  a  few  bites;  oh,  wouldn't  yon 
like  some  of  mother^s  good,  new-meal  mudi, 
and  nice,  creamy  milk?" 

The  child  anented,  and  ate  of  the  rich  milk 
and  the  meal  pudding,  and  wanted  more,  and 
more,  until  he  had  eaten  heartily.  In  the 
morning  he  was  dead. 

The  mother's  anguish  knew  no  bounds ;  she 
wrong  her  hands,  and  tove  her  hair,  and  best 


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OTffEB    PEOPLE'S   WINDOWS. 


217 


Imt  breast,  and  when  the  fhry  of  grief  was  spent, 
ibe  laid  down  prone  npon  the  floor  exhaosted, 
foothed  \xj  the  glosing  words  that  she  plained 
to  herself:  "The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord 
ttkech  away,  and  blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Liid.»' 

Another  child  was  stricken  down  with  the 
ame  di^ase — the  same  formula  was  gone 
throogh  again,  until  it  came  to  where  the  child 
WIS  tilting  in  the  balance  between  life  and 
death,  when  the  doctor  came  to  me  and  told 
me  to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  she  had  killed 
Johnny,  and  spare  her  not,  but  for  the  sake  of  \ 
the  living  child  tell  her  the  whole  truth.  I 
did  it  with  that  kind  of  satisfaction  that  an 
Indian  feels  when  he  scalps  a  white  man. 

Doctor  fiodkin  says  people  can  learn  from  a 
hoi:  what  to  do  in  sickness— that  if  a  hog  is  sick 
he  cannot  be  prevailed  npon  to  eat  until  he  is 
nil,  or  in  a  &ir  way  of  recovering. 

The  school  ma'am  is  boarding  with  ns  this 
week,  a  real  healthy,  happy  girl,  so  unlike  the 
majority  of  lady  teachers  who  sit  and  play 
lith  their  soft  fingers,  and  make  pretty  fiscesi, 
nd  work  at  crochet,  and  embroidery,  and 
write  odes  to  the  moon. 

Last  evening  she  had  a  romp  with  the  girls 
out  in  the  woodii,  and  across  the  meadow,  and 
ttme  back  rosy  and  flushed  with  moist  brow 
ad  muddy  fingers.  They  had  found  a  place 
hf  the  sedgy  brook,  where  the  violets  grew  in 
great  buncheis  ^^^  ^^  ^^%  up  several  fine 
oaes  which  they  set  out  in  some  deep,  brown, 
euthen  baking-plates  that  I  had  never  used 
BQch.  Of  all  the  pretty  things  ever  trans- 
planted into  one's  sitting-room,  a  deep  dishful 
flf  growing  violets  is  the  finest  and  freshest  It 
iWld  be  dug  np  with  a  mattock,  a  great  sod 
^  it,  and  should  be  watered  frequently,  and 
hsTe  a  good  warm  place  in  a  sunny  window 
9veiy  day.  It  will  continue  beautiful  all  sum- 
>isr.  If  I  was  a  lady  living  in  the  noisy,  jost- 
ling, busy  city,  and  wanted  something  fresh 
•ad  natural  from  the  country  in  the  summer, 
I  would  have  a  big  sod  of  wild  violets.  In  the 
winter  I  would  have  a  bunch  of  brown  leaves, 
chestnut,  and  oak,  and  maple ;  and  if  I  loved 
the  broad  wild  woodlands,  I  would  close  my 
e^M  and  bury  my  fiice  in  them,  and  enjoy  the 
woodsy  odor  that  never  leaves  them. 

While  we  were  fixing 'our  violets  in  the 
dishes,  each  one  trying  to  have  hers  the  pretti* 
M,  the  deacon  came  in  with  a  couple  of  split 
iticks  in  his  hand,  and  stopped  to  admire  Lily's 
TioIeCs. 

She  has  good  taste,  and  he  said  hers  was 


the  prettiest.  At  one  side  of  the  dish  she  had 
put  in  a  mossy  stone,  and  trailed  a  spray  of 
door-yard  ivy  aoroes  it,  and  then  let  the  bunch 
of  violets  reach  out  greenly  over  it,  just  as  if 
it  grew,  all  moist,  and  dripping  and  dewy,  in 
a  tangled  way  itself,  with  never  a  touch  of 
handy  fingers  about  it  It  was  very  natural 
and  beautiful,  and  the  spirit  of  the  wild  woods 
seemed  to  abide  in  that  one  brown  earthen 
dish,  as  she  stood  it  on  the  window,  and  let  the 
trail  of  green  spray  droop  down  over  the  edge 
and  swing  from  the  silL 

"  Well,  I  am  waiting  to  show  you  girls  what 
Fve  got  here,"  said  the  deacon,  holding  out 
the  pieces  of  freshly  split  sticks  in  his  hand. 

"  This  is  a  piece  of  the  top  limb  of  that  old 
drooping  elm  that  grew  at  the  foot  of  the  big 
hill  by  the  brook,  just  in  the  edge  of  the  old 
sugar  grove."  We  all  remember  that  high 
topmost  limb,  reaching  away  above  the  tree 
tops  on  which  the  hooting  owls  would  alight 
at  night  With  the  dead  limb  outlined  against 
the  clear  evening  skies,  we  ooold  easily  dis- 
tinguish any  otgect  on  it 

''You  see  a  bullet-hole  here,"  said&ther; 
''  and  here  at  this  side  was  where  the  bullet 
lodged.  See  what  a  beautiful,  strange  wavy 
growth  the  timber  took  after  the  ball  had  pen- 
etrated I  I  remember,*'  said  he,  and  his  blue 
eyes  grew  bluer  than  the  bells  of  the  darkest, 
deepest  morning-glories;  ''it  was  forty-nine 
years  ago  last  New  Yearns  day,  since  we  boys, 
just  for  fun,  shot  at  a  little  mark  on  this  very 
limb.  Thero  was  Lije  James,  and  Hank  Mit* 
cheil,  and  brother  Clark,  and  Levi,  and  one  of 
Broad/s  boys,  and  myself.  We  had  a  good 
deal  of  sport  that  day ;"  and  here  he  stopped 
talking  and  laughed  heartily. 

"  What  became  of  all  the  boys  who  had  such 
good  times  together,  a  half  century  ago,"'  said 
the  school  ma'am. 

"Well,"  said  fiither,  as  he  suddenly  grew 
thoughtful,  and  in  an  embarrassed  way  pulled 
down  his  vest  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  out  of 
it ;  "  let  me  see — Lije  James  was  a  preacher's 
son,  and  the  best  young  man  I  ever  knew ;  he 
loved  and  cared  for  the  souls  of  his  associates^ 
and  used  to  prey  especially  for  us ;  he  had  a 
good  influence  among  the  boys;  he  is  a  former  * 
away  in  (he  West,  blest,  and  prospered,  and 
happy.  My  brother  Levi  emigrated  to  the 
wilds  of  Oregon,  when  it  was  almost  unknown 
and  unsettled,  and  he  died  there  of  consump- 
tion. The  desire  on  his  dying  bed  to  revisit 
his  old  home  amounted  to  frensy,  but  his  wish 
could  not  be  gratified.  Hank  Mitchell  was  a 
shrewd  trader,  who  lived  and  died  in  New  Or- 


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218 


ABTHUB'8  LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


leans ;  and  Dick  Broady  was  arraitod  for  steal* 
ingy  and  other  crimes^  awajr  in  Iowa,  twenty- 
fiye  years  ago,  was  shot  by  lynchers^  and  his 
dead  body  tied  in  a  sitting  position  on  a  raft^ 
and  set  afloat  on  the  Mississippi  river." 

We  were  all  very  sad  while  father  was  run- 
ning oyer  these  life*pages ;  as  quickly  as  a  nun 
woald  count  her  beads  and  slip  them  from  out 
her  fingers  did  they  fall  from  his  lips. 

I  took  the  old  relic  of  by-gone  sports,  the 
smoothly  split  elm  limb  with  the  wavy  growths 
running  adown  it,  and  laid  it  away,  saying  I 
would  have  Mr.  Oldham  make  ii  into  a  pictnre- 
frame. 

How  the  years  do  glide  away  I  Think  of 
Deacon  Adongah  Potts,  a  hale  old  man  of 
seventy,  with  the  snow-white  crown  resting 
above  his  brows,  saying  "ice  hoya^'*  as  gleefully 
as  though  that  fifty  years  was  only  a  few  months 
agone.  How  sweet  and  mellow  is  ouch  a  ripe 
old  age,  and  how  becoming  1 

Mrs.  Crowner,  a  poor  widow  over  on  the  hill 
beyond  Meadow  Brook,  stopped  in  this  after- 
noon on  her  way  home  from  tlie  village.  6he 
had  been  helping  the  doctor's  wife  clean  house 
and  wash  bedclothes.  She  was  tired ;  it  is  a 
walk  of  three  miles,  and  her  health  is  not  very 
good,  and  we  were  glad  to  have  her  call  in  and 
rest  herself. 

Grandma  always  keeps  the  teakettle  on  the 
stove  all  the  time,  just  in  case  a  poor,  tired, 
hungry  person  comes  in  and  needs  a  cup  of  tea. 
It  is  no  trouble  to  us^  and  a  great  help  to  thofie 
who  are  weary  and  need  the  refreshing  cup  that 
cheers.  While  she  was  sipping  her  tea  and 
eating  some  of  the  nice  kind  of  cakes  that 
grandma  always  has — a  kind  that  improve 
with  age — I  observed  that  she  wore  a  very 
pretty  black  calico  dress.  Kow  I  have  a  weak- 
ness for  black  calico  dresses ;  but  one  has  to  be 
so  very  careful  of  them;  and  then  they  are 
never  pretty  after  they  have  been  washed. 

I  remarked  this  to  Mrs.  Crowner,  and  she 
laughingly  replied  that  she  had  worn  that  dress 
for  her  best  one  for  over  two  years,  and  it  had 
been  washed  frequently,  and  that  she  never  had 
had  any  difficulty  in  keeping  black  calico  from 
fading  or  growing  dingy. 

This  was  all  new  to  me,  so  I  took  out  my 
pencil  and  made  a  note  of  her  recipe  to  keep 
black  calieo  from  fading. 

She  said  when  she  had  made  the  dress  and 
worn  it  until  it  needed  washing,  she  made  a 
strong  soapsuds  and  put  the  dress  in  it,  and  let 
it  stay  in  until  it  boiled,  then  set  it  ofi^  and 
allowed  it  to  lie  in  the  suds  until  it  was  cold. 


It  never  Auied  aiker  that,  and  she  always  wsshsd 
it  in  the  usual  manner,  and  rinsed  it  through 
two  or  three  waten^  and  dried  it  in  the  shsdoL 

I  was  immensely  amused  while  she  stayed. 
She  said  Dr.  Thompson's  wife  told  her  she 
must  go  to  church,  and  she  replied  that  she 
had  no  bonnet  fit  to  wear,  and  Mrs.  Thompson 
said  if  she  would  accept  it  she  would  give  her 
one  of  her  old  ones,  provided  she  would  go  to 
church.  She  took  the  flowers  and  feathers  and 
the  broad  ribbon  ties  ofi*  from  a  brown  straw 
bonnet  and  presented  it  to  her. 

Now  any  woman  knows  that  a  modem  bon- 
net, stripped  of  the  trimmings,  is  no  more  s 
bonnet  than  is  a  broad  brown  sycamore  lest 
It  bears  no  resemblance  to  anything  in  the 
heavens  or  on  the  earth— it  is  unsightly,  ugly, 
repulsive,  useless.  And  to  a  woman  poor  and 
gray-haired,  who  is  willing  to  go  to  church, 
but  kept  back  by  poverty,  auch  a  gift  is  an 
insult  and  a  mockery. 

Grandma  gave  her  a  brown  ribbon  for  ties, 
and  I  sewed  them  on,  making  a  *'  complaceut 
bow"  under  the  chin.  She  had  a  little  gansy 
brown  veil  that  one  of  her  children  found,  and 
I  told  her  to  iron  it  out  smoothly,  lay  it  in  two 
folds,  and  press  it,  to  give  it  the  look  of  the 
first  folds  that  are  in  veils  when  we  buy  them, 
aud  then  lay  it  in  three  box-plaits  at  one  end, 
and  fasten  it  in  that  on  the  top  of  the  bonnets 
little  back. 

We  are  too  apt,  in  giving  gifts  to  the  poor, 
and  often  in  giving  to  the  Lord,  likewise,  to 
give  sparingly,  and  unworthily,  and  distruit- 
fully,  to  dole  out  grudgingly  something  thst 
we  d6  not  ieel  sensibly,  or  miss  much,  or  make 
any  sacrifice  in  giving. 

The  school  ma'am  was  here  again  last  night; 
her  sweet  face  brings  sunshine  every  time  she 
comes.  The  girls  were  looking  over  a  box  of 
ribbons^  and  laces,  and  bits  of  silk,  when  lily 
came  upon  a  pair  of  kid  gloves  that  I  had  wora 
long  ago,  and  laid  aside  because  one  of  them 
was  badly  torn.  I  did  not  know,  when  I  went 
to  draw  on  the  new  gloves^  that  it  was  a  half 
day's  work  to  fit  a  pair  of  kida.  Lily's  little 
hands,  in  all  these  intervening  years,  had  grown 
to  the  site  that  she  could  wear  my  glovei^  and 
she  lamented  over  the  torn  one. 

''Why,"  said  the  school  ma'am,  <' mending 
gloves,  and  darning  hose,  and  making  new 
garments  out  of  old  ones,  is  a  part  of  my  pRh 
fession.  It  belongs  to  a  poor  achool-teacher, 
and  is  one  of  the  requirements." 

Her  deft  little  fingers  went  to  work,  and  he- 
^  fore  bedtime  the  glove  was  nicely  mended, 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTHER    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS. 


219 


and  Lilj  waa  rejoicing  over  a  pair  as  good  aa 

oev. 

Ivatcbed  to  see  how  she  did  it.  She  took 
the  best  of  Bilk  thread  and  worked  a  btitton* 
bole  or  loo[«Rtitch  a1!  along  the  edges  of  the 
rentj  and  then  caught  them  loosely  together,  by 
taking  a  siitch  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other,  across.  Occasionally  she  made  a  firm 
ititch,  that  kept  her  work  neatly  and  in  its 
place. 

She  can  make  collars  and  pretty  things  for 
the  girls  to  wear  abont  their  necks,  oot  of  al- 
most anything.  Odd  bets  of  ribbon  and  lace, 
ud  old  ruches,  grow  into  marvelloQsly  neat 
things  in  her  ingenious  hands. 

I  observe  that  she  is  very  particular  every 
night  to  let  her  hair  all  down  loosely,  and  let 
it  hang  over  her  pillow.  She  sleeps  on  a 
loange^  and  her  beautiful  hair  hangs  down  over 
the  end  of  it^  and  reaches  in  abundance  to  the 
arpet  I  gathered  it  up  in  my  arms  last 
night,  when  I  pa&sed  through  her  room  on  my 
vay  to  my  own,  and  I  involuntarily  kissed  it, 
u  I  thought  of  Miles  O'Reilley's  exquisite 
nng  about  Jannette's  hair:  ''A  thing  to  be 
fendled,  and  petted,  and  kissed.'' 

The  school  ma'am  who  boarded  with  us  last 
rammer  had  a  wealth  of  shining  dan-gold  hair, 
bat  the  sweet  airs  of  heaven  never  kissed  her 
hur.  It  was  worn  in  a  huge  top-knot,  with 
something  inside  of  it  to  build  the  structure  on, 
jost  whatever  she  happened  to  pick  up  in  her 
haste— a  soiled  handkerchief,  a  pair  of  gloves,  a 
vooUen  stocking,  or  whatever  was  nearest  her 
hand.  She  never  shook  it  out  freely,  or  spread 
it  o?er  her  pillow,  and  the  air  never  touched 
it  thoroughly  only  mornings,  when  she  wet 
«r  oiled  it,  and  then  built  it  up  compactly — 
t  greasy,  gummy,  disgusting  wad,  that  could 
be  smelt  anywhere  in  the  room  where  she 
vas. 

Jonathan  never  would  eat  at  the  same  table, 
*ad  we  all  sat  as  tax  away  from  her  as  we  could 
get  Ko  wonder  the  puny,  white-faced  little 
children  didn't  love  her  at  school,  and  were 
pining,  and  had  no  appetites  for  food.  Jona- 
than likes  this  school-teacher,  though,  and 
Kmetimes  I  observe  he  blushes  before  her,  and 
looks  down  at  his  feet,  and  stammers,  and  don't 
^ypear  well  at  all. 

A  little  package  came  home  yesterday,  plainly 
directed  to  "  Pipaissiway  Potts,  Pottsville,  Ohio, 
eve  of  Deacon  Adonijah  Potts,  of  Green  town 
Chorch."  There  was  no  mistaking  it — it  was 
BMint  for  me.  I  was  afraid  to  open  it  I  never 
ia  my  bom  life  had  a  package  sent  me  by  ex- 
pNH  before,  and  I  was  afraid  it  was  an  infernal 

Toifc  xxxvir.--16. 


machine--one  of  that  kind  that  explodes  and 
kills  people. 

The  deacon  said  he  didn't  believe  I  had  an 
enemy  in  the  worid ;  that  I  was  civil,  and  had 
nothing  against  nobody,  and  he  didn't  see  why 
any  one  would  want  to  kill  me.  I  handled  the 
package  carefully.  I  hefted  it.  J  was  not  mis* 
taken-*it  smelt,  really  it  did— and  of  brim- 
stone, or  powder,  or  something  of  the  kind.  J 
laid  it  down  and  told  fiither  he  might  do  as  he 
pleased  about  opening  it— that  I  wouldn't  d(» 
it 

"Who  ever  heard  of  the  Pottses  being  afraid  ? 
There's  not  a  coward  among  'em ;"  said  he,  and 
then  he  smelt  of  it  suspiciously.  I  stood  be- 
hind the  kitchen  door,  and  peeped  out  The 
deacon  softly  handled  the  parcel,  over  and  over, 
and  then  pressing  his  lips  together,  he  took  out 
his  knife  and  cut  the  cord  that  held  it 

There  were  several  coarse,  thick  papers 
aronnd  it,  but  at  last  the  contents  were  visible — 
a  little  nankin  wallet  full  of  seed-onions.  In 
among  the  onions  lay  a  note  addressed  to  P. 
Potts. 

The  package  was  a  present  from  Deacon 
Skiles,  the  bereft  widower,  with  seven  smaU 
children.  He  said  he  wanted  I  should  have 
some  of  his  kind  of  onions — ^they  were  very- 
excellent,  crisp,  and  Juicy,  and  they  matured 
two  weeks  airlier  than  the  common  kinds. 
He  said  if  they  were  planted  in  good,  mellow 
soil,  they  would  grow  as  large  as  chany  teacups^ 
and  that  the  tops  would  do  by  the  middle  of 
May  to  be  eaten  with  bread  and  batter. 

He  closed  the  letter  by  saying  that  he  hoped 
to  see  me  at  the  ordination  of  Brother  8e^ 
Tucker,  which  would  take  place  at  their  church 
the  first  Saturday  of  the  next  month,  and  he 
hoped  to  have  an  opportunity  to  converse  with 
me  privately  on  that  occasion. 

The  school  ma'am,  and  Jonathan,  and  the 
girls,  have  a  good  deal  of  fun  abont  my  little 
nankin  wallet  of  seed  onions,  and  about  the 
deacon  carrying  them  in  his  satchel  along  with 
his  clean  clothes.  Father  takes  his  part,  and 
says  onions  would  make  a  more  agreeable  per- 
fumery than  musk  for  a  farmer,  who  had  beea 
brought  up  to  till  the  soil. 

The  deacon  told  me  yesterday  he  would  like 
to  have  some  beans  for  dinner  to-day.  He  i» 
an  old  Yermonter,  and  his  likes  and*  dislikes 
are  vey  ctrong.  So  I  cleaned  a  mess  of  beans 
and  cooked  them  my  war,  which  is  this: 

T  put  a  tin  cupful  of  beans  in  a  erode  of  wairn 
water  the  nigh:  before,  and  let  them  soak  until 
the  next  day  at  ten  o'clock.  Then  I  wash 
them  and  pat  tbem  on  lo  boil,  and  let  thent 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ARTEUIt'B   LADY'S   MO  ME   MAGAZINE 


cook  abont  twenty^re  miimtcs,  when  I  ponr 
the  water  off  and  put  on  fresh  water.  I  don't 
let  them  cook  all  to  pieces,  but  just  as  done  as 
they  can  be  and  retain  their  form.  I  let  them 
cook  until  there  is  not  water  enough  to  qtiite 
cover  them.  Then  I  put  in  a  big  lump  of 
butter,  pepper,  and  salt,  and  in  a  minute  or 
two  I  set  them  on  top  of  the  stove,  and  pour  iu 
nearly  a  pint  of  cream,  being  careful  not  to  lei 
tliem  boil  after  it  is  adde(L  Then  toast  a  slice 
of  bread,  butter  it  well  on  both  sides,  and 
lay  it  in  a  tureen  and  pour  the  beans  out 
on  it. 

By  soaking  all  night  and  pouring  off  the 
boiling  water,  they  loose  all  that  strong  rooty 
flavor  that  they  would  else  have,  and  then  they 
are  none  too  strong  to  eat  occasionally  in  warm 
weather ;  and  we  know  they  are  safer  food,  and 
more  wholesome  than  are  new  summer-tinl^ 
beams,  eaten  pods  and  all. 

How  these  old  Yankees  do  cling  to  their  old 
orthodox  dishes  I  No  matter  how  much  di* 
luted  is  Yankee  blood,  how  much  mixed  and 
crossed  with  Pennsylvanians,  Virginians,  Ken- 
tnckians,  or  even  Arapahoes,  it  is  amusing  to 
watch  closely,  and  see  how  soon  and  how 
clearly  it  will  make  itself  manifest ;  the  Yan- 
kee blood  will  predominate* 

I  have  had  the  headache  for  three  or  four 
days,  and  little  noises  all  seem  so  loud  and 
sharp,  and  hurt  me  so^  I  observed  this  morn- 
ing that  every  time  grandma  shut  the  door 
she  jirked  it  shut  with  a  very  decided  slam, 
that  annoyed  the  whole  family  as  well  as  my- 
self. If  she  is  a  litUe  out  of  humor  she  never 
takes  tlie  trouble  to  turn  the  knob,  but  slams 
«t  in  a  way  tliat  makes  it  shut  anyhow. 

When  these  old  world-weary  heads  get  set 
in  their  own  notions,  it  is  better  not  to  cross 
them,  but  manage  them  with  gentle  words 
■ofily  spoken.  So  I  oiled  the  binges  and  the 
catch  until  the  doors  would  swing  smoothly. 
Then  there  was  a  little  place  on  the  sill  that 
the  late  wet  weather  had  caused  to  swell,  and 
when  the  door  shut  it  dragged  in  that  one  place 
heavily.  I  took  a  table  knife  and  spread  a  little 
bit  of  soft-soap  over  that,  and  then  the  offending 
door  sailed  as  though  it  had  wings. 

Tiiese  are  little  things,  indeed,  but  of  much 
importance  (o  one  who  is  suffering  with  the 
headache,  or  one  who  is  bilious,  and  oat  of 
humor,  and  easily  disturbed  by  trifles. 

Oh,  dear  f  father,  and  I,  Deacon  Potts,  and 
Daoghter  Pipsey,  nearly  had  a  quarrel  to-day, 
flit  noon  I 

When  I  was  setting  the  table  this  morning 
m  had  a  very  scant  bmakfiiat,  jqat  bread,  and 


batter,  and  ham,  apd  coflee,  and  it  looked  to 
meagre  that  I  set  a  bowl  of  ray  nice  grape  jellj 
on  the  table,  because  professor  and  the  childven 
like  something  black  to  spread  on  their  bread. 
When  I  was  setting  the  table  I  tipped  over  the 
salt-cellar,  and  Jonathan  said  there'd  be  a 
quarrel  in  the  family  before  night  if  I  didn't 
throw  a  pinch  of  the  salt  in  the  fire.  I  don't 
believe  in  any  such  whims,  and  I  didn't  do  it. 
Sure  enough  there  were  signs  of  a  quarrel. 
That  nice  grape  jelly  got  us  into  the  trouble^ 
too.    I'll  tell  you  how  it  was. 

Thirteen  years  ago  I  coaxed  the  deacon  to 
give  me  a  neglected  grape  vine,  that  grew 
straggling  around  among  the  mustard  and  sun- 
flower stalks,  just  to  give  it  to  me  to  do  as  I 
pleased  with  it.  It  was  a  vine  then  of  six 
years  growth,  neglected,  and  ragged,  and  un- 
couth. At  last,  after  about  three  years'  coax- 
ing^ the  unwilling  deacon  said,  "w-a-a-I, 
y-e-e-s." 

I  gave  each  of  the  brothers  a  silver  shining 
if  he  would  see  me  safely  through  the  trios- 
planting  of  my  vine.  They  obeyed  orders  and 
dug  a  big  hole  right  in  the  yard  at  the  edge  of 
the  porch.  The  whole  yard  was  made  of  bine 
clay,  dug  out  of  our  good  well,  forty-four  fieet 
deep.  We  put  chip  manure,  and  bits  of 
broken  crockery,  and  bones,  and  pork-rindi 
into  the  hole,  along  with  a  troublesome  co- 
quettish young  cat,  and  her  two  thin  kittent 
tliat  we  killed  purposely  for  the  occasion. 

I  cut  tl>e  vine  off,  leaving  a  snag  of  it  abont 
two  feet  long,  and  we  lifted  it  carefully,  spar- 
ing all  the  fibres  and  rootlets  that  we  could. 
Then  we  filled  up  the  hole  with  rich  loam, 
mixed  with  sand,  and  leaf,  and  chip  manure^ 
with  an  occasional  nutritious  morsel  to  make 
feed  for  the  vine.  Then  a  rustic  ladder  made 
of  sticks  with  the  bark  on,  leaned  from  it  up  to 
the  porch  eaves,  and  the  snaggy  vine  was  tied 
up  trimly  as  possible. 

That  poor  vine,  my  love  and  my  pride  and 
my  hope,  grew  and  grew  until  a  fluttering  net- 
work of  green  covered  tlie  whole  front  porch, 
and  still  it  grew  bravely,  and  asking  for  more 
room.  The  house  was  built  of  hewed  logi 
forty  years  before,  three  stories  high  with  a 
porch,  the  roof  of  which  was  below  the  second- 
story  windows.  I  didn't  want  the  vine  to  go 
trailing  and  sprawling  flat  on  the  roof,  and 
wasting  and  hiding  its  beanty — I  was  proad 
of  it  and  wanted  to  show  it  off,  as  motfaei^ 
show  their  bare-armed,  dlmpled-ahouldered 
babies. 

I  sent  for  a  carpenter,  the  very  man  wiis^ 
when  a  little  boy,  would  carry  me  to  school  sad     i 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTMEM    PEOPLE' 8    WINDOWS. 


221 


honne  again  on  kis  band-tied'— beside  wbom  I 
would  sit,  with  onr  araiB  em^ound,  cheek  touch- 
ing  cheek,  while  the  brown  curls  and  the  white 
hrtids  mingled,  both  reading  the  same  {Mige^ 
and  dropping  tears  over  the  pitiful  storj. 

At  my  suggestion  he  put  rafters  to  reach 
from  the  edge  of  the  porch-roof  to  the  bottom 
aik  of  the  third-story  windows,  then  nailed 
lath  on,  the  same  as  shingling,  and  then  my 
besQtifal,  strong  vine  oould  ran  riotous  over 
the  whole  frame,  and  clamber  up  over  the  up- 
per windows,  and  to  the  very  roof  of  the  tall, 
feri-like  old  house.  I  fastened  tlie  spreading 
Vnmches — cut  from  young  trees — ^about  the 
ttres,  and  oomersy  and  oyer  the  windows,  and 
tk  loving  Tine,  giving  me  of  the  same  love 
Alt  I  gave  it,  went  wherever  I  pointed  the 
ny.  There  was  a  real,  human  sympathy  be* 
twcen  ns.  Then  it  ran  all  over  the  well-«hed, 
ind  the  wood-ehed,  and  the  ice-liouse,  and  the 
milk-room,  and  reaehed  ont  greenly,  with  little, 
r^ish,  clinging  fingers,  and  tickled  the  rough, 
gray  sides  of  the  big  cherry-tree,  and  the  great 
eo(ton-wood,  and  the  peach-tree,  that  pressed 
closely  against  the  wall,  and  every  thing  it 
tooohed,  and  daaped,  grew  beautiful,  and  waved 
like  banners. 

We  could  sit  on  the  poreh«roof,  among  the 
cool  shades^  and  gather  a  bushel-basket  full  of  < 
frait,  without  getting  up. 

Men  whose  yery  eyes  had  the  sharp,  money- 
greed  in  them,  would  say,  wit^  stingy,  close 
lips:  '*P!p9ey,  yon  ort  to  make  seventy  dollars 
oot  of  that  vine  every  year  I" 

Thai  rd  feel  my  eyes  growing  blue,  and 
iharp,  and  steely,  and  I  would  look  at  such 
people  from  head  to  foot,  as  thocgh  I  was  tak- 
ing their  measure  for  meanness ;  weighing  them 
fer  craftiness,  and  would  say :  '*  I  want  the  vine 
and  its  beautiful  drapery  of  green  leaves  j  its 
niatllng  and  whispering,  and  its  sweet  oompan- 
ionahip;  not  its  pnrple  clusters,  or  its  ruby 
vine,  or  the  money  it  might  bring ;  I  want  it  to 
fced  my  sonl  with  its  wondrous  beauty." 

This  morning  the  deacon  sharpened  his  knife 
and  went  out  in  the  apring  suoshine  to  prune^ 
andieavebare,  and  bleeding,  and  mutilated,  my 
▼ine,  and  I  said :  "  Oh,  don't  do  it— I  love  it  so  I" 

*"  Bot/'  he  said, ""  It  must  be  done,  it  twitches 
i&y  ears,  and  grabe  at  my  beard  when  I  go  un- 
^  it ;"  and  then  I  felt  my  eyes  grow  sharp 
and  glittering,  and  the  tears  starting,  and  the 
CQtting  words  coming,  bnt  I  pressed  my  lips 
firmly,  and  thought  of— "He  that  ruleth  his 
own  spirit,  etc.,"  and,  "  A  soft  answer,  etc.;" 
and  rising,  I  said:  "  Very  well,  then;  I  know 
I  don't  need  it  now,  like  I  did  a  doxen  yean 


ago^"  and  went  out  into  the  dining«room,  and 
began  humming  a  little^  low,  Scottish  air,  that 
always  does  me  good— a  wild  song,  that  brings 
to  me  the  rush  of  winds  and  waves,  and  a  mad- 
dened sea,  and  a  black  sky,  and  the  blinding 
storm,  with  thunder  and  lightning,  and  rains 
beating  upon  the  strong,  gray  walls  of  an  old 
castle. 

Oh  I  I  was  so  glad  that  I  didn't  cry  out,  or 
say  unkind  things,  that  would  have  cut  and  4 
hurt — hard  words  that  nothing  could  ever  re- 
call ;  the  sorest,  saddest,  deepest  wounds  thai 
can  be  made.  Oh,  these  wounds  in  the  heart 
are  so  much  worse  than  on  the  body  I 

Would  you  believe  it  ?  The  deacon  walked 
out  with  his  sharp  knife,  and  looked  up  at  the 
vine,  and  tipped  back  his  hat-rim,  and  turned 
back  the  cufik  of  his  wamus  sleeves.  Then  I 
don't  know  what  touched  him — maybe  he  was 
met  by  the  angels,  like  old  Jacob  was.  I  guesa 
they  meet  us  every  day,  but  our  gross  eyes  see 
them  not — anyhow,  he  shut  his  whetted  blade 
with  a  sharp  click,  it  slid  quickly  into  his  ca* 
padons  pocket,  and  ouddled  down  beside  his 
smooth  tobacco-box,  and  he — the  deaoon— - 
walked  away  with  a  face  as  sweetly  serene  as  a 
sleeping  babe's.  All  this  I  saw  through  my 
tear?,  from  my  bed-room  window. 

Poor  father— Deacon  Potts !  I  knew  what 
he  was  thinking  of! 

The  old  hous3  was  new,  and  smelt  of  oak, 
and  pine,  and  poplar,  when,  forty  years  before^ 
he  took  my  girl-mother  a  blooming  bride  into 
it.  We  were  all  born  there;  there  the  baby 
died  on  father's  knees,  and  the  eldest  son  lay 
down  in  the  budding  of  bis  manhood,  and 
closed  his  soft-blue  eyes  forever ;  and  there  the 
mother  left  her  little  family  suddenly,  instantly, 
without  a  pain,  with  the  Ted  roses  on  her 
cheeks  even— fell  in  our  midst  with  heart* 
disease. 

From  there  the  timid  bride  went  ferth  at 
one  time,  and  the  wanderer  to  foreign  climes 
at  another  time,  in  the  rainy,  lonesome,  sobbing 
October.  And  the  pained  hearts  were  opened 
wide  to  welcome  the  shy  stepmother,  and  the 
doors  swung  open  sadly  when  her  little  form, 
cold  in  death,  was  carried  ont  to  the  grave-yard 
in  the  valley.  Lives  budded,  and  blossomed, 
and  drooped,  and  died  within  its  old  walla. 
The  moss  grows  on  the  wiudow-aills,  and  the 
thistle  rankles  and  bristles  about  theuntroddeQ 
threshold.  The  old  comers  are  draped  with 
the  gray  film  of  cobwebs.  The  swallows  skim 
and  circle  above  the  old,  mossy  roof,  and  dart 
straight  down  Into  the  wide  chimneys  that  are 
all  a>twitter  with  songs  in  the  summer. 


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222 


ARTHUR'S   ZADTS   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


The  pee-wee  builds  her  nest  on  the  gray 
old  sleepers  that  support  the  upper  floon,  and 
jear  after  year  oomes  back  to  her  quiet  old 
home,  singing  the  same  mournful  notes. 

The  apple-trees  lean  lovingly  their  lithe 
limbs  over  the  roof,  and  the  nimble  squirrels 
dart  from  gable  to  gable,  with  their  little  flags 
ef  truce  waving  over  their  backs,  and  their 
fuinning  okirla  cutting  the  air  like  a  sharp, 
daring  banter.  The  old  spinning-wheels,  and 
the  loom,  and  the  warping-bars,  and  spools, 
and  reels,  and  swifts,  and  reeds,  and  shuttles, 
are  all  in  the  dark,  dusty  garret,  among  the 
spiders  and  bats,  and  odd  accumulations  of 
half  a  century.    Dust  is  over  all. 

The  mosses  and  lichens  creep  over  the  tomb- 
atones  of  our  beloved  dead,  and  the  unpruned 
rose-bushes  lie  in  tangled  masses  on  their  quiet 
graves.  How  kind  of  Nature  to  cover  all  dead 
and  desolated  things  greenly  and  tenderly — how 
wisely  done  and  how  well! 

All  this  in  its  own  way  came  to  Deacon  Potts 
as  he  walked  out  with  malice  intent,  and  his 
hungry  knife  in  his  hand,  hut  the  vine — the 
beloved  and  the  loving  vine— made  its  own  mute 
appeal,  and  was  spared  its  luxuriant  wealth  of 
beauty  and  its  crown  of  royalty. 

A  HAWK  FIGHTING  WITH  CROWa 
(StA  Engraving.) 
UB  cartoon  this  month  is  a  spirited  repre- 
sentation of  a  contest  between  a  hawk  and 
three  crows  over  a  young  hare^  which  the 
former  bird  has  just  caught.  The  drawing  is 
by  C.  F.  Desker,  a  German  artist,  who,  as  a 
designer  of  pictures  illustrating  animal  life, 
has  few  if  any  superiors.  The  following  account 
of  the  incident  upon  which  the  cartoon  is 
based,  we  give  in  the  words  of  an  eye-wit* 
uefti: 

"I  was  beating  about  among  the  bushes 
when  a  hare,  scarcely  full-grown,  sprang  up 
and  ran  across  the  recently-  ploughed  field.  At 
the  same  instant  I  heard  a  loud  rustling. 
Startled,  I  looked  up.  A  huge  hawk  shot 
swiftly  oyer  my  head,  and  darted  down  like 
an  arrow  upon  the  flying  hare,  striking  his 
talons  into  the  poor  creature^a  sides.  The  hare 
broke  down  under  the  force  of  the  collision, 
and  began  to  cry  in  the  piteous,  nasal  tones 
peculiar  to  it.  It  struggled,  however,  to  re- 
cover itself,  and  to  throw  ofi*  the  weight  of  its 
foe.  It  jerked  its  body  up  with  all  its  strength, 
kicked  and  dashed  its  hind  legs  wildly  about, 
rolled,  turned,  and  twisted  itself  in  every  oon- 
oeivable  way.    Bat  the  hawk  still  held  it  to 


0 


the  earth,  and,  with  wings  outspread,  strove 
with  beak  and  talons  to  wound  and  stun  it. 
Occasionally  the  fur  would  give  way,  and  a 
talon  would  lose  its  hold,  only  to  be  thrust  with 
sti  1 1  greater  force  into  poor  puss's  hide.  Meaa- 
while  the  eyes  oi  the  hawk  fairly  sparkled  with 
rage.  An  indescribable  thirst  for  blood,  which 
seemed  to  madden  him,  chained  him  to  the 
struggling  victim. 

But  now  a  new  phenomenon  shared  my 
attention.  Uttering  lond  war^n-ies,  a^  num- 
ber of  crows  came  hastening  to  the  scenes 
Their  keen  ears  had  caught  the  wailing  tones 
of  the  hare,  their  far«weeping  glances  dis- 
cerned the  contest  from  afar.  They  attacked 
the  hawk  with  the  utmost  resolution,  flying 
up  a  few  yards  above  him,  and  then  dart- 
ing down  upon  him  with  their  full  weight, 
striking  fiercely  at  him  with  beaks  and 
talons.  Bending  himself  back,  the  hawk, 
however,  dexterously  parried  their  blows  with 
his  disengaged  talon.  A  few  strokes  from 
whidi  soon  made  the  crows  more  cantiooi. 
6till,  the  position  of  the  hawk  continued  to 
grow  less  and  less  tenable.  Desperately  cl  utch- 
ing  the  hare  with  one  talon,  he  struck  fiercely 
at  his  tormentors  with  the  other.  The  contest 
was  maintained  in  this  way  a  oonaiderable 
time,  with  wonderful  acrimony  on  the  part  of 
the  crows,  and  with  stubborn  determination  oo 
that  of  the  hawk.  Crows,  hawk,  and  bars 
tumbled  and  rolled  over  one  another  pell- 
mell,  and  fur  and  feathers  flew  in  every  direc- 
tion. 

At  length,  Incapable  of  holding  bis  double- 
position  any  longer,  the  hawk  waa  obliged 
to  disembarrass  himself  of  his  prey,  and,  finally, 
to  retreat  from  the  battle-field.  Yet,  unsatis- 
fied with  this  partial  triumph,  the  crows  pur- 
sued their  retiring  foe,  continually  assaulting 
him.  He  scarcely  deigned  to  defend  himself 
his  whole  endeavor  seeming  to  be  directed  to 
getting  out  of  the  reach  of  his  clamorous  per- 
secutors. It  was  not  nntil  they  had  driven 
him  to  a  great  dbtance,  that  the  crows,  one 
after  the  other,  gave  up  the  pursuit,  and  re- 
tunied  to  the  scene  of  action.  Had  the  hare 
been  mortally  wounded  by  the  talons  of  the 
hawk,  the  crows  would  now  have  certainly 
made  way  with  it  The  poor  creature,  how- 
ever, happily,  perhaps,  more  frightened  than 
hurt,  had  slipped  ofi*  and  sought  an  asylum  ia 
a  near  thicket." 

Iw  you  hav^  been  tempted  to  evil,  fly  from 
it ;  it  is  not  falling  into  the  water,  but  lying  in 
it|  that  drowns. 


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OUR  NEW  CONGRESSMAN. 


BY  MABCH  WESTLAND. 


"  \1[7^^^  ^^^  P^i^J  ^SA  ^'^t)  9^^  Montrose 

VY  is  elected,  certain/'  was  the  annoance- 
menl  with  which  Edward  Stearns  sat  down  to 
his  pleasant  tea-table. 

"  Yon  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  voted 
ibr  that  bad  man  7''  exclaimed  his  wife. 

"  Voted  for  him  !  Why,  certainly  I  did ;  he 
is  the  nominee  of  our  party,  you  know ;  and  it 
ill  not  the  man's  tnorals,  but  his  politieB  we  have 
to  do  with.  He  is  a  Btaunch  Bepubiican,  and  a 
splendid  fellow  in  debate.  Why  he'll  just  make 
the  old  hails  ring  again,  from  sleeper  to  rafter. 
HeUl  make  a  sensation  down  in  Washington, 
I  tell  you ;  and  as  to  our  town  improvements, 
he'll  hurry  them  through  like  a  ship  on  fire. 
You  might  as  well  put  a  box  of  nitro-glyoerine 
in  the  sleepy  old  chambers.  I  warrant  yoa 
Wll  wake  them  up." 

'^  And  this  magnificent  candidate  of  yours  is 
the  same  who  cheated  a  poor  soldier's  widow 
and  four  helpless  childreu  out  of  their  pension, 
last  fall ;  the  man  who  has  to  have  a  delegation 
of  his  friends  escort  him  home,  every  now  and 
then,  to  prevent  his  rolling  into  the  gutter;  the 
man  who  holds  the  purity  of  woman  lighter 
than  thistle-down,  to  be  blown,  away  by  his 
fool  breath.  la  this  the  man  you  have  voted 
•  for  as  your  representative  to  Congress?  Ed- 
ward Stearnfi,  I  am  ashamed  of  you  I"  Eunice 
Stearns  said  this  with  her  great  earnest  eyes  di- 
luted, and  fixed  on  her  husband's  face  as  though 
she  would  read  bis  very  soul  through  and  through. 

Till  this  moment,  no  suspicion  of  the  integ- 
rity of  his  thought  and  principle  had  crossed 
her  mind;  but  now  her  pure,  womanly  instinct 
took  the  alarm,  and  she  questioned  in  her  heart 
whether  one  who  could  thus  uphold  in  society 
s  vile  man,  from  whose  atmosphere  she  shrank 
with  loathing,  could  be  true  and  uncontam- 
inated  as  she  deemed  her  idol  to  be. 

"Well,  don't  look  so  serious  about  it,  little 
wife.  We  must  use  such  timber  as  we  have. 
Tou  know  mahogany  and  rosewood  don't  grow 
on  every  soil.  And,  after  all,  Montrose  is  a 
fint-rate  fellow — gave  a  thanksgiving  dinner 
to  a  dozen  poor  families,  just  before  election, 
^des  distributing  two  barrels  of  apples  among 
them;  and—" 

*  Yes,  and  four  or  five  kegs  of  beer,  if  I  may 
judge  from  the  number  of  his  constituents  who 
were  rolling  down  the  street,  drunk,  after  the 
polls  ckwed." 

"  Well,  I  tell  yon  the  man  has  some  fine  nat^ 
ural  traits,  after  all ;  and  we  must  have  a  man 
vith  lome  fire  and  ipunk  in  him.   An  old  fogy, 


with  his  lucifer  matches  and  tinder-box  is  of 
no  account  in  this  fast  age — we  should  just  go 
to  the  wall,  railroads,  bridges,  public  buildings 
and  all.  Why  it  takes  a  maelstrom  to  stir  them 
up  down  yonder." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  stir  them  up,  if  yodr 
splendid  candidate  should  roll  out  of  his  seal 
drunk  one  of  these  days?" 

**  Well,  it  might  make  a  small  sensation ;  but 
they  are  used  to  it  Why,  some  of  the  mem- 
bers think  nothing  of  tossing  off  a  whole  bottle 
of  champagne  before  they  tidce  their  seats— they 
can  talk  better  for  it." 

"  And  this  is  your  Congress  that  is  to  decide 
on  the  appropriations  for  the  families  of  our 
dead  soldien— on  the  resolutions  for  the  better 
observance  of  the  Sabbath,  and  the  suppression 
of  ribald  and  obscene  literature,  and  the  wo- 
man's bill.  How  many  cases  of  champagne  do 
you  think  it  will  take  to  get  them  through?" 

"  Well,  now,  darling,  these  questions  are  too 
sober  for  you;  hurry  and  put  on  that  pretty 
cashmere  I  sent  you  the  otlier  day,  and  do  up 
your  hair  In  that  new  French  braid,  and  we'll 
go  and  take  a  ride  by  the  lake,  after  tea ;  and 
don't  trouble  your  little  brain  with  Mrs.  Gady 
Stanton's  notions  any  more.  I  presume  Con- 
gress can  take  care  of  itself." 

**  Edward,  do  you  suppose  any  thinking  wo* 
man  can  walk  with  her  eyes  shut,  when  right 
from  our  midst  you,  a  committee  of  intelligent 
men,  and  church  membere,  select  for  your  rep- 
resentative a  man  notorious  for  his  immoral- 
ities^ and  call  him  honorable,  and  toast  him  in 
your  feasts,  and  teach  your  daughters  to  sing 
and  play  for  his  amnsement,  and  your  sons  to 
consider  an  introduction  to  him  their  highest 
honor?  If  some  of  our  noble  boys  should 
graduate  in  the  saloon  dram-shop,  one  of  these 
days,  instead  of  calling  it  an  inscrutable  allot- 
ment of  Providence,  you  may  consider  it  the 
crop  of  this  day's  sowing. 

^  Edward,  I  have  been  thus  far  a  happy  home 
woman — my  life  and  work  have  been  in  my 
home,  and  I  have  dreamed  of  no  mission  be^ 
yond ;  but  from  this  day  forth — so  help  me  God  1 
I  will  work  with  hand  and  heart  and  pen,  in 
helping  to  stem,  with  my  weak  fingers,  that  tide 
of  vice  that  is  sweeping  in  on  our  land.  And 
may  heaven  speed  the  day  when  the  goveito- 
ment  halls  of  our  land  shall  cease  to  be  a  jeer 
and  laughing  stock  for  the  world — when  their 
floors  shall  be  emptied,  swept,  and  garnished— 
no  matter  whether  the  revolution  be  won  by 
the  hand  of  man  or  of  ivonum/" 


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A  DOLLAR  A  DAY. 


BT  YIBOXKIA  F.  TOWNBENA. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IT  was  Christmas  eve.    The  night  wu  still 
and  bitterly  eold;  the  thermometer  down 
■omewhere  below  sero. 

Oyerhead  the  stars  were  out  in  their  beauty, 
«nd  the  full  moon  held  the  splendor  of  her 
oourt  amongst  them.  The  snow — a  foot  deep — 
glittered  and  daizled  in  the  moonlight.  The 
•till,  sharp,  hungry  air  took  its  own  nips  at 
ears  and  noses,  when  these  were  not  well  shel- 
tered behind  yells  and  mufflers,  and  it  had  an 
unusual  chance  at  folks  that  night,  for  it  was 
Christmas  eve,  and  the  streets  of  Thornley 
were  full  of  people,  and  all  the  aliop-windows 
were  sparkling  with  colors  and  lights. 

Brisk  little  Thomlej  was  making  ready  with 
gay  heart  and  open  hand  for  the  holiday  that 
was  coming,  and  people  slapped  their  hands 
and  cracked  their  jokes,  and  never  minded  the 
oold,  and  overhead  the  still,  winter  moon  rode 
gracious  among  her  stan,  and  it  seemed  that 
when  she  looked  down  on  the  little  town,  she  < 
oould  not  find  a  eingle  sad  or  heavy  heart 
within  it 

The  moon  knew  better,  though.    She  was 
looking  straight  down  into  the  front  room  of  \ 
the  old  "  lean-to,"  and  she  saw  the  two  figures 
sitting  there  in  the  red  light  of  the  fire. 

The  curtain  was  up,  for  even  the  moon  had 
oertain  domestic  offices  to  fulfil  in  the  house* 
hold  of  the  Hanes's,  and  Prudy  had  made  a 
Qioe  calculation  how  many  hours  of  lamplight 
she  saved,  on  an  average,  each  month. 

This,  however,  did  not  at  all  interfere  with 
the  romantic  worship  with  which  Prudy  had 
always  regarded  the  moon  since  the  time  when 
she  first  stretched  out  her  hands  and  cried  for  it. 

She  was  familiar,  too,  with  some  of  the  old, 
classic  legends,  and  had  stowed  away  carefully 
in  her  memory  some  of  the  beautiful  old  myths 
about  the  "  chaste  huntress  Diana/'  but,  for  nil 
this,  poor  Prudy  had  a  feeling  that  the  dear 
old  moon  was  ready  to  bear  its  share  in  the 
household  economies,  and  always  shone  its 
very  brightest  into  the  front  window  of  the 
"iean-to." 

It  was  one  of  the  "  dark  times"  which  were 
so  liable  to  fall  to  the  young  household  of  the 
Hanes's. 

Prudy  had  been  ill  with  a  severe  oold,  and 
C|ierry  had  taken  her  place  at  the  book-bind- 
ery for  several  daya. 
(224) 


The  family  funds  had  grown  alannnigly 
low'.  Pinch,  and  screw,  and  scrape  as  they  all 
did,  the  small  heap  would  diminish  steadily, 
and  there  was  no  war,  no  public  crisis,  foreign 
or  domestic,  to  create  a  sensation,  and  drop  a 
golden  shower,  or  at  least  one  of  nickel  and^ 
scrip,  into  the  family  fortunes. 

So,  on  that  Christmas  eve,  when  everybody 
else  was  out  with  heads  full  of  presents,  and 
hanging  of  Christmas  trees  and  stockings,  these 
two  girls,  so  fitted  by  their  nature  and  youth 
to  bear  their  part  in  the  holiday  glow  and 
bustle  of  this  time,  sat  by  the  fire,  in  lonely 
ness  and  heaviness  of  heart. 

The  contrast  betwixt  themselves  and  othenv 
seemed  so  cruelly  sharp  and  hard  on  this  pai^ 
ticolar  night.  They  thought  of  all  the  warm, 
happy  homeA,  full  of  love,  and  brightness,  and 
mirth  that  night,  and  it  seemed  as  though  all 
the  world  was  keeping  holiday,  and  they  only 
shut  out. 

It  was  doubly  hard  to  bear,  too,  because^  a 
week  ago  Prudy  had  set  her  heart  on  a  little 
Christmas  gift  for  Darley  and  Cherry,  and  the 
money  had  had  to  go  for  a  doctor's  prescript  • 
tion,  and,  worse  than  that,  there  was  a  dread- 
fully meagre  Isrder  for  Christmas;  hardly 
enough  to  stave  hunger  ofiT-— to  say  nothing  of 
Christmas  cheer. 

There  was  a  chance,  of  course,  that  Darkf 
might  make  a  better  run  on  the  papers  to-night, 
but  a  chance  was  an  uncertain  reed  to  lean 
upon. 

The  curtain  was  up,  so  that  the  moon  could 
look  right  in  and  do  its  best  with  the  room. 
Cherry's  little,  round,  smooth  face  looked  ap 
at  the  luminary,  with  a  dreadfully  wistful  ex- 
pression. She  drew  a  long,  long  sigh,  thst 
might  have  come  from  some  old  heart  that 
has  buried  its  youth  and  its  hopes,  and  has  no 
faith  nor  courage  left  to  prop  it  "  Oh,  dear 
old  moon,"  she  burst  out,  suddenly,  *'  I  think 
you  might  just  help  us  a  little^  instead  of 
shining,  and  shining,  so  cold  and  still  op 
there."    ^ 

"  The  moon  does  the  best  she  can,  Cfaeny," 
said  Prudy.  '^Just  look  around  this  room 
now,  and  see  how  she's  made  it  almost  as  bright 
as  day."  • 

'*  Yes,  I  know,"  answered  the  younger  girl, 
in  a  half-tnourafnl  half-apologetic  tone.  *^l 
s'poBe  the  has,  bat  then  that  aeensao  my  little 


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A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


226 


when  there's  so  mta\j  other  things  to  do— jast 
keejnn^  the  room  bright." 

Pmdj  did  not  deny  iL    Her  heart  was  too 
full  this  night  to  try  and  make  the  most  of  \ 
naall  blessings. 

**Iwi8h  IHirlcy  would  huny  along/*  said 
Cherry,  with  that  impatience  and  restless  long- 
ing for  some  kind  of  change  which  trouble  is 
apt  to  produce.  "  Seems  to  me  he's  real  late 
-to-night." 

"That's  because  the  evenings  are  at  their 
longest,"  answered  Prudy.  **  Poor  boy  I"  an- 
other of  those  old-womanish  sighs.  "  I  do  hope 
he  will  have  some  luck  to-night." 

**  It  doesn't  seem  a  particle  like  Christmas- 
eve,"  continued  Cherry.  "  I  did  hope  that  we 
could  have  a  little  bit  of  a  good  time— a  kind 
oft  Christmas  dinner,  at  least." 

"So  did  I,  Cherry ;  but— things  haven't 
tamed  out  as  I  expected.  Ah,  dear,  this  pov- 
erty is  an  awful  thing  I"  the  lips  out  of  which 
the  cry  was  wrung,  quivered  and  settled  down 
into  t  sorrowful  patience  pitiful  enough  to  see 
00  a  young  girl's  face. 

"Just  to  think  now,"  continued  Cherry,  with 
dke  natural  tendency  of  misery  to  draw  sharp 
oontrast»  between  itself  and  happiness,  ''how 
much  fun  is  going  on  this  Christmas  eve. 
Everybody  is  out  buying  presents,  and  not 
stopping  to  tbink  once  of  the  piJes  of  money 
they  cost,  and  going  home  with  armsful,  and 
podtets  stuffed,  and  they're  as  busy  as  ^'  bees 
decking  the  Christmas  trees,  and  hanging  the 
Blockings,  and  thinking  of  to-morrow  morning. 
Everybody  in  the  world  is  busy  and  happy, 
ind  here  you  and  I,  Prudy,  set  all  alone  in 
the  dark  without  any  Christmas,  and  so  poor 
that  we  can't  afford  to  have  any  light  but  the 
moon."         \ 

Those  were  the  bare  facts,  ani  Cherry's 
joung,  sad  voice  had  a  tone  of  real  injury  as 
>he  put  them. 

"It's  dreadful,  I  know,  Cherry,"  said  the 
older  sister,  her  soul  swelling  bitterly  against 
the  iron  bands  of  her  fate.  ''  If  we  think  of  it 
hi  that  way  it  will  drive  us  frantic  Let's  try 
i&d  find  some  crumbs  of  comfort." 

"I^don't  know  where  to  look  for  them," 
•baking  her  head  diitmally. 

"  We  might  one  of  as  be  sick  or  dead,  you 
know.  We  are  all  here  in  the  old  'lean- 
to,'  and  we've  paid  the  rent  for  another 
year." 

Her  voice  rising  triumphanlly  in  that  last 
dame ;  but  when  yon  came  to  put  words  and 
tone  together,  there  was  something  dreadfully 
pathetie  in  their  conjunction. 


"Yes;  that  is  something,"  and  Cherry  diew 
closer  to  Prudy's  side. 

"It's  a  great  deal,"  said  Prudy.  "You  know 
it  was  mamma's  last  words  almoBi :  ^  Children, 
whatever  yon  do,  stay  together.  Don't  leave 
the  old  "  lean-to "  so  long  as  there's  a  morsel 
left  to  eat,  or  you  can  keep  its  roof  over  your 
heads.'  Every  day  IVe  seemed  to  hear  her 
dear,  faint  voice  going  over  with  those  very 
words;  and  Cherry,  it*s  been  that  that's  made 
me  strain  every  nerve  to  keep  the  rent  paid ; 
and  oh !  you  can't  guess  bow  many  times  I've 
seen  her  dear  f&ce  smiling  on  me  in  my  dreams, 
and  then  Pve  looked  up  and  cried  out:  'Ah, 
mother,  Fve  paid  another  month,  and  we're 
all  together  stiU  I'  I  don't  believe  I  could 
have  held  out  sometimes,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
that." 

Cherry  slid  her  hand  into  her  sister's,  and 
the  same  ray  of  moonlight  quivered  in  the 
tears  that  were  upon  the  cheeks  of  both. 

After  awhile  Prudy  remembered  that  it  was 
about  time  to  expect  Darley,  and  she  rose  up 
and  poked  the  fire.  "  Cherry,"  she  said,  mak- 
ing a  desperate  effort,  "  we  might  play  Christ- 
mas-eve awhile,  you  know." 

Cherry  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said, 
"  things  are  too  real  to-night." 

Prudy  had  done  her  best  for  Cherry's  sake. 
The  force  of  circumstances  bore  -  too  heavily 
that  night  on  both  the  young  souls,  and  the 
attempt  at  mirth  would  have  been  ghastly 
enough ;  but  still  with  a  wise  instinct  that  it 
was  not  safe  to  dwell  upon  the  present  Prudy 
continued  after  a  little  while:  "We  had  a 
Christmas-tree  once,  anyhow,  Cherry." 

"Ah,  yes;  I  remember  it,  though  I  was  such 
a  midge.  You  had  a  tea-set,  and  I  had  a  doll 
in  pink  and  white.  Oh,  how  long  ago  that 
was,  Prudy." 

"  Yes ;  six  Christmases  ago.  What  a  happy 
rollicking  time  we  had!  And  what  a  noise 
Darley  made  with  his  pretty  red  cart,  and  how 
mamma  watched  us,  with  the  smile  in  her 
eyes,  and  said :  'Never  mind  the  noise,  chil- 
dren, I'm  glad  to  see  you  so  happy.' " 

'*  But  the  next  d|iy,"  continued  Prudy,  low- 
ering her  voice  a  little  mysteriously,  "I  found 
out  something." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Cherry  breathlessly. 

"  Mamma  had  a  ring  with  an  emerald  in  it 
She  used  to  let  me  play  with  it  on  her  finger, 
when  I,  too,  was  a  midge.  I  had  never  seen 
herwithont  it;  bnt  the  day  after  that  Christ- 
mas, the  ring  was  gone." 

"  Where?"  asked  Cherry,  eagerly. 

"When  I  first  found  it  out»  I  cried:  'Ah, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


226 


ABTEXJR'S    LADY'S    SOME    MAGAZINE. 


m^ma,  where  ia  your  ring  with  the  pretty 
green  stone  ?' " 

"  She  looked  at  me  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing a  word.  Then  she  said,  softly  :  '  ^^ever 
mind,  dear,  the  ring  is  gone?' 

*' '  But  have  you  lost  it  really,  mamma 7*  I 
■aid. 

"*No;  I  parted  with  it.  There!  we  won't 
talk  about  the  ring  any  more,  Prudy.' 

"  I  puzzled  myself  a  long  time  over  the  mat- 
ter, but  one  day  it  all  dawned  of  a  sudden  on 
me.  Mamma  had  sold  her  pretty  emerald 
ring  to  get  us  a  merry  Christmas  V* 

"  Poor,  dear  mamma,''  cried  out  Cherry. 
"  How  she  would  feel  if  she  could  know  about 
to-night !"  And  then  the  two  cirls  sat  still,  and 
again  the  same  ray  of  moonlight  glittered  in 
the  tears  upon  the  cheeks  of  both. 

While  his  sister  sat  between  the  moonlight 
and  the  fireshine  in  the  old  "lean-to,"  Darley 
Hanes  was  hawking  his  papers  up  and  down 
the  crowded  streets  of  Thorn  ley.  The  boy's 
toes  and  fingers  ached  with  the  cold,  and  his 
heart  grew  more  and  more  like  a  lump  of  lead 
within  him. 

People  were  too  intent  on  their  own  busi- 
ness to  care  much  about  newspapers  that  night, 
and  he  would  have  a  dreadfully  meagre  show 
of  scrip  to  take  home,  and  the  Christmas  that 
was  coming  with  cheer,  and  gladness,  and  gifts 
to  everybody  else,  would  have  a  bare,  doleful  \ 
Hide  enough  to  the  newsboy  and  his  sisters.  It  ' 
would  be  well  if  they  could  screw  a  full  dinner  \ 
out  of  his  funds,  and  there  was  the  dreadful 
spectre  of  rent  day  only  a  week  off.  Barley's 
cxmrage  and  hope  were  at  their  lowest  ebb. 
lie  was  cold,  and  tired,  and  hungry  ;  and  all 
tJiese  brisk,  happy  people  that  passed  him  with 
(heir  pockets  lined  with  money,  and  their  arms 
crammed  with  presents,  seemed  to  belong  to  a 
different  sphere  from  that  of  the  cold,  tired, 
hungry  newsboy. 

He  was  making  up  his  mind  that  he  might 
as  well  give  it  up  for  to-night  and  go  home. 
There  was  no  u;ie  in  shouting,  papers  till  his 
ihroat  cracked  when  nobody  would  buy;  and 
Darley  was  profoundly  considering  how  he 
might  make  the  best  outlay  of  his  funds  in 
order  to  carry  the  family  over  Christmas  with- 
out actual  hunger,  when,  turning  sharply 
around  the  corner  of  the  street  at "  Merchant's 
Block,"  he  ran  headforemost  against  pomebody 
who  had  just  come  out  of  the  jeweller's  store, 
who«ie  brilliant  jets  of  gas  actually  put  out 
the  moonlight  in  the  vicinity  of  the  shop- 
window. 

Darley  went  down,  papers  and  all,  striking 


his  head  in  the  great  bank  of  anow  that  had 
been  piled  up  on  the  edge  of  the  aide-waUk. 

He  was  half-atuoned  for  a  moment,  and  the 
first  thing  he  heard  as  he  recovered  himself 
was  a  loud,  angry  voice  shouting :  ''  Well,  yon 
great  fool,  I  hope  that  will  teach  you  better 
than  to  run  into  folks  next  time." 

Darley  looked  up.  ,  In  an  instant  he  recog- 
nized the  speaker,  with  the  jaunty  cap,  and 
gay  muffler,  and  fine  new  overcoat.  It  was. 
the  older  of  the  two  boys,  whom  he  had  so  often 
envied,  as  they  swept  by  him  in  the  hand- 
some carriage  with  the  prancing  horses. 

On  the  opposite  corner  the  very  carriage 
waited  at  this  moment,  drawn  up  tliere  to  avoid 
the  snow-banks  on  the  other  side. 

Bamsey  Forsyth  liad,  by  this  time,  gathered 
up  several  of  the  packages  which  had  been 
knocked  out  of  l;is  hands;  for  in  the  sudden  en- 
counter, he  had  come  within  an  inch  of  being 
laid  as  flat  as  Darley,  and  the  boy  was  makiog 
hurriedly  for  the  carriage. 

The  insulting  words  had  stung  every  drop  of 
Darley's  half-congealed  blood  into  a  hot  wrath. 
At  the  best  he  had  liad  a  fiery  temper  of  bis 
own,  which  misfortune  had  not  improved.  He 
rose  up  out  of  the  snow-heap  panting  for  breath, 
and  glared  at  the  swift,  jaunty  figure,  which, 
by  this  time,  bad  reached  the  opposite  side- 
walk. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  dive  across  the 
street.  If  there  had  been  time,  he  would  cer* 
taiuly  have  done  it.  In  the  sudden  swell  and 
clamor  of  rage  within  the  newsboy's  soul,  he 
would  have  dealt  Ramsey  Forsyth  a  blow  that 
would  have  stretched  him  senseless  upon  tlie 
icy  pavement.  Such  sudden  swells  of  wrath 
have  scjmetimes  made  men  murderers. 

Darley  would  have  rea.«on  to  thank  God  all 
the  rest  of  his  life,  that  the  wide  street  and  the 
hurrying  moments  were  betwixt  him  and 
Kamsey  Forsyth  at  that  time. 

And  there  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  snow 
bank,  and  hU  newppapers — his  only  stock  in 
trade  you  remember,  scattered  all  around  him; 
and  nobody  watching  him,  but,  overhead  the 
round  moon  in  her  place  among  the  stars. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Tliat  very  morning,  just  after  breakfiist,  when 
tlie  door  had  closed  on  her  father,  who  always 
went  straight  from  his  morning  meal  to  visit 
Itisstable,  Cressy  Forsyth  turned  to  her  brothers, 
saying:  "Now,  boys,  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  it.    This  is  to  be  our  *  good  '  day." 

Both  the  boys  laughed :  this  notion  of  tb^ 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


iiifter'f  striking  them  as  oomical  enough ;  still 
the  laugh  was  tliorougbly  good-natured,  and 
beneath  it  laj  some  feelings  they  would  have 
Ibuod  difficult  to  analyze,  and  probably  been 
more  ashamed  of  than  of  many  things  which 
were  far  less  to  their  credit 

^  What  has  made  you  pitch  on  this  particu- 
lar day.  Cress  f  inquired  Proctor. 

"  Because  it's  just  before  ChriRtmas — that's 
why.  With  the  presents  and  the  fuss  going 
on,  people  are  always  in  good  liumor,  and  the 
sharp  comers  won't  be  quite  so  likely  to  stick 
oat  to-day  as  they  do  on  common  ones." 

"'Taint  quite  the  £ftir  thing,  Cress,  to  press 
the  day  into  service  on  our  side,"  continued 
Proctor. 

Creasy,  however,  was  willing  to  seize  on  any 
extraneous  aid  of  time  and  circumstances  that 
presented  themselves. 

'^  We're  such  cross- patches,"  she  said,  ''that 
if  we  get  through  even  this  day  without  an  ex- 
plosion, it  will  be  better  than  we  ever  did  in 
oor  lives  before." 

The  boys  only  laughed  again  at  this  uncom- 
plimentary admission.  Whatever  Cressy's 
frnltfi  were,  smoothing  down  hard  facts  with 
aincinj;  ambiguities  was  not  one  of  them. 
8he  nailed  down  her  own  sins  and  her  broth- 
ers' with  the  sledge-hammer  of  her  downright 
fiaxon. 

"  Well,  what's  a  fellow  to  do?  Where's  the 
program nte  ?"  asked  Ramsey,  getting  up  from 
the  table,  and  stretching  his  big  limbs  with 
what  people  who  use  the  word  would  cali  a 
load  air. 

"  We're  to  get  through  this  day  without  a 
single  fight,"  answered  the  prompt  little  tongue 
that  always  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"  Oh,  play  saint  then.  Come  pretty  tough, 
I  confess,"  said  the  elder  brother. 

"  Amiable  dodge  isn't  in  our  line ;  is  it,  Bam- 
sey  ?"  added  Proctor. 

**  Now,  boys,"  put  in  the  young,  earnest  voice 
of  the  girl  again,  *'  this  isn't  a  thing  to  make 
fiin  of.  We  are  to  be  in  right  dead  earnest, 
and  oot  hector,  or  be  aggravating,  or  hateful 
onoe  thii  day." 

**  I'll  bet  we'll  be  off  like  pop-corn  over  hot 
ooals,"  added  Proctor. 

"We  shall  if  we  only  think  it's  good  fun," 
replied  Cressy,  gravely.  **  But,  boys,  we  know 
we  are  doing  this  for  somebody's  sake,  and  I 
shall  try  and  feel  she  is  watching  us  all  day." 

Thia  speech  of  Cressy's  at  onoe  lifted  the 
whole  matter  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  comedy, 
and  set  their  sister's  ''  notions  "  in  new  lights 
befiire  the  boys.    Bamzey  and  ^Proctor  looked 


at  each  other.  It  is  true  they  tried  to  laugh  a 
little  again,  but  this  time  the  laugh  was  on  the 
wrong  side  of  their  mouths. 

"  We'd  better  commence  with  all  reciting — 
"  *  Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite,' " 
said  Bamsey,  who  was  determined  to  keep  the 
jest  uppermost,  whatever  might  underlie  it. 

''  And  study  the  stories  of  the  good  children 
in  the  picture-books,"  added  Proctor. 

Cressy's  laugh  shook  out  merrily  at  this  wit 
of  her  brother's.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to 
hear,  having  the  heartiness  which  belonged  to 
everything  she  did. 

''We  shall  all  have  to  walk  a  straight  line, 
that's  a  fact,"  she  said,  "  and  not  only  be  pleas- 
ant to  each  other,  but  if  a  chance  comes  in  our 
way  of  doing  a  kind  thing  to  anybody,  we 
are  to  do  it." 

"Ah,  Cress ;  now  that's  piling  it  on  too  thick," 
put  in  Proctor,  with  his  eyelids  at  their  "  per- 
petual-motion." 

"  Not  when  it's  our  '  good '  day.  Donf  for- 
get that,"  answered  the  girl. 
/  Somebody's  entrance  at  this  juncture  put  an 
end  to  the  talk.  Cressy's  brothers  had  prom- 
ised nothing,  yet  she  understood  them.  They 
might  forget  the  whole  before  the  hour  was 
over^  but  she  was  certain  that  they  had  a  half- 
intention,  perhaps  not  acknowledged  to  them- 
selves, of  carrying  out  Her  plan  for  the  day,  at 
least  so  far  as  she  herself  was  concerned. 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  spring  into  the  cai^ 
riage,  Bamsey  Forsyth  turned  and  glanceil 
across  the  street.  He  saw  the  figure  of  the  boy 
standing  in  the  snow-bank,  with  the  papers 
scattered  all  about  him.  The  lights  from  the 
store  windows  fell  upon  him,  and  there  was 
something  mournful  and  desolate  in  the  young 
figure  drawn  there,  sharp  against  the  snow  and 
the  cold. 

As  he  looked,  the  talk  with  Cressy  that  morn- 
ing came  suddenly  back  upon  the  soul  of  Bam- 
sey Forsyth.  It  had  crossed  his  mind  a  num- 
ber of  times,  and  once  or  twice  had  smothered 
down  some  hateful  words  to  his  sister,  which 
were  just  on  his  lips. 

But  Bamsey's  temptations  had  not  been 
strong  to-day,  as  Cressy  had  shrewdly  foreseen. 
His  father  had  been  quite  liberal  with  money, 
and  Bamsey  had  passed  a  good  share  of  the 
day  among  the  stores,  selecting  presents  for 
himself  or  his  family,  and  was  over  to-night  to 
attend  to  some  last  orders  for  his  father,  who 
had  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  which  kept  him  in- 
doors. 

Bamsey  Forsyth  had  been  thoroughly  pro- 
voked with  the  newsboy,  and  was  malicionsly 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOUB   MAGAZINE. 


glad  at  his  ignoble  iall,  bat,  m  he  looked  acrosB 
the  street  and  sair  the  lonely  figure  in  the  snow, 
and  the  talk  at  the  breakfast-table  that  morn- 
ing flashed  back  upon  him,  the  spite  passed 
away. 

Coars^  and  hard,  and  selfish  as  this  boy  was, 
enjoying,  in  some  of  his  moods,  the  pain  he 
could  make  for  others,  Bamsoy  Forsyth  hardly 
knew  the  pleasure  of  a  generous  action.  Yet, 
at  that  moment,  it  did  flash  across  the  big,  loud, 
bullying  youth,  that  he  might  go  back  and  say 
something  kindly  to  this  newsboy,  standing 
there  alone,  in  the  snow,  on  the  street  corner. 

Then  the  native  hardneaa  and  selfishness  of 
the  boy  got  the  better  of  liim — the  habits  of 
his  life,  too ;  for,  of  course,  when  you  came  to 
that,  he  honestly  believed  himself  as  good,  or, 
a  little  better,  than  other  people. 

^  Catch  me  making  a  fool  of  myself  I"  mut- 
tered Earasey  Forsyth,  "llurry  up,  Jackl" 
he  shouted  to  the  coachman. 

The  carriage  wheeled  around,  and  the  horses' 
heads  were  started  homeward.  But,  seated  in- 
side^ the  vision  of  his  mother  started  up  before 
Bamsey  Forsyth.  For  a  moment  he  was  a  lit- 
tle boy  again,  and  the  pale,  sweet,  dying  face  of 
his  mother  was  looking  on  him  that  last  night, 
and  tlie  low,  sweet  tones  floated  past  the  years 
and  hung  in  his  ears  once  more:  "Be  a  good 
boy  to  the  others,  Bamsey." 

Could  it  be  there  was  a  sudden  swell  of  tears 
in  his  eyes?  Could  it  be  that  his  mother  was 
watching  him,  and  watching,  too,  the  boy  out 
tliere  in  the  cold  and  snow  ? 

Bamsey  drew  a  long  breath,  and  for  one  mo- 
ment he  was  not  the  hard,  loud,  bullying  Bam- 
8ey*Forsyth  which  you  and  I  have  known,  and 
will  have  to  know  again. 

The  grays  were  getting  under  full  headway, 
when  Bamsey's  head  came  out  of  the  carriage 
with  a  shout :  "  Hold  on,  I  say,  Jack  I    There's 
sometliing  to  do  yet.    Turn  back  like  light-  .^ 
ning." 

Jack  was  cold,  and  it  was  late.  He  oould 
have  sworn  with  a  good  will,  but  he  stood  in 
more  or  less  fear  of  his  young  master ;  so  the 
grays  wheeled  sharply  round  again,  and  were 
presently  drawn  up  at  the  comer. 

Barley  Hanes  had  not  made  an  efibrt  to  re- 
cover his  papers.  He  stood  in  the  snow-bank 
looking  at  them  hopelessly,  and  at  the  gay 
crowd  bustling  past  him.  Nobody  thought  of 
the  newsboy  that  night.  But  if  they  had  known 
the  iacts,  hearts  would  have  warmed  and  hands 
would  have  opened  swiftly  for  him. 

Poor  Darley  I  when  his  swell  of  wrath  went 
down,  a  cold  de^air  took  its  place.    He  wished 


he  could  die  right  there  in  the  snow.  There 
was  no  use  trying  to  live,  he  thought.  Thea 
ho  remeniliereii  tiic  two  yuuisg {drts  biuiog there  i 
by  the  fire  in  the  **  iean*to,''  for  whom  he  had  j 
fought  that  long,  hard  battle  of  his  boyhood  m 
bravely,  and  it  seemed  to  him  he  never  could 
get  courage  to  gather  up  his  papers  and  go 
home  to  them  with  the  few  bits  of  oid  scrip  ia 
the  corner  of  his  pockeL  Let  the  papers  lis 
there.  His  numb,  red  fingers  could  never 
gather  them  up.  He  wished  he  oould  lie  dowa 
in  the  snow-bank,  too,  and  never  get  up 
again. 

Suddenly,  a  voice  jnst  behind  him  cried  ont: 
"See  here,  don't  mind  it  if  I  was  rather  fierce 
on  you  just  now.  It  makes  a  fellow  growl,  yoa 
know,  to  be  set  at  in  that  way ;  but  you  got  dte 
worst  of  it,  I  see." 

The  newsboy  turned  sharply  round  before  tlie 
words  were  half  out ;  and  there  stood  the  yonth 
against  whom  his  rage  had  swelled  so  high  a 
minute  before — the  same  handsome  brown  over- 
coat, the  crimson  muffler,  the  jaunty  air. 

Poor  Darley  I  he  looked  up  in  the  otliei^« 
face  and  tried  to  speak,  but  those  loud,  kindly 
tones  had  gone  down  to  the  ache  and  dark  in 
his  heart,  and  for  answer  only  his  lipe  quivered 
and  his  face  worked. 

Bamsey  Forsyth  saw  it  all.  In  his  whoW 
life,  I  suppose,  he  had  never  done  so  good  % 
deed  as  he  had  done  this  moment  Somelhisg 
deeper  than  all  that  was  hard,  and  coarse,  and 
hateful  in  him  was  reached  and  touched  at  the 
aight    He  pulled  out  his  pocket-book. 

"  Let  the  papers  go  to-night,"  he  said.  "  FII 
make  up  for  all  that." 

A  five-dollar  note  was  the  first  thing  he  seiied 
on.  Indeed,  it  was  all  that  remained  of  the 
funds  he  had  been  spending  so  freely  dnriog 
the  day. 

Before  Darley  really  understood,  the  moner 
was  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at  it ;  he  stared  at 
the  giver  in  dumb  amasement,  as  one  might  at 
whose  feet  a  sudden  fortune  was  rained  from, 
ont  of  the  sky. 

And  again  he  tried  to  speak,  to  say  he  coaM 
not  take  all  that  money,  and  again  hb  throat 
failed  him. 

But  Bamsey  understood.  "Yes,  you  will 
keep  it  all,"  he  said  in  a  kindly  tone.  "Kov, 
go  -straight  home  and  have  a  merry  Christmu 
with  it ;"  and  he  was  gone,  and  Darley  Hanes 
was  standing  there  in  the  snow-bank  with  fivt 
dollars  crumpled  in  his  band. 

There  was  a  thumping  of  boots  and  fii^ts  at 
the  front  door,  and  a  voice  shooting  at  iti 
loudest:  "Let  a  fallow  in,  will  yoo,  before  U 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


A    MORNING    SONG. 


\  Biiffl    Hands  and  arms  full,  and  not  a 
ipaie  little  finger  to  turn  the  knob." 

The  last  hour  had  been  a  rery  long  one  to 
^Pnidj  and  Cherry,  sitting  there  between  the 
staring  of  tlie  moon  outside  and  the  fire  within. 
The  girls  had  both  grown  nervous  with  Bar- 
ley's prolonged  absence,  and  now  the  clear, 
ringing  tones  made  their  hearts  beat.  They 
knew  him.  Verj  good  news  must  lie  behind 
that  voice.  They  sprang  to  the  door,  and  there 
tlie  boy  stood,  with  a  great  turkey  slung  over 
his  shoulder,  and  a  big  market-banket  which 
fiiirlj  weighed  down  both  arms^  for  it  was  piled 
to  the  brim. 

How  the  bright,  hungry  eyes  of  the  girls 
thone  at  that  sight  I 

"Darley  Hanes^  what  does  it  all  mean?" 
thej  both  cried. 

Darley  stamped  in  with  the  air  of  the  con- 
queror. He  laid  the  fat  turkey  on  the  table. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  basket  and  commenced 
nnoovering  the  contents,  and  his  sisters  stood 
beside  him  with  their  dancing  eyes  and  their 
wondering  faces^  and  little  shrieks  of  amaze- 
ment as  each  fresh' treasure  discovered  itself. 
There  was  a  pile  of  such  great  mealy  CaroIinaS) 
there  were  two  trim  bunches  of  crisp  celery 
there  was  a  great  card  of  fresh  Christmas  cake, 
flanked  with  a  heap  of  muffins,  under  a  glaze 
of  sweet  icing;  and,  to  crown  all,  there  was  a 
little  tempting  heap  of  oranges,  and  nuts,  and 
candies. 

Darley  took  out  triumphantly  each  separate 
package,  and  held  it  close  under  the  noses  and 
eyes  of  the  girls. 

"  Do  you  see  that?  Do  you  see  that^  too?" 
he  kept  exclaiming. 

And  the  girls'  eyes  grew  bigger  and  bigger 
and  they  drew  long,  wondering  breaths,  and 
poured  out  inteijections  and  adjectives  and 
qaestions  all  in  a  terrible  jumble ;  and  Darley, 
enjoying  hugely  his  sisters'  amazement,  still 
kept  on  distributing  the  contents  of  the  market- 
basket  on  the  table. 

At  last  it  was  disgorged.  Darley  waved  his 
arm  over  the  heap  of  edibles. 

•*I  tell  you,  girls,  beat  that  who  can  I  Won't 
ve  have  a  rousing  Christmas  dinner  to-mor- 
row— won't  we,  though  ?" 

•*  But,  Darley,  where  did  you  get  the  money? 
Tell  OS  where,"  cried  both  the  young  voices. 

"Santa  Claus  came  and  found  me  at  the 
aomer  of  the  street — that's  where,"  answered 
Darley, 

He  tantalized  them  for  awhile — boy  fashion — 
but  at  last  they  all  went  and  sat  down  by  the 
fire,  Darle/  heaping  on  fresh  coals  in  a  fashion 


that,  at  any  other  time,  would  have  horrified 
Prudy;  but  this  night  she  was  prepared  for 
miracles. 

'^I've  got  some  money  left,  girls,"  said  Dar* 
ley,  slapping  his  pocket.  "  It  didn't  all  go  into 
Ketcham's  drawer,  or  the  baker*8  desk,  if  there 
is  such  a  fat  pile  of  good  things  on  the  table 
over  tliere." 

"But  do  tell  us,  Darley,  how  you  came  by 
them,"  cried  the  girls,  one  after  the  other,  too 
excited  to  remember  they  were  hungry.  "  Do, 
now,  there's  a  darling." 

And  at  last  Darley  relented,  and  went  over 
the  story  of  his  fall  on  the  street  corner,  and 
all  that  happened  afterward. 

And  the  girls  listened,  and  laughed,  and 
cried,  and  the  coals  reddened  and  the  sparks 
swarmed  like  fire-flies  in  the  chimney,  and  out- 
side the  cold  moon  sailed  up  through  the 
splendor  of  her  stars  into  midnight;  and  in  the 
old  "lean-to"  the  children  talked  of  Ramsey 
Forsyth,  and  the  big,  hard,  selfish,  blustering 
boy  grew  into  a  hero  noble  and  sacred  in  their 
thoughts ;  and  the  coming  Christmas  had  called 
out  its  first  monotone  into  the  darkness  before 
the  happy  household  in  the  "lean-to"  were 
sound  asleep. 

And  a  mile  off,  in  his  stately  home,  Bamsey 
Forsyth  lay  sleeping,  too,  not  dreaming  of  the 
good  he  had  done  that  night. 


(To  be  eoTUinuecL)  c 


'/" 


A  MORNING  SONG. 

BT  rLORA  L.  BK8T. 

WITH  silent  tread  the  golden  smi. 
In  orimson  mantle  bright. 
Steps  o'er  the  azure  bills  that  seek  * 

The  heaven's  azare  height. 
And  sends  abroad  his  winged  beams 

To  say :  **  Let  there  be  light  r 
The  aong-birds  wake  the  slambering  trees^ 

The  dewy  blossoms  glow, 
As  if  to  shine  instead  of  stars 

That  vanished  soft  and  slow; 
While  natare  everywhere  doth  seem 

In  worship,  bowing  low. 
And  thus  within  onr  human  lives. 

O'er  hills  of  donbt  and  pain, 
A  brighter  snn  doth  rise  to  wake 

The  birds  of  joy  again. 
And  eall  the  blooms  of  hope  and  iSslth 

To  oheer  the  darkened  plain. 
Oh !  in  the  glooms  that  still  must  oomi^ 

Till  Heaven  dawn  on  our  sight. 
Like  ohildren  fearful  in  the  dark 

We  pine  for  morning  light ! 
Rise  on  oar  seals,  immortal  san. 

Till  day  be  bom  of  night  I 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ONE  LESS  IN  A  COTTAGE  HOME. 


HE  WM  a  little,  gentle  boy,  fair  and  beauti- 
ful to  stranger  ejes  as  well  as  to  the  par- 
tial ones  of  those  who  loved  him.  If  he  had 
lived  four  dajs  longer,  it  would  have  been  his 
birthday:  and  you  iron  and  fold  away  the 
little  garments — the  last  thing  you  can  ever  do 
for  Charley. 

There  is  his  little  white  broad-brimmed  sun- 
bat— not  smooth  and  fresh  from  the  iron,  but 
just  as  it  was  taken  off  the  last  time  he  ever 
wore  it.  Your  heart  aehea  when  you  look  at 
it,  remembering  the  little,  tired  face  that  looked 
out  from  it  that  day  when  his  mother  had 
taken  him  out  herself,  and  set  him  down  on 
the  floor  when  she  came  home,  with  some  im** 
patient  words  about  how  cross  he  had  been. 
And  he  was  never  well  any  more. 

Here  «ire  his  little  dresses — a  pile  of  tliem. 
Here  is  the  one  that  you  always  thought  so 
pretty,  and  there  the  one  he  had  on  when  he  died. 
The  white  one,  tucked  and  puffed  and  trimmed 
with  so  much  care,  into  which  you,  though  you 
were  not  his  mother,  wrouglit  so  many  loving, 
prideful  thoughts  for  him— they  buried  him  in 
that.  On  the  shelf  are  his  little  shoes  and 
stockings ;  yonder  in  the  trunk  is  the  dainty 
new  white  hat  that  made  him  look  like  an  in- 
fant prince.  But  the  little  feet  are  shut  away 
out  of  sight  now,  and  the  dear  head,  with  its  ■ 
rings  of  soft  brown  hair,  is  lying  vefy  low. 

How  still  the  house  is!  No  baby  there 
struggling  down  out  of  his  mother's  or  nurse's 
arms  to  the  ground,  creeping  to  his  grand- 
mother's chair,  off  again  to  Aunt  Mary's :  hold- 
ing on  with  clinging  hands  to  your  clothes, 
climbing  up  laboriously  to  uncertain  footing 
by  your  side,  earning  his  right  to  be  taken  up 
for  a  brief  few  minutes  of  pleased  delight. 
Little  Charley,  liUle  Charley  I 

The  house  is  orderly  enough  now.  No 
tumbled  cushions  and  littered  chairs  and  floors. 
You  used  to  be  impatient  sometimes,  and  won- 
der why  every  thing  in  the  house  need  be  got 
down  to  please  one  child.  But  that  is  all  gone 
by.  The  workbox  stands  undisturbed  on  the 
bureau.  Clothes-pegs  and  keys,  bright  tin  cups 
and  pans,  are  all  in  their  places.  The  eyes 
that  took  such  delight  in  the  queer  playthings 
are  closed  now ;  the  busy  hands  are  still. 

He  loved  his  grandmother.    She  was  never 
impatient  with  him — ^never  too  busy  or  tired  to 
(230)        , 


take  him  up  and  rock  him  till  he  went  to  sleepy 
with  his  head  on  her  shoulder  or  tucked  under 
her  arm  in  an  odd  little  way  of  his  own.*  How 
tceU  you  remember  all  the  pretty  ways  I  and 
grandmother  cannot  bear  now  to  sit  down  in 
the  great  rocking-chair  for  thinking  of  the  little 
creeping  figure  that  used  to  come  hurrying  to 
her  feet.  She  has  other  grandchildren,  good 
and  pretty  enough,  and  dear  to  her  heart;  but 
none  that  will  ever  seem  to  her  just  like  the 
babe  who  was  born  in  her  house  and  lived  all 
his  short  life  there. 

Here  are  the  steps  he  would  try  to  climb  up ; 
there's  the  door  where  he  used  to  stand,  hold- 
ing himself  up  by  a  board  put  across  to  keep 
him  in,  and  looking  out  with  rapt  interest  at 
the  wonders  of  trees^  and  sky,  and  moving 
things.  The  child  was  most  pleased  of  all  when 
the  brown  house-dog  came  to  the  door;  or  into 
the  house,  when  permitted,  for  a  quiet  play 
with  his  little  playfellow.  He  was  not  a  hand- 
some dog;  not  always  a  gentle  one;  for  he 
would  bite  a  man  without  any  compunction  of 
conscience  if  he  got  the  chance :  but  the  big 
brown  eyes  looked  with  almost  kuman  kindli- 
ness upon  the  child  ;  whose  little  hands  went 
fearlessly  into  the  great  mouth,  and  among  the 
strong,  sharp,  white  teeth,  with  a  baby's  un- 
erring confidence  in  canine  good  will.  Well 
the  gentle  child  knew,  that  nothing,  brute  or 
human,  could  find  it  in  their  heart  to  hurt 
kitn. 

How  eager  the  loving  face  would  grow  when 
some  one  called  "Franky"  and  "Minie"— 
little  cousins.  He  thought  there  was  nothing 
in  the  world  as  pretty  as  Frank's  blue  eyes,  his 
yellow  curls,  and  apple-red  cheeks.  The  path 
is  there,  running  between  the  rows  of  apple- 
trees  to  the  gate ;  and  the  little  girl's  feet  come 
pattering  along  it  on  almost  daily  visits  to 
"grandma;"  but  no  earnest  face  and  wistfol 
eyes  watch  now  for  their  coming. 

The  grief  of  childhood  is  transient,  and  there 
is  a  new  sister  to  absorb  the  interest  of  those 
little  cousins.  And  you  wonder,  sometimes, 
whether  even  mother-love  will  remember  al- 
ways. Oh  !  does  a  mother  ever  fonjet  the  dead 
lamb  of  her  flock  ?  Mothers  of  large  families, 
happy  mothers  of  many  children ;  as  the  years 
come  and  go,  bringing  new  claimants  for  their 
love,  for  their  homely  joys  and  daily  duties  do 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


oiijE  less  in  a  cqttaqe  home 


231 


they  still  keep  one  thought  for  the  little  ones 
that  Deed  no  longer  any  watchful  care  ?  Will 
«A«  keep  one  for  Charley  ? 

The  father  comes  and  goes,  alert,  buBv,  occu- 
pied with  his  business  and  his  land,  but  not 
jufit  the  man  he  was  six  months  ago.  Some- 
thing has  gone  out  of  his  life  that  will  never 
come  into  it  again.  Hardly  more  than  a  boy 
himself  yet;  a  wayward,  self-willed  boy,  se- 
cretly nieing  the  mad  folly  that  hurried  him 
into  the  most  ill-assorted  union  under  the  sun ; 

•  and  cha6Dg  desperately  at  his  bonds,  now  that 
there  is  no  innocent,  loving  child  to  make  the 
thraldom  endurable. 

I  He  picked  his  wife  up  for  her  pretty  face^ 

and  married  her  in  his  indulged  wilfulness, 
and  brought  her  home  to  his  father's  house. 
They  received  her  ;  they  tried  to  make  the  best 
of  what  could  not  be  undone;  but  he  soon  saw 
the  terrible  mistake  he  had  made,  as  her  light 

:  natare  and  selfish  disposition  peeped  out  bit  by 
bit  in  their  true  colors.  Little  happiness  had 
Ibe  young  couple,  one  with  another. 

There  were  those  who  used  to  say  that  henever 
cared  for  his  child.  But,  ah  I  you  knew  better 
than  that — you  who  had  loved  him  all  his  life^ 
and  knew  his  ways  and  his  heart  as  no  stranger 
could.  He  never  was  one  to  show  what  he  felt ; 
but  that  little  child  of  his  was  all  the  world  to 
him,  his  only  solace  in  life.  And  when  the 
lime  of  trial  came—those  dreadful  two  weeks 
of  pain  that  no  skill  could  alleviate,  no  love 
b^lp,  and  the  doctors  shook  their  heads  as  they 
thought  Charley  could  not  be  saved — it  was  Idi 
handy  gentle  as  a  woman's,  with  all  its  strength, 
that  administered  the  medicines ;  hU  feet,  that 
never  tired  by  night  or  day ;  hU  eyes,  sleepless 
with  anxiety,  that  watched  every  shadow  of 
diange  in  the  sufiering  little  face.  Charley 
would  look  up  in  his  patience  to  the  beloved 
countenance,  and  try  to  lisp  papa,  papa.  Even 
she  would  weep  to  see  it. 

And  in  the  last  hour,  when  tear-wet  faces 
prcnecd  closer  and  closer  about  the  bed,  when 
every  voice  was  hushed  to  silence,  listening  to 
the  struggling  breath  that  it  was  such  torture 
to  hear,  and  grandma  held  the  baby  hands  in 
her%  helping  him  to  die ;  it  was  pitiful  tken  to 
see  the  strong  man's  still  control  give  way  sud- 
denly. The  set  face  broke  up  into  tears,  the 
voice  into  sobs.  It  is  dreadful  to  see  a  man 
yeep. 

More  silence;  more  prayers;  more  tears. 
And  by  and  by  there  is  a  little  pallid  image 
upon  the  bed,  but  it  is  not  Charley.  Just  the 
oirthly  garment  that  a  baby's  soul  has  worn ; 
the  pure  white  soul  that  has  gone  up  to  its 


Maker,  leaving  its  clay  tenement  behind,  fair 
and  still,  and  very,  y^Tj  precious,  but  mi  your 
living,  loving  Charley  I  Only  the  silken  curls 
on  the  dear  head—they  are  not  changed;  and 
you  clip  one  and  lay  it  tenderly  away  for  re- 
membrance^ while  some  words  linger  in  the 
mind  like  a  voice  from  another  land : 

"Sonny  brows— no  eare  shall  shade  them; 

Bright  eyes— tears  shall  never  dim; 
Bosy  lip»~no  time  shall  fade  them ; 
Jesus  called  them  anto  him.** 

Well,  all  that  passed.  And  now,  in  these 
late  autumn  day%  there  is  something  in  the 
churchyard  corner  that  the  sweet  baby  eyes 
never  saw  there— a  fresh  grave.  He  came 
home  in  the  spring  just  before  he  left  us  with 
some  violets  plucked  from  the  very  place  in 
his  little  hand.  It  is  grandpa's.  For  he,  the 
ailing  old  man,  has  followed  Charley  on  that 
long  journey.  Infancy  and  age :  there's  many 
such  graves^  side  by  side.  We  seem  to  hear 
his  voice  yet  iu  the  stillness  of  the  twilight,  ay, 
even  among  the  sounds  and  noises  of  the  day, 
calling  "Charley,  boy  I"  as  he  was  wont  to  do 
when  both  were  with  us.  He  was  so  fond  and 
proud  of  this  little  grandson,  and  his  grief  for 
him  was  great. 

But  it  is  pleasant  to  think  that  after  the 
weariness  and  pain  of  his  final  sickness,  after 
the  passage  through  the  valley  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death,  it  was  Charley  who  would  greet  him 
on  the  other  side.  m.  j.  a. 


Quaker  Love  of  Music— It  is  hard  to  stifle 
nature,  and  though  the  Quakers  tried  hard  to 
suppress  all  love  for  music  in  tlieir  families,  they 
found  nature  was  too  strong  for  them,  and  would 
claim  gratification.    Here  is  a  case  in  point: 

The  Quakers  as  a  sect,  it  is  known,  do  not  fa- 
vor music ;  they  think  it  to  be  a  profitless  amuse- 
ment, indulged  in  by  theworld's  people.  George 
Thompson,  the  famous  English  abolitionist,, 
while  lecturing  in  England  on  the  abolition  of 
slavery  in  the  British  provinces,  stopped  one 
night  with  a  Quaker  family.  He  is  a  great  lover 
of  music,  and  at  that  time  was  a  good  singer. 
During  the  evening  he  sung  "OA  in  the  stilly 
night,"  which  was  listened  to  with  the  closest 
attention.  In  the  morning,  the  lady  of  the 
house,  after  Mr.  Thompson  came  from  his  room, 
appeared  quite  uneasy.  She  wanted  to  hear  the 
song  again,  but  it  would  hardly  do  for  her,  a 
Quakeress,  to  request  its  repetition ;  but  at  last, 
her  desire  getting  the  better  of  her,  she  ventured 
to  say :  ** George,  will  thee  repeat  the  words  of 
last  evening  uo  thy  usual  manner  r' 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


BOYS'   u^ND   GIRLS'   TRE^SURTT. 


GRETCHEN'S  TROUBLE. 

BT  HBSTKR  ▲.  DBNBOIOT, 

<«  Vr  OBODY  \ovw  me,  and  I  wiah  I  eonld  go  to 

XN    "ay  mother  1" 

"/love  yoa,  Gretcbeo  ;  the  world  ii  lo  beautiful, 
too ;  and,  mamuia  says  it  is  very  wicked  to  want  to 
leave  it  before  Qod's  time.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Grefie?" 

''Ob,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  moaned  the 
little  one,  clasping  her  bare  arms  about  her  knees, 
and  rooking  herself  backward  and  forward  upon 
the  rustic  seat,  overlooking  the  bay  and  the  far  off 
lailf,  fading  slowly  out  of  sight  in  the  mist  of  the 
October  time. 

The  two  children,  sitting  together  upon  the  low 
beach  that  Indian-summer  day,  and  talking  more 
earnestly  and  sadly  than  children  are  wont  to  talk, 
were  representatives  of  two  distinct  classes  of  soci- 
ety ;  small  types  of  separate  nationalities. 

Rose  Bertrand,  the  elder,  was  the  only  child  of 
a  Tennessee  banker,  who  came  every  antnmn  to 
hunt  and  fish  among  the  islands  of  Lake  Erie,  and 
to  find  freshness  for  the  pale  faces  of  his  wife  and 
child,  in  the  healthful  airs  of  that  historic  region ; 
while  Gretchen  MUller,  as  hor  name  must  show 
yon,  was  of  German  origin— and  the  fifth  among 
nine  little  children  whose  mother  had  been  laid 
away  with  her  dead  babe  on  her  bosom,  in  a  low 
grave  where  never  a  pain  can  reach  her  through 
all  the  days  and  nights  to  come,  only  the  day  be* 
fore  the  one  of  which  I  write  you. 

Gretchen's  brothers  and  sisters  were  coarse,  ill- 
bred  children,  caring  for  nothing  but  to  roam  idly 
(232) 


through  the  summer  days  upea 
the  beach,  gathering  shells,  tiid 
staring  rudely  at  the  people  who 
had  loft  the  noise  and  heat  of 
town  for  a  few  weeks'  rest  at 
Put-in-Bay,  Qretchen's  horns, 
and  a  lovely  resort  made  famovi 
by  the  victory  of  Perry  in  1814 ; 
but  the  little  girl  sitting  with 
Rose  Bertrand  under  the  cedar 
on  the  beach,  was  sweet  and 
gentle  somehow  from  biKh.  Her 
blue  eyes  were  full  of  a  hungry 
longing,  pitifhl  to  see  in  eyes 
that  hare  only  been  open  to  tbs 
light  six  little  years,  and  abont 
her  lips  there  seemed  to  be  ever 
a  cry  **  for  something  better  than 
she  had  known." 

I  think  it  was  beenoie  the 
little  Gretchen  was  so  unlike  her 
family  that  all — except  the  mo- 
ther—delighted to  tease  and  vex  her.  They  would 
bum  the  little  cards  received  from  her  teacher  at 
the  Sunday-school,  where  her  seat  was  seldom  va- 
cant ;  drown  her  kittens,  and  out  off  her  curls  when 
she  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  under  the  maple 
back  of  her  father's  cabin ;  and  nobody  ever  re- 
proved them,  nobody  ever  stroked  her  short  hair 
fondly,  and  said :  "  I  love  yon,  Gretchen  I"  but  fa^r 
mother — and  now  ake  was  dead — and  the  poor 
child  felt  all  alone  in  the  world  that  held— «o  it 
seemed  to  her— little  of  love  or  joy. 

Only  a  week  before.  Rose  and  Gretchen  had  met 
for  the  first  time;  and,  as  tome  children  of  ffontf 
fashionable  parents* do  not  always  pause  at  the 
conventional  bars  society  has  placed  between  the 
rich  and  the  poor.  Rose  did — what  I  am  sure  you 
will  all  love  her  for  the  doing — took  the  tmall  brown 
hand  in  her  own  that  was  so  shapely  and  so  white, 
and  told  Gretchen  she  thought  they  might  be  very 
good  friends,  for  she  knew  she  s honld  loye  her — her 
month  was  so  cunning  and  her  blue  ayes  ••  sweeL 
After  that  the  children  met  daily  ;  and  the  heir- 
ess. Rose  Bertrand,  though  laughed  at  not  a  little 
by  her  young  companions,  who  could  not  under- 
stand how  genuine  worth  could  possiblj  underlie 
a  rough  exterior,  learned  to  love  the  poor  German 
child  as  she  had  never  loved  anything  in  all  her  life, 
except  her  father  and  mother,  and  good  nurse 
Margaret,  who  had  taken  care  of  her  ever  since  she 
was  a  wee,  sickly  baby,  struggling  sorely  for  ex- 
istence. 

Her  heart  ached  for  the  poor  mothorleas  one,  and 
there  was  a  dash  of  tears  over  her  delicate  face  when 
she  said :  "  Don't  yo«  think  so^  Grottia  V 


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333 


«  Wkat  t>  Ood'f  time,  Rose  V* 

**I  hardly  know,  vnlets  it  be  the  h—t  time/' 
Bom  entwered,  a  poasled  look  creeping  into  her 
tvteyet. 

<'Well,  /  think  the  belt  time  is  j\ut  mow/  for 
toother  is  dead — dead,  and  nobody  lores  me--but 
|Mi !"— GretoheB  sobbed,  her  very  soul  revealing 
kt  sorrow  and  its  ignorance  in  the  wildness  of  her 
words. 

Bose  dkl  not  know  what  to  say  that  would  com- 
fort her;  bo  she  putono  littlo  arm  about  Qretchen's 
Mefcfdrew  her  to  her  shoalder,  leaned  her  head  till  the 
IrovD  and  the  blonde  hair  mingled — and  was  silent 

**  I  wonder  who  Bose  is  patronising  now/'  Mr. 
Bertrand  said  to  his  wife,  as  coming  slowly  up  the 
Useh  they  saw  the  two  children  hand-in-hand 
voder  the  oedar.  ''  Some  poor  little  country  lassie, 
•f  eoarse,  that  will  give  her  the  whooping-cough 
w  the  measles !  Why  don't  Margaret  take  better 
mn  of  that  child  ?  You  must  speak  to  her  about 
k^Jane." 

'^Oh,  Margaret  is  not  far  off,  I  am  sure,  Henry. 
Tbere  she  is  now,  farther  down  the  bank,  appa- 
ittUy  reading,  bat  keeping  guard  over  our  darling^ 


nevertheless.  Don't  be  so  uneasy  about  Bose, 
dear;  she  is  doing  good,  you  mi^^  be  sure." 

Hearing  voices  the  children  arose,  and  stood  to- 
gether still  band-in-hond,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bertrand  eame  down  the  beach  toward  them. 

I  can't  tell  you  just  how  it  all  came  about,  my 
little  readers,  but  this  I  do  know,  that  at  sunset 
that  very  evening,  Mr.  MiiUer's  cabin  was  honored 
by  the  presence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bertrand,  who 
begged  the  privilege  of  taking  the  pretty  Gretohen 
to  their  Southern  home  as  their  own  child,  to  share 
equally  with  Bose  their  name  and  fortune. 

The  dirty-faced  children  stood  open-eyed  and 
open'mouthed,  wondering  what  it  all  meant,  and  to 
do  them  justice,  feeling  just  the  touch  of  sorrow  ia 
their  hearts  when  their  father  had  answered 
sulkily :  "  I'm  sure  /  don't  care  if  ye  take  the  whole 
batch  of  good-for-nothings.  They're  nothin'  but 
trouble,  anyhow,"  and  the  little  Gretchon  was  gone 
from  them  forever  into  the  sunshine  of  a  better 
life,  to  be  henceforth  the  sister  of  her  darling  Bose^ 
and  to  feel  forever  that  God's  tonderest  care  is  over 
the  sorrowful,  and  the  lowly,  as  well  oi  over  th« 
high  and  the  mighty  of  earth. 


THE   HOME    CIRCLE. 


EDITED    BY  A  LADY. 


WBITIXQ  A  LETTER  TO  THE  RATS. 

BT  VARA. 

LAST  summer,  when  I  was  visiting  at  my  own  old 
borne  in  the  country,  my  mother  began  telling 
H  one  day,  her  troubles  with  the  rats. 

In  the  iiDfiDi]!ihGd  "  back -chamber,"  which  almost 
fytTj  country-house — or  farm-house — is  sure  to 
^yc,  is  kept  the  fomily  store  of  meal,  and  some- 
tiniet  barrels  of  corn.  My  mother  said  she  had  to 
keep  all  these  covered,  with  weights  on  the  covers 
to  keep  the  rats  from  throwing  them  off.  She 
d*red  not  leave  the  doors  that  led  to  the  other 
•Itambers  open  for  fear  they  would  get  in  there. 

The  old  cat  was  9vperanuatedf  and  preferred  to 
■P^od  her  time  dozing  in  the  sun,  to  doing  her  doty 
about  bouse.  And,  indeed,  she  looked  so  old  that 
I  doubt  if  she  could  have  mastered  a  big  rot.  And 
though  a  trap,  kept  nicely  baited,  lay  near  the  menl 
■•"cls,  the  rats  were  too  knowing  to  go  near  it. 
■other  said  that  one  day,  hearing  an  unusual 
»«ket  overhead,  she  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  there,  on  a 
ttul-barrcl,  sat  a  great  rat,  trying  to  roll  the  stone 
*«•  He  looked  very  coolly  at  mother  a  moment, 
**»<*  then  leisurely  jumped  off  the  barrel,  and 
»*lked  off,  as  much  as  to  say  :  "  111  try  again  to- 
J'gbt,  after  you  are  a-bed,  marm."  And  try  again 
he  did,  or  at  least  mother  presumed  ho  did,  from 
tke  noise  over  her  head  all  night 

As  mother  ended  her  story  of  her  grievance,  a 


lady,  who  was  visiting  us,  said :  "Tou  must  write 
them  a  letter,  Mrs.  C." 

Wo  were  all  rather  incredulous  as  to  the  good 
that  would  do,  when  she  told  us  a  story  which 
amused  me  greatly. 

"Away  down  East"  there  used  to  be  (no  matter 
what  part)  a  big  farm-house,  full  of  children  and 
work-people  One  day  the  good  "  houso-mother  " 
did  a  large  br.king.  The  old-fashioned  brick- oven 
was  filled  again  and  a^ain  with  bread,  pies,  and 
cakes.  A  whole  heaping  earthen-pan  of  ginger- 
bread-cookies was  baked — because  "the  children 
liked  them  " — and  then  they  are  so  handy  **  for  the 
men  to  take  for  lunch,"  said  the  tired  mother,  as 
her  arms  and  back  ached  with  rolling  them  out. 

At  night,  when  the  cakes  were  all  cooled,  the 
mother  covered  them  nicely  over  with  a  clean  table- 
cloth, and  gave  the  pan  to  her  daughter  to  put  on 
the  "swing-shelf,"  in  the  neat,  airy -collar. 

The  next  morning  the  household  were  early 
astir,  for  the  "  men  "  were  to  commence  mowing 
the  "  great  lot "  that  day,  and  they  wanted  to  begin 
with  the  sun. 

Mother  and  "daughter  Buth  "  were  busy  getting 
breakfast 

"  Here,  Buth,  run  down  cellar  and  bring  a  plate 
of  those  gingerbread  cakes  I  baked  yesterday." 

Buth,  with  willing  feet,  ran  quickly  down  the 
stairs,  and  in  a  moment  called  out^  "  Why,  mother, 
there  are  none." 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


**  What  do  70a  mean,  ehild  ?  They  are  in  the 
ved  earthen-pan,  oorered  over  with  a  tablecloth/ 

"  I  know,  mother ;  here's  the  pan  /'  and  "  merey 
me,"  she  cries  again,  "  here  are  fonr  great  holes  in 
the  cloth,  mother — the  rats  mast  have  done  this," 
she  added,  as  her  mother  came  and  stood  beside 
her  in  wonder. 

"Well,  well;  if  that  isn't  too  bad!"  said  the 
mother—"  when  I  thought  we  had  enough  to  last 
a  week,  at  least  Bat  we  mustn't  stand  here.  After 
breakfast  we'll  see  what's  to  be  done." 

At  the  breakfast -table  thd  mysterious  raid  on  the 
"eookiem"  was  dnly  commented  on. 

And  the  father  told  Charlie  and  Ben — ^two  wide- 
awake little  boys— that  they  must  look  up  the  rat* 
hole.  **  For,"  he  added,  as  he  arose  from  the  table, 
**  I  thought  our  cellar  was  rat-tight." 

Down  the  cellar-stairs  trooped  Charlie  and  Ben — 
little  four-years  old  Willie  following  hard  on  to 
their  heels.  Soon  a  shout  from  below  stairs  called 
all  the  rest  of  the  family  down.  Behind  the  stairs, 
in  the  wall,  the  boys  had  found  a  freshly-dug  hole, 
and  Charlie,  thrusting  in  a  stick,  out  rolled  one  of 
the  lost  cakes. 

**  Here's  the  storehouse,  mother,"  calls  Ben,  as 
three  or  four  more  cakes  came  tumbling  out.  Little 
Will  said  nothing,  but  picked  up  a  cake  and  began 
munching  it,  first  brushing  off  a  little  sand  with 
his  pinafore. 

**0\k,  what  a  boy,"  cried  Sister  Sue.  "  Eat  the 
oake  after  the  rats  have  handled  it" 

''Rats  didn't  hurt  it  any  as  I  see,"  mumbled 
Will,  with  his  mouth  full. 

"  I  say,  Charlie,  are  aU  the  cakes  there?"  asked 
Ben,  fur  Charlie  continued  to  pull  them  out  Some 
of  them  wore  entirely  whole ;  a  few  had  marks  of 
teeth  on  them,  while  some  wore  well  reduced  as  to 
size.  But  no  less  than  forty  in  all  were  dragged 
from  the  dark  hole. 

And  then  came  the  question  as  to  what  was  to  be 
done.  Mother  could  not  afford  to  bake  cakes  for 
the  rats  to  carry  off.  If  the  hole  was  stopped  thore, 
ten  to  one  they  would  dig  in  another  place.  And 
the  boys  knew  by  experience  how  hard  it  was  to 
get  a  rat  into  a  trap. 

"Write  them  a  letter,"  said  Ruth.  «A  polite 
one,  requesting  them  to  more,  for  we  can't  afford 
to  keep  them." 

Grandma  said  she  did  once,  when  she  was  a  girl, 
and  they  all  went  away.  The  children  liked  the 
idea,  for  there  was  a  novelty  in  writing  to  the  rats, 
though  "  Master  Will,  the  philosophical,"  as  Ben 
called  him,  said  **  Rats  can't  read,"  while  Charlie 
gravely  assured  him,  "Rats  knew  more  than  he 
did  about  some  things." 

So  the  letter  was  written,  requesting  the  rats  to 
Inave,  as  they  had  already  family  enough  to  cook 
for,  and  they  were  also  politely  told  that  the  Cedar 
Swamp  would  be  a  nice  place  for  them,  as  all  their 
neighbors  were  full.  And  then  the  whole  family, 
from  grandma  to  the  baby,  signed  it  To  be  sure, 
baby,  being  only  a  year  old,  eonld  not  write,  but 


Charlie  wrote  her  name,  and  then,  potting  the  pen 
between  her  fat  fingers,  helped  her  make  her  mark. 
Will  printed  his  name  "plain  enough  for  rats  to 
read,"  he  guessed.  Then  grandma  said  they  mart 
grease  the  letter  before  potting  it  in  the  hole. 

"What  for  Tasked  Will. 

"  So  they  can  read  it  in  the  dark,  I  goesa,"  stid 
Ben. 

But  grandma  said  that  must  be  done.  Sotbs 
paper  was  dipped  in  melted  grease,  and  eareftlly 
laid  in  the  rat-hole. 

Well,  the  rata  never  eame  ag^in  that  year  at 
least  And  the  chickens  all  wondered  how  they 
came  to  have  ao  much  gingerbread  to  eat — all  at 
once. 

"  But  did  the  letter  make  them  go  away?"  aski 
wonder-eyes.  This  is  what  I  think  about  it 
Rats  are  shy  creatures.  The  greased  paper  made 
them  think  war  was  meant  on  them,  and  then  their 
store  was  taken  away,  and  probably  for  a  few  days 
the  family  kept  no  food  down  stairs  in  the  cellar, 
and  the  rats,  finding  nothing  to  tempt  them,  left 
for  better  quarters. 

Not  long  after  a  neighbor's  daughter  said  to 
Ruth  :  "  We  are  troubled  exceedingly  with  rats  at 
our  house." 

And  Ruth,  while  she  advised  her  neighbor  to 
write  a  letter  to  them,  wondered  if  it  were  not  th« 
same  crew  who  had  visited  them. 

WIVES. 

WB  most  quote  once  more  from  Mrs.  Stowe'a 
story  in  The  Ckrittian  Union.    "  Uncle  Ja- 
cob," speaking  on  the  subject  of  wives,  says  : 

"  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone.  We  all  need 
the  motherly,  and  we  must  find  it  in  a  wife.  Do 
you  know  what  I  think  the  prettiest  tiorj  of  conrt- 
ahip  I  ever  read?  It  ia  the  account  of  I«a»e*« 
marriage  with  Rebeoca,  away  back  in  the  simple 
old  times.  You  remember  the  ending  of  it :  '  And 
Isaac  brought  her  into  his  mother  Sarah's  tent,  and 
took  Rebecca,  and  ahe  became  his  wife,  and  Imm 
was  comforted  for  his  mother's  death.'  There* 
the  philosophy  of  it,"  he  added ;  "  it's  the  mothei 
living'again  in  the  wife.  The  motherly  instinct  is  in 
the  hearts  of  all  true  women,  and  sooner  or  later  the 
true  wife  becomes  a  mother  to  her  husband.  Sbs 
guides  him,  cares  for  him,  teaches  him,  and  cate- 
chises him,  all  in  the  nicest  way  possible.  Why, 
J'm  sure  I  never  should  know  how  to  get  along  » 
day  without  Polly  to  teach  me  the  requirings  and 
forbiddens  of  the  oommandmento,  to  lecture  me  for 
going  out  without  my  muffler,  and  see  that  I  p" 
on  my  flannela  in  the  right  time,  to  insist  that  1 
»ball  take  something  for  my  cough,  and  raise  a  re- 
bellion to  my  going  out  when  there's  a  northewter. 
So  much  for  the  body,  and  as  for  the  soul-Hf<^  A 
believe  it  is  woman  who  holds  faith  in  the  world- 
it  is  woman  behind  the  wall,  casting  oil  on  the  fire 
that  burns  brighter  and  brighUr,  while  the  den 
poors  on  water;  and  you'll  never  g»*  Christi«>»'/ 


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285 


•at  of  the  earth  while  there's  a  woman  in  it.  I'd 
imther  bare  my  wife's  and  jour  mother's  opinion 
on  the  veamag  of  a  text  of  Soripiare,  than  all  the 
I>octof8  of  Birinity,  and  their  ftiith  is  an  aoohor 
that  always  holds.  Some  jackanapes  or.  other  I 
resd  once,  said  erory  woman  wanted  a  jnaster,  and 
WM  as  forlorn  without  a  hnsband  as  a  masterless 
dog.  It's  a  great  deal  truer  that  orery  man  wants 
ftiD#Chcr.  Men  are  more  fovlom  than  masterlees 
dogs,  a  great  deal,  when  ao  woman  oares  for  thom. 
Look  at  the  homes  single  women  make  for^em- 
selres;  bow  neat,  how  eosey,  how  bright  with  the 
oil  of  gladness— «nd  then  look  at  old  baohelor 
dens!  The  fact  is,  women  are  born  eemfort-mak- 
«s,  and  can  got  along  by  themselves  a  great  deal 
better  than  we  can." 

PHYSICAL  DEGENERACY  OF  WOMAK 

ON  this  subject,  Mrs.  Burleigh  very  pertinently 
remarks : 

"To  that  class  <tf  persotis  who  are  fond  of  draw- 
is;  comparisons  between  women  of  the  present  and 
tfaoM  of  the  past,  I  would  suggest  the  habitual 
•Tcnrork  of  our  Bothers  and  grandmothers,  as 
«e  capital  eause  of  the  differenoe.  Endowed  with 
nbnat  constitutions^  ttained  in  the  sohool  of  hard 
vork,  tbey  seemed  to  have  fancied. their  strength 
inexhaustible,  and  in  the  manifold  labors  imposed 
by  tbo  housekeeping  of  fifty  years  ago,  to  have 
thoDght  little  of  the  physical  endowment  of  their 
children.  How  they  toiled,  early  and  late,  those 
*rong-armcd  women,. spinning,  weaving,  cooking, 
•ashing,  making  butter  and  cheese,  filling  the 
konse,  from  eellar  to  attic,  with  the  evidenced  of 
their  handiwork.  *  Neither  of  my  daughters  can 
4o  one-third  the  work  that  I  could  do  at  their 
>gM,'  said  an  elderly  woipan  to  me  this  summer. 
She  finished  the  sentence  widi  a  severe  fit  of  eough- 
iagi  and  sank  baek  exhausted  in  the  invalid  chair 
tp  which  she  has  been  confined  for  fifteen  years. 
*Had  you  done  less  they  probably  would  hare  been 
ibis  to  do  more,'  was  my  mental  comment.  From 
•n  overworked  mother  they  inherited  impoverished 
physical  conditions,  and  the  mother,  never  snspeot* 
ttg  the  eause,  wonders  at  the  degeneracy  of  her 
iMghten." 

rorriKG  THE  CHILDREN  TO  SLEEP. 

RS.  8T0WB,  ia  Hearth  and  Home,  says :  "  The 
.  direoiion  about  putting  a  child  away  alone  to 
*l^,  without  rocking  or  soothing,  is  a  good  one 
^ly  for  robust  and  healthy  children.  For  the  del- 
***te^  nervous  kind  I  have  spoken  of,  it  is  cruel 
*&d  it  is  dangerous.  We  know  obe  autbentio  in. 
*^ee  of  a  mother  who  was  trained  to  believe  it  her 
(loty  to  put  her  infant  to  bed  in  a  lonely  chamber 
"«l  leave  it.  Not  daring  to  trust  herself  in  the 
JU^l,  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  positively  for- 
biddiag  the  servants  to  go  near  the  child,  wont  out 
for  a  walk.  When  she  returned  the  ohUd  was  still, 
YOL.XXXVU.— 16. 


and  had  been  so  for  some  time.  She  went  up  to 
examine.  The  child  had  struggled  violently, 
thrown  itself  over  on  its  face,  a  pillow  had  fallen 
o^r  it,  and  it  was  dead  from  suffocation. 

''Nervous  children  sufl'er  untold  agonies  from 
fear,  when  put  to  bed  alone.  No  tongue  can  tell 
the  horrors  of  a  lonesome  room  to  such  children. 
A  little,  delicate  boy,  whom  his  parents  were  drill- 
ing to  sleep  alone,  used  to  cry  violently  every  night, 
and  his  father  would  come  in  and  whip  him.  He 
mistook  the  pertinacity  for  obstinacy,  and  thought  it 
his  duty  to  conquer  the  child's  will.  One  night  he 
said:  'Why  do  you  always  scream  so  when  you 
know  you  shall  be  punished  ?'  '  Oh,  father,  father !' 
said  the  little  fellow,  '  I  don't  mind  your  whipping 
me,  if  you  only  stay  with  me.'  The  father's  eyes 
were  opened  from  that  moment.  Ho  saw  that  a 
human  being  cannot  be  governed  by  dead  rules, 
like  a  plant  or  an  animal." 


EIGHT  flUNDRED  WOMEN  WEITERS 
IN  RUSSIA. 

IN  the  year  1865,  Prince  Nicholas  Galitzin  pub- 
lished in  \h^Ru$9l'y  Arkhiv  a  ''Dictionary  of  Rus- 
sian Authoresses ;"  he  is  now  preparing  (says  an 
English  literary  journal)  to  issue  an  enlarged  edi- 
tion,  brought  up  to  last  year,  and,  accordingly,  he 
has  just  addressed  an  appeal  to  ladies  who  write  in 
Russia,  begging  them  to  send  him  a  full  account  of 
themselves  and  of  their  works.  He  began,  it  ap- 
pears, by  publishing  in  the  Molva,  in  1857,  "  A  List 
of  Russian  Authoresses,"  which  does  notseem  to  have 
contained'  any  great  number  of  names.  But  the  first 
edition  of  his  dictionary  contains  four  hundred ; 
and  so  many  ladies  have  taken  to  authorship  with- 
in tho  last  five  years,  that  he  already  has  no  less 
than  eight  hundred  names  ready  to  go  into  the 
second  edition.  Well  may  he  say :  "  Female  au- 
thorship has,  during  the  last  few  years,  assumed 
such  dimensions  in  Russia  as  it  has  never  known 
beforo,  at  any  time  or  in  any  place." 

In  this  connection  we  may  notice  the  fact  that  a 
work  now  in  Messrs.  Trubner's  hands  will  inci- 
dentally throw  some  light  on  the  intellectual  ca- 
pacity of  Hindoo  women,  commonly  treated  as  nil/ 
but  this  history  of  Hindoo  Poetry  will  give  names  • 
and  specimens  of  twenty-eight  poetesses. 


-*o5©=;oo 


There  comes  a  time  after  marriage,  says  Mrs. 
Stowe,  when  a  husband,  if  he  bo  anything  pf  a 
man,  has  something  else  to  do  than  make  direct 
love  to  his  wife.  He  cannot  be  on  duty  at  all 
hours  to  fan  her,  and  shawl  her,  and  admire  her. 
His  love  must  express  itself  through  other  chan- 
nels. He  must  be  a  full  man  for  her  sake,  and,  as 
a  man,  must  go  forth  to  a  whole  world  of  interests 
that  takes  him  from  her.*  Now  what,  in  this  ease, 
shall  a  woman  do  whose  only  life  lies  in  petting 
and  adoration  and  display  ? 


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EVENINGS  "WITH   THE  DPOETS. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  NATUEE, 

BT  THKODORB  TILTO^T. 

THE  works  of  Ood  are  fair  for  nought 
Unless  oar  eyes,  in  seeing, 
See,  hidden  in  the  things,  the  thought 
That  animates  its  being. 

The  oatward  form  is  not  the  wholes 

But  every  part  is  moulded 
To  image  forth  an  inward  tool 

That  dimly  is  unfolded. 

The  shadow,  pictured  in  the  lake 

By  every  tree  that  trembles, 

■  Is  east  for  more  than  just  the  sake 

Of  that  which  it  resembles. 

The  dew  falls  lightly,  not  alone 
Because  the  meadows  reed  it, 

But  hath  an  errand  of  its  own 
To  human  souls  that  heed  iL 

The  stars  are  lighted  in  the  skiei 
Not  merely  for  their  shining, 

But,  like  the  looks  of  loving  eyes, 
Have  meanings  worth  divining. 

The  waves  that  moan  along  the  shore. 
The  winds  that  sigh  in  blowing. 

Are  sent  to  teach  a  mystic  lore 
Which  men  are  wise  in  knowing. 

The  clouds  around  the  mountain  peak. 

The  rivers  in  their  winding. 
Have  secrets  which,  to  all  who  seeki 

Are  precious  in  the  finding. 

Thus  nature  dwells  within  our  reach. 
But,  though  we  stand  so  near  her, 

We  still  interpret  half  her  speech 
With  ears  too  dull  to  hear.  her. 

Whoever,  at  the  coarsest  sound. 

Still  listens  for  the  finest, 
Shall  hear  the  noisy  world  go  round 

To  music  the  divinest. 

Whoever  yearns  to  see  aright 

Because  his  heart  is  tender, 
Shall  catch  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  light 

In  every  earthly  splendor. 

80,  since  the  universe  began, 

And  till  it  shall  be  ended. 
The  soul  of  nature,  soul  of  man. 

And  soul  of  God  are  blended  I 


THE  UXSEEN  SHORE. 

BT  RBY.  D.  WILUAM8. 

THB  mists  of  death  hang  low  npon  life's  1 
Thenneeeii  shore. 
Beyond  the  darkness,  rises  sUently 

Forevermore ; 
The  golden  oity  flashes  from  the  strand. 
But  mortal  eye  sees  not  the  distant  land. 

Unnumbered  prows  are  turned  toward  that  far  shore^ 

But  never  yet, 
Betnming  voyager,  with  struggling  oar, 

Or  canvas  set. 
Hath  brought  us  tidings  from  that  land  afar, 
Whose  silver  light  is  not  of  sun  or  star. 

But  there  are  voices  in  that  unseen  land. 

Which  we  have  heard. 
Of  loved  ones  etanding  with  us  hand-in-haad, 

With  smile  and  word. 
That  kindled  here  onr  hearU  with  fk-iendship's  glow 
And  breathed  on  us  their  musie  sweet  and  low. 

And  there  are  footsteps  on  the  golden  street, 

That  long  ago 
Made  sacred  rhythm,  gliding  soft  and  sweet, 

Or  sad  and  slow. 
Along  the  paths  wo  trod  by  hearth  and  home, 
But  strangely  ceased,  and  left  us  lone  to  roam. 

And  there  are  souls  that  thrill  with  love  eteme» 

Who  look  on  Him 
For  whom  the  stars  in  endless  lustre  bvm ; 

Where  seraphim 
Delighted,  bask  aronnd  the  throne  of  light. 
In  eeaseless  wonder  at  the  Infinite. 


We  knew  them  here,  and  with  them  wept  tad 
smiled. 

Our  life  was  one ; 
We  met  and  parted,  still  of  each  begoiled; 

Their  work  is  done, 
And  they  are  resting  in  the  morning  land. 
And  we  are  toiling  yet  with  heart  and  hand. 

We  gproup  them  oft  in  visions  of  the  soul, 

A  Joyous  band ; 
And  on  the  peaceful  hills  of  light  they  stroll, 

In  that  fair  land; 
Or  wander  on  the  shore  with  loving  gaze. 
To  watch  the  comers  from  the  dark  sea  hace. 

Speed  on  my  bark,  life's  stormy  sea  across, 

The  mists  will  rise ; 
And  every  pain,  and  tear,  and  earthly  lose, 

In  strange  surprise, 
Shall  vanish,  when  the  unseen  fhore  shall  greet, 
Thine  eye,  and  thou  shalt  tooch  the  golden  atzeet. 


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EVENINGS    WITH    TEE   POETS. 


237 


0 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

IT  H.  W.  LOKOFELIiOlf . 

UT  of  the  bosom  of  the  air. 
Oat  of  the  oloud  folds  of  hor  garments 
Orer  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Oror  the  harrest  fields  forsaken, 
Silent  and  soft  and  slow, 
Peecends  the  snow. 

Bren  aa  our  elondy  fancies  take 

Snddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  Is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowlj  in  silent  syHables  recorded; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 
Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded. 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 


IS  THE  GBAVE  DEEP? 

BT  BlCHAltn  SEALV. 

IS  the  grare  deep,  dear?    Deeper  still  is  Love. 
They  cannot  hide  thee  from  thy  father's  heart : 
Thou  lieft  below,  and  I  stand  here  above; 
Yet  are  we  not  apart 

The  lyiio  patter  of  thy  blessed  feet, 
Thai  made  a  poem  of  the  nnrsery  floor — 
The  eweet eyes  dancing  toward  me  down  the  street- 
Are  with  me  evermore. 

My  breath  is  balmy  with  thy  clinging  kiss, 
Ky  hand  is  soft  wherein  thy  soft  palm  lay ; 
And  yet  there  is  a  something  which  I  miss, 
And  mourn  for  night  and  day. 

My  eye*  ache  for  thee.    God's  Heaven  is  so  high. 
We  cannot  see  its  ringers ;  when  thoo  dost 
With  thy  lark's  roicc  make  palpitant  all  the  sky, 
I  moan  and  pain  the  most. 

Beeanse  the  hunger  of  my  vision  runs 
Moat  swift  in  its  swift  seeking  after  thee — 
I  yearn  through  all  the  systems  and  the  suns, 
But  none  doth  answer  me. 

And  then  I  grow  a-weary,  and  do  tire ; 
And  not  my  darlings  in  their  earthly  place 
Can  wean  the  passion  with  which  I  desire 
Thy  lips  upon  my  face. 

If  I  oovid  fondle  with  thee  for  an  hour! 
Bat  now  then  art  too  saered.    I  must  stand 
Silent  and  reverent;  then  haat  grown  to  power. 
And  fltnese,  and  oommand ; 

And  I  walk  here.    Thou  art  above  me  now; 
I  may  not  longer  teach  thee  anything, 
Thoa  dost  not  need  my  blessing  on  thy  brow. 
Nor  any  comforting. 


How  changed — bow  changed !     A  little  while  ago, 
And  all  the  beautiful  vast  oare  was  mine; 
Out  from  my  bosom  gushed  the  overflow  ^ 
Of  sacrificial  wine. 

And  now  thou  art  God's  angel  unto  me. 
Thus  His  ways  mix ;  and  He  is  ever  good. 
Reach  me  thy  hand,  wife.    We  are  held  all  three 
In  His  infinitude. 


WHY  DO  YOU  WAIL,  O  WIND? 

BY  THOITAS  HOOD. 

WHY  do  you  wail,  0  Wind?  Why  do  you  sigh, 
OSea? 
Is  it  remorse  for  ships  gone  down,  with  this  pitiless 
shore  on  the  Ice  ? 

Moan,  moan,  moan. 
In  the  desolate  night  and  alone. 
Ah  !  what  is  the  tale 
You  would  fain  unveil 
In  your  wild,  weird  cries  to  me  ? 

A  gleam  of  white  on  the  shore !— 'tis  not  the  white 

foam, 

Nor  a  wandering  sea-bird's  glimmering  wing,  for 
at  night  no  sea-birds  roam. 

'Tis  one  of  the  drowned^lrowncd 
Of  the  hapless  homeward  bound. 
Last  night  in  the  dark 
There  perished  a  bark 
In  the  tea — and  'twas  bound  for  home. 

*  «  ♦  •  •  * 

Look !  how  they  bound  and  leap — cast  themselves 

far  o'or  the  shore, 
Striving  to  hotd  to  their  strange  prey,  and  carry  it 
off  once  more ! 

Or  is  it  remorse,  or  dread, 
Or  longing  to  bury  its  dead, 
That  makes  the  surgo 
On  the  ocean  verge 
So  incessantly  howl  and  roar  ? 

Where  do  they  list  for  their  steps  f    Where  do  they 

look  for  their  face  ? 
Where  are  they  waiting  to  Bee  them  once  more  in 
the  old  family  place? 
Dead,  dead,  dead! 
In  Tain  will  their  tears  be  shed; 
For  not  one  of  them  all, 
Alas,  will  fall 
On  thoae  bosoms  marble  grace  I 

Why  do  yon  sigh,  0  Sea?    Why  do  yon  wail,  O 

Wind? 
Why  do  you  murmur,  in  mournful  tnne,  like  thinga 
with  a  human  mind  ? 
Wail,  wail,  wail ! 
Articulate  ocean  and  gale ! 
For  the  loveliness  rare^ 
So  pallid  and  fair, 
Ton  slew  in  your  fury  blind  I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


FRUIT   CULTURE   FOR  LADIES. 


BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "OABDENINO  1X)B  LADIZB." 


i. 


WOMEN'S  HORTICULTURAL  SCHOOL. 

THAT  there  has  been  io  operation,  einee  last 
spring,  a  school  in  which  women  are  taaght 
the  theory  and  practice  of  horticulture,  is  a  fact,  of 
whioh,  probabljr,  but  few  of  mj  readers  hare  beard. 
This  school  is  at  Newton  Center,  in  Massachusetts. 
It  is  capable  of  accommodating  eighteen  scholars. 
The  green-house,  sixty  by  twenty-one  feet,  has  a 
new  addition  built  in  a  workwomanlike  manner, 
the  boards  being  nailed  on,  and  the  glazing  done 
by  the  girls.  This  is  seventeen  feet  square.  The 
whole  enclosure  contains  three  thousand  five  hun- 
dred plants,  all  of  which,  after  being  set,  have  been 
potted  once,  and  most  of  them  twice,  involving  a 
great  amount  of  work. 

The  following  is  the  daily  routine : 

Breakfast  at  half-past  seven.  Recreation,  half 
an  hour.  Till  noon,  work  in  the  garden  or  green- 
house. From  one  to  two  is  the  leisure  hour.  From 
two  to  three,  except  Saturdays,  a  lecture  is  delivered 
in  the  school-room.  The  blackboard  is  used  in  each 
lecture,  the  drawings  being  plants  variously  prui^d. 
Each  pupil  takes  notes  of  the  lectures,  and  makes 
records  also  of  every  day's  work,  thus  obtaining  a 
most  useful  band-book  for  future  summers.  From 
three  to  four,  there  is  a  class  in  bouquet-making, 
flower-paeking,  or  some  other  department,  in  which 
all  can  bo  instructed  at  once.  From  four,  in  sum- 
mer, until  nearly  dark,  the  out-door  work  is  con- 
tinued, with  an  interruption  at  six  for  tea. 

This  school  was  established  by  the  Woman's 
Club,  of  Boston. 


BLACK-CAP  RASPBERRIES. 

THEIR  hardiness,  productiveness,  the  ease  with 
whiefa  they  may  be  oultivated,  and  the  faet 
that  they  do  not  propagate  by  suokers,  have  made 
the  bIaek«oap  raspberries  quite  popular.  The  fruit, 
though  not  considered  so  good  in  quality  as  that  of 
the  red  sorts,  is  yet  nice  enough  for  most  people,  is 
produced  in  great  abandanoe,  and  will  bear  band- 
ling  well. 

The  bushes,  however,  require  to  be  renewed  every 
three  or  four  years ;  though  on  rich,  moist  soils, 
with  careful  cultivation,  they  will  fruit  abundantly 
for  seven  or  eight  seasons.  Liberal  mulohing  with 
coarse  manure  prolongs  their  bearing  eondition, 
and  greatly  increases  the  sise  of  the  fruit. 

New  plants  should,  if  possible,  be  taken  from 
bushes  bf  the  first  season's  growth.  When  the  tips 
of  the  canes  assume  a  purple  tinge  in  the  early 
autumn,  beoome  denuded  of  leaves  and  bend  down- 
ward, then  insert  these  hard  tips  In  the  ground^ 
(238) 


Just  deep  enough  to  keep  the  wind  fVom  blowing 
them  ou^  and  the  roots  of  new  plants  will  speedily 
form.  They  may  be  transplanted  late  in  autumn, 
but  the  spring-time  is  preferable. 


A  NEW  METHOD  OF  GRAFTING. 

THE  Jiondon  Gardener^  Chronicle  says:  "A 
French  gardener  has  adopted  a  new  method 
of  grafting  and  budding  pear-trees.  The  wild 
stocks,  he  says,  succeed  best  when  budded,  as  their 
branches  then  continue  to  grow  as  if  no  operation 
had  been  performed;  while  in  the  ease  of  grafting} 
the  stock  being  out  down  to  the  ground,  wastes 
vitality,  which  the  graft  is  not  able  io  supply  for  a 
long  time,  so  that  during  the  first  year  progresi  is 
Tery  slow.  In  order  to  remedy  this,  he  leaves  two 
shoots  on  each  side  of  the  stock,  which  he  splits 
half  way  down,  aod  then  sharing  away  the  sides  of 
the  lower  end  of  the  scion,  he  inserts  the  latter  in 
the  cleft  and  binds  up  in  the  usual  way.  If  the 
operation  is  performed  in  the  opening  of  springi 
you  pinch  oflf  the  shoots  in  order  to  prevent  the 
stem  from  growing  too  fast,  and  cat  back  at  the 
end  of  the  year ;  if  the  grafting  is  performed  in  the 
autumn,  the  cutting  is  executed  at  the  end  of  the 
winter.  The  graft  having  then  taken  well,  it  has 
force  enough  to  exoite  the  action  of  the  spongiolee, 
so  that  much  trouble  and  loss  of  time  are  Bave<k 
He  has  a  like  plan  for  budding.  It  is  well  known 
that  this  operation  cannot  be  adopted  after  the  rise 
of  the  sap  has  ceased ;  he  therefore  cuts  his  bud 
with  a  small  portion  of  wood  attached  to  it,  so  that 
the  lower  part  of  the  eye  is,  of  course,  not  only  un- 
injured, but  supported  by  the  ligneous  matter;  the 
budding  pieee  is  then  inserted  either  in  a  slit  in  the 
top  of  tho  stock,  or  into  an  opening  made  in  the 
middle  of  the  stock  with  a  knife,  and  into  which 
the  bud,  or  rather  the  small  piece  of  wood  attached 
to  it,  is  inserted.  The  operation  may  be  regarded, 
in  fadt,  as  grafting  with  a  single  eye.  The  grand 
advantage  is,  that  the  operation  succeeds  as  well  in 
October  or  November  as  in  August  or  Scptembfer." 

HOW  TO  GRAFT  GRAPE-VINES. 

AGORRSSPONI>fiNT  of  the  AshviUe  Jftw$*nd 
FanMT,  says  that  the  proper  way  to  graft 
grape-Tines  is  to  out  the  seions  between  the  Ist  of 
December  and  the  last  of  January,  and  pack  away 
in  a  box,  bedded  in  wet  sand,  and  keep  them  in  a 
cellar  nhtil  the  leaves  of  the  vine  to  be  grafted  are 
half  grown,  then  dig  down  below  the  collar  or  the 
points  where  the  roots  radiate,  and  searoh  fbr  the 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


FfiUlT   CULTURE  FOE    LAD1B8. 


Jvgest  and  most  thrifty^  ewtUtig^  them  loose  from 
the  colUr,  and  with  pega  bringing  them  to  a  hori- 
BOtttal  position* 

Cut  off  the  end  smoothly,  and  graft  Jnsi  as  yon 
would  an  apple-treej  leaving  at  least  two  buds  or 
ejesy  and  then  plaoe  a  large  hill  around  it,  reaoh- 
iog  to  the  top  of  the  grafts  oovering  the  upper  buds 
an  inch  with  loose  dirt,  free  fxom  olods,  and  if  the 
grafts  fail  to  grow,  it  is  because  the  scions  had  lost 
their  vitality  before  the  work  was  done.  If  the 
roots  are  thrifty  and  in  rich  ground,  the  vines  will 
grow  from  eight  to  sixteen  feet  in  length  the  first 
year,  and  will  grow  a  crop  of  grapes  the  seooad 
year. 


THE  COMMON  METHOD  OF  GEAJTING. 

GRAFTING,  which  is  the  taking  of  one  shoot 
from  a  tree  and  inserting  it  into  another,  in 
inch  a  way  that  they  may  unite  and  become  one 
tree,  is  generally  performed  in  March  and  April, 
when  the  buds  are  just  beginning  to  swell. 

The  shoots  for  grafting,  or  cions,  as  they  are 
termed,  are,  of  course,  taken  from  trees  whoso 
qualities  are  better,  in  some  way,  than  those  of  the 
trees  upon  which  they  are  to  be  grafted. 

These  oions  should  be  taken  from  the  side,  or 
horisontal  shoots,  of  healthy,  vigorous  trees.  They 
■Ikoald  be  eat  after  the  fall  of  the  leaves,  put  into 
Indies,  labeled,  laid  in  boxes  containing  moss  or 
Mw-dust,  and  then  stored  away  in  the  cellar  over 
winter. 

From  the  different  modes  of  grafting,  we  select 
that  termed  **  cleft  grafting,"  as  being  easiest  ex- 
plained, and  as  best  salted  to  beginners. 

Cleft  grafting  Ss  performed  on  stalks  from  one 
and  a  half  to  two  inches  in  diameter.  The  top  of  < 
the  stalk  to  be  grafted  is  ear^olly  sawed  or  cut  off 
at  apart  free  from  knots,  and  the  top  pared  smooth ; 
with  a  thin  knife  split  down  the  stalk  through  the 
eentre  to  the  depth  of  two  inches,  and  then  insert 
a  wedge  to  keep  it  open  for  the  reception  of  the 
ekm ;  the  eloB  is  to  be  prepared  in  the  form  of  a 
wedge  with  two  eyes,  if  possible ;  to  the  upper  part 
of  Ike  portion  thus  formed,  the  cion  is  now  to  be 
•arefally  inserted,  so  that  the  inner  bark  of  the 
eion  and  that  of  the  stalk   may  both    exactly 


Large  stalks  require  two  eioas,  one  on  each  side; 
tiie  whole  is  now  to  be  oarefnUy  eoverad  with  graft* 
i^g  wax,  except  the  eyes  or  buds  of  the  eion; 
hat  on  small  stalks  it  should  be  boand  with  a 
•tiiag  of  bass  matting  er  woollen  yam,  as  small 
stalka  are  too  weak  to  hold  both  Arm  in  their 


Tbe  maifi  points  in  gralUiig  an  that  the  eats  be 
pedeetly  smoothp  thai  the  inner  bark  of  the  eion 
aad  the  stalk  ill  parfeotly  on  one  side,  that  they  be 
fpveped  tigb«^  leg»t^«  Wid  that  the  whole  is 
vatar-tigbt. 


CONCEBNING  PEAR-TREES. 

THE  following  plan  for  pruning  dwarf  pear-trees 
is  recommended  by  a  suceessful  praotioal  onlti- 
Tator: 

In  selecting  from  the  nursery,  get  thrifty  one- 
year-old  trees,  if  possible.  Cut  back  all  side  shoots 
to  one  or  two  buds.  Cut  the  top  dowp  enough  to 
make  the  dormant  buds  in  the  stem  near  the  ground 
start.  This  leaves  a  nearly  naked  stem,  about  two 
feet  high. 

The  second  spring,  cut  baekthe  last  year's  growth 
to  two  or  three  buds,  leaving  the  tree  somewhat 
round  and  bushy,  with  the  head  as  near  the  ground 
as  possible.  This  process  of  spring  pruning  is  to 
be  continued  until  the  head  is  formed.  If,  how- 
ever, a  tree  grows  yery  strong,  throwing  up  shoots 
four,  six,  or  seven  feet  lung,  it  will  be  better  to 
leave  it  till  late  in  July,  and  then  cut  away  about 
two-thirds  of  the  previous  season's  growth.  The 
reason  for  this  is,  that,  if  cut  in  the  spring,  the 
vigor  of  the  tree  causes  a  new  growth  of  strongs 
thrifty  shoots;  while,  by  leaving  it  till  July,  the 
growth  is  cheeked,  and  the  formation  of  fruit-buds 
encouraged.  For  the  same  reason,  it  is  well  to  do 
much  of  one's  pruning  by  pinching  in  the  tender 
ends  of  the  limbs. 

In  regard  to  the  soils  suited  for  pear-trees,  an 
experienced  fruit-grower  says  that  he  is  oonvinoed 
that  tenacious  clay  sub-suiis  are  the  best.  A  tile 
drain,  however,  should  be  laid  at  least  every  thirty 
fee^  and  full  three  feet  below  the  surface.  It  is 
astonishing,  he  says,  to  see  what  an  affinity  pear- 
roots  have  for  deep,  tough  clay ;  and  trees  on  such 
a  soil  are  generally  more  healthy  and  vigorous  than 
on  friable  soils,  especially  when  they  are  underlaid 
with  sand  or  gravel. 

THE  BENEFITS  OF  SHADE. 

IN  planting  fnrit  trees,  aim  to  have  them  so  that 
the  hot,  dry  sun  will  not  have  full  effect  on  the 
ground  about  the  roots.  Many  who  have  trees  in 
gardens,  plant  raspberries  under  them.  The  partial 
shade  is  good  for  the  ra^berries,  and  seems  to  help 
the  trees.  BlaekJbenrios  would  no  4oubt  do  well  ia 
the  same  situation ;  and  the  finest  strawberry  bed 
we  have  is  on  the  northern  side  of  a  row  of  apple* 
trees,  by  which  it  is  protected  from  the  rays  of  tha 
noon-tlay  sun. 

The  goosebemy  and  currant  also  do  well  in 
partial  shade;  and,  indeed,  if  your  soil  be  light  and 
sandy,  they  eaanot  be  grown  advantageonelj  with- 
out more  or  less  protection  from  the  sun. 


THE  CURCULIO. 

THB  best  and  sunst  remedy  for  euroulio  is  to 
allow  poultry  a  fVee  range  in  the  plum  orchard. 
As  aeoB  as  the  earth  begins  to  get  warm  in  the' 
spring,  the  eoreallo  ereep  out  af  the  ground,  stod 


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240 


AETSUB'S  LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


the  hoDt  will  Boimtoh  them  up  and  gobUe  them 
down  before  they  have  time  to  ascend  the  treea  and 
■ting  the  newly  aet  fruit. 

If  ehickens  are  not  kept,  then  other  means  mtfst 
be  resorted  to.  The  surest  is  to  spread  sheets  o^ 
newspapers  ander  the  plum  trees  and  Jar  the  trees 
daily.  The  oureulios  will  drop,  and  can  be  des- 
troyed. Thongh  this  will  not  save  much  of  the 
fmit  the  present  year,  it  will  lessen  the  number  of  \ 
depredatore  next  year. 

The  CtJUHtry  QeHtleman,  gires  the  following  det" 
eription  of  a  ouroulio  trap ; 

"  A  large  hoop  some  eight  feet,  more  or  less,  in 
diameter,  is  made  of  round  iron  rod,  three-eighths 
of  an  ineh  in  sise,  with  an  opening  on  ono  side  to 
receive  the  tree.  It  is  closed  as  soon  as  placed  in 
position,  by  overlapping  the  two  ends.  A  round 
hopper-shaped  cloth  is  attached  to  the  hoop,  so 
that  the  lower  part  may  be  three  feet  down,  or  near 
the  ground.  At  the  bottom  is  secured  a  tin  cup,  and 
the  insects,  when  Jarred  into  the  hopper,  roll  down 
into  the  cup.  If  in  very  warm  weather  any  adhere 
to  the  eloth,  a  slight  Jar  or  blow  loosens  them. 
The  cup  should  hold  several  quarts,  so  as  to  secure 
all  that  fall  into  it,  including  the  dead  blossoms, 
^.,  which  would  soon  fill  it  if  too  small.  The  in- 
sects will  remain  without  attempting  to  escape,  so 
long  as  it  is  kept  in  motion  by  passing  from  tree 
to  tree.  Tho  four  iron  legs  hang  on  the  hoop,  by 
being  looped  around  it.  They  are  sharp  below, 
and  are  easily  thrust  into  the  soil  to  give  firmness 
to  the  hopper.  Two  men  carry  and  operate  with 
it;  and  when  no  time  is  occupied  in  counting  the 
eureulios,  the  work  may  be  done  with  great  rapid- 
ity, or  at  the  rate  of  Bfty  trees  in  ten  minutes,  and 
thousands  have  been  caught  in  an  hour.  When 
done  with,  the  legs  are  folded,  the  hopper  flattened, 
and  the  machine  hong  np  against  the  wall." 


HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

SntAWBSiiRiBS.— The  present  month  is  a  good 
time  to  set  oat  new  strawberry  beds.  Of  course, 
you  will  not  ezpeet  tnii  from  your  new  beds  this 
■eason.  Next  year,  however,  they  will  bring  you 
quite  a  good  crop,  a  much  more  plentiful  one,  in 
fact,  than  if  you  should  wait  till  August  to  plant 
out  your  beds.  Beds  set  out  in  the  spring  rarely 
fail  to  grow.  Do  not  over-manure  your  new  beds. 
Moderate,  yet  not  miserly,  manuring  will  ensure 
yon  berries ;  prodigality  in  this  respect  is  apt  to 
produce  a  rank  growth  of  leaves,  but  very  little 
fruit. 

Fork,  clean,  and  mulch  established  beds. 

RASPBBRKma,  Blackbbiirus,  btc.— Transplant 
raspberries,  blackberries,  currants,  and,  in  fact,  all 
the  small  fruits,  when  the  weather  is  favonibla. 
Tie  np  raspberry  and  blaekberry  canes;  and,  if  II 
has  not  already  been  done,  remove  the  dead  wood 
of  last  yeac.    Keep  the  ground  rieh*  watt  Btirred 


up,  and  dean  ont  weeds   as   they  show  ihsm- 

•elves. 

Fruit  Trxes. — Now  is  a  good  time  to  shortet 
in  your  peach  trees,' and  to  cut  away  twigs  and 
branches  injured  by  the  frost.  Look  for  the  peack 
borer.  Pour  boiling  water  on  the  lower  part  of  tks 
trunk  near  the  ground,  using  enough  to  cook  tl» 
worm.  It  will  not  hurt  the  tree.  Even  three  gal- 
lons .of  boiling  water  to  a  tree,  may  be  used  witho^ 
injury. 

Top-dreSB  the  ground  under  your  trees  witk 
g^od,  well-oomposted  manure,  or  ashes,  giving  Um 
ground  a  thorough  stirring  up. 


The  Svall  Fruit  Rbcoroer. — We  have  re- 
eeived  from  A.  H.  Purdy,  of  Palmyra,  N.  Y.,  tia 
numbers  of  the  Small  Fruit  Recorder  and  Cottage 
Gardener,  for  1870,  bound  in  a  neat  paper  cover. 
We  see  it  is  offered,  post  paid  for  only  fifty  cents-* 
cheap  enoufjh.  Wo  notice  the  size  of  the  Ret9ri$r 
is  to  be  doubled  this  year,  at  one  dollar  per  year. 

This  paper  is  one  to  which  every  person  goiaf 
into  the  culture  of  fruits  should  subscribe.  Iks 
information  it  gives  is  practical,  reliable,  and  beszt 
upon  every  subject  connected  with  the  businesL 
Specimens  sent  on  application  to  the  publisher. 

Old  Colony  Nurbbribs. — The  proprietor  of  ftbsN 
well-known  nurseries,  established  in  1842,  is  dov 
ready  to  send  fresh  garden,  flower,  fruit,  herb,  tne 
and  shrub,  and  evergreen  seeds,  prepared  by  mail, 
with  directions  for  culture.  He  offers  twenty-fin 
different  packets  of  either  class  for  one  dollar,  or  of 
the  six  classes  five  dollars. 

He  has  20,000  pounds  evergreen  and  tree  seedl^ 
such  as  apple,  pear,  cherry,  Ac;  grass  seeds— best, 
cabbage,  carrot,  onion,  squash,  turnip,  and  aM 
vegetable  and  flower  seeds,  in  small  or  large  qoaa- 
titles.  Also,  small  fruits,  stocks,  bulbs,  shnibip 
roses,  verbenas,  d^c,  sent  by  naail,  prepaid,  lisir 
golden  banded  Japan  lily,  fifty  cents.  Priced  de- 
scriptive catalogue  sent  to  any  plain  address,  gratii. 
Agents  wanted.  Wholesale  list  to  agents,  dobi^ 
and  the  trade.    Seeds  on  commission. 

Address  B.  M.  Watson,  Old  Colony  Norasofli     I 
and  Seed  Warehouse,  Plymouth,  Mass.  | 


HEKDERtoN's  Seed  Catalogue.— Wo  have  re* 
ceived  from  Peter  Henderson,  67  Nassau  Street, 
New  York,  his  twenty -third  annual  eatalogne  of 
choice  and  select  flower,  vegetable,  and  agrienltuial 
seeds,  garden  implements,  knives,  etc.  It  is  illei- 
trated  with  numerous  engravings,  and  eontains  two 
beautiful  colored  plates.  It  is  sent  to  a.11  applicaatt 
on  receipt  of  twenty-five  cents,  or  to  old  eustcnen 
without  charge.  Mr.  Henderson,  whose  two  horti- 
cultural works,  "Gardening  for  Proflt,"  and  "Prae- 
tieal  FloricuHura"  are  now  standard  publieatloai^ 
is  wall.lniown  aa  one  of  oar  BUMt  inteUigent  aa^ 
reliable  seedsmen. 


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S0V8EEESPEB8'    DEPARTMENT. 


241 


Drksr's  Gabdbii  Calcitdah  for  1871.^-]lr. 
Drcer  has  issued  his  Garden  Calendar  for  1871,  in 
whieh  he  offers  a  fnll  list  of  vegetable  seeds,  in- 
etading  the  novelliea  of  the  season,  together  with 
aTtleahle  ooUeotion  of  flower  seeds  and  plants. 

Mr.  Dreer's  list  of  flower  seeds  «s  not  so  fall  as 
fosie  lists  offered  by  other  florists,  bnt  he  eultivates 
•ad  offers  to  the  pablio  all  the  desirable  kinds  | 
those  yarieties  whieh  go  to  swell  the  lists  of  other 
wedmea  being  for  the  most  part  little  known  and 
sBdestTable  kinds.    The  flower  seeds  we  obtained 


frott  him  laK  year  all  proved  reliable,  and  the 
plants  grown  from  them  were  of  superior  exoellenoe. 
One  of  our  cockscombs  grown  from  his  seed, 
dwarfed  ^nd  unpromising  during  all  the  early  part 
of  the  season  on  account  of  the  drouth,  took  a  sud- 
den start  in  midsummer,  and  developed  into  such 
proportions  that  we  think  would  have  entitled  it 
to  a  premium  if  exhibited  at  a  floral  fair. 

Bend  to  Dreer  for  your  seeds  and  plants.  Ad- 
dress Henry  A.  Dreer,  Ko.  714  Chestnut  Street, 
Philadelphia. 


HOUSEKEEPERS'  DEP^ARTMENT. 


HOUSEHOLD  HINTS. 

WALL-PA PBR  often  becomes  loose  and  torn ; 
when  discovered  it  should  be  neatly  smoothed 
bsck,  being  previously  pasted  upon  the  wrong  side; 
tnd  it  being  a  little  troublesome  to  make  paste 
"  on  purpose,"  it  is  left  until  torn  off,  and  the  wall 
eODsequcntly  defaced.  If  the  bread-maker  will  re- 
member and  take  a  little  of  her  bread  "  sponge," 
it  will  save  tbo  trooble  of  making  paste;  or  some  of 
the  batter  which  is  loft  upon  the  pan  in  whioh  the 
griddle-cakes  were  mixed,  will  answer  the  purpose. 

YEAST  INSTEAD  OF  SOUR  MILK. 

HOUSEKEEPEKS  are  often  troubled  to  obtain 
sour  milk  for  cooking  purposes,  and  in  some 
esses  jitnid  will  produce  rearly  or  quite  as  happy 
lesQlts.  For  example,  for  griddle- cakes  in  the 
Morning,  make  a  thick  batter  the  evening  previous, 
with  Inkewams  water,  a  little  tkiehtr  .than  for 
baking  at  the  time  the  cakes  aro  mixed,  as  the  ao- 
tiOD  of  the  yeast  will  render  the  mixture  thinner. 
Add  yeast  in  the  same  proportions  as  for  light  bread, 
tnd  set  in  a  warm  place  for  the  night.  In  tbo 
morning,  dissolve  a  teaspoon  of  soda  to  a  quart  of 
hatter,  and  stir  it  in  well  with  salt  and  the  same 
SBonnt  of  eggs  as  in  the  ordinary  method  of  using 
war  milk.  If  the  batter  is  yet  too  thick,  add 
water  until  of  the  right  consistency.  Batter-cakes 
^  &oiiid  be  as  thin  as  possible  to  bake  and  tarn. 

THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  TRAGEDY. 

[The  following  poem,  which  we  clip  from  an  ez- 
ehange,  will,  we  have  reason  to  believe^  be  appro- 
.eiated  by  all  practical  housekeepers :] 

^KE  day,  as  T  wandered,  I  heard  a  complaining, 

And  saw  a  poor  woman,  the  picture  of  gloom ; 

She  glared  at  the  mud  on  the  doorrstep  ('twas 

raining). 

And  this  was  her  wall  as  she  wielded  her  htoom. : 


0' 


"  Oh !  life  is  a  toil,  and  love  is  a  trouble, . 

And  beauty  will  fade,  and  riches  will  flee. 
And  pleasures  they  dwindle  and  prices  they  double^ 

And  nothing  is  what  I  could  wish  it  to  bo. 

"  There's  too  much  of  worriment  goes  to  a  bonnet^ 
«  There's  too  much  of  ironing  goes  to  a  shirt ; 
There's  nothing  that  pays  for  the  time  you  waste 
on  it, 
There's  nothing  that  lasts  us  but  trouble  and 
dirt 

''In  March  it  is  muddy,  it's  slush  in  December, 
The  midsummer  breezes  are  loaded  with  dust, 

In  Fall  the  leaves  litter,  in  muggy  September 
The  wall-paper  rots  and  the  candlesticks  mst 

"  There  are  wormt  in  the  oherries,  and  slugs  in  the 
roses, 

And  ants  in  the  sugar,  and  mice  in  the  pies-« 
The  rubbish  of  spiders  no  mortal  supposes. 

And  ravaging  roaches  and  damaging  flies. 

"  It's  sweeping  at  six,  and  it's  dusting  at  seven ; 

It's  victuals  at  eight;  and  it's  dishes  at  nine; 
It's  plotting  and  planning  from  ten  to  eleven  ; 

We  scarce  break  our  fast  ere  we  plan  how  to 
dine. 

''With  grease  and  with  grime,  from  oormr  to 
centre. 

Forever  at  war  aad  forever  alert, 
No  rest  for  the  day,  lesit  the  esiemy  enter— 

To  spend  my  whole  life  in  a  stntggle  with  dirt» 

"  Last  night  in  my  dream  I  was  stationed  forever 
On  a  little  bare  isle  in  the  midst  of  the  sea; 

My  one  chance  of  life  was  a  ceaseless  endeavor 
To  sweep  off  the  wares  ere  they  swept  off  poor 
me. 

**  Alas !  'twas  no  dream — again  I  beheld  it ! 

I  yield,  I  am  helpless  my  fate  to  avert" 
She  rolled  down  her  sleeves,  her  apron  she  folded. 

Then  laid  down  and  died,  and  was  bariod  in 
dirt.      • 


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342 


AETSUS'3   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINJE. 


WHY  PIES  AND  PUDDINGS  AMJ  IN- 
JURIOUS 

THERB  ii  probably  a  great  deal  of  imth  in  the 
following  extract,  which  we  make  from  a  re- 
oent  number  of  Dr.  Hall's  Journal  of  Beallh : 

"  The  univereal  error  ae  to  the  unhealthfal  na- 
ture of  piea,  puddings,  and  paatriea,  taking  it  for 
granted  that  they  are  well  made  and  properly 
cooked,  ha«  arisen  from  the  simple  fact  tha^  being 
eaten  after  we  have  made  a  full  meal  of  other 
things,  the  stomach  is  oppressed  by  ihem,  and,  if 
the  process  is  repeated,  becomes  eventually  dys- 
peptic ,'  that  is,  has  not  power  to  work  up  the  food, 
because  it  has  been  'worked  to  death'  already. 
It  would  be  quile  as  philosophical  to  tay  that  if  a 
man  has  become  very  tired  by  ploughing  all  day, 
and  then  by  chopping  wood  had  '  worked  himself 
out,'  it  was  rety  unhealthy  to  ohop  wood." 

EECEIPTa 

As  I  consider  ibread-making  of  the  rery  first  im- 
,  portance  in  cooking,  I  will  give  my  mode  ^f  mak- 
ing both  yeast  and  bread.  ^  ' 

Firstly,  then,  comes  ye«Mf,  for  without  good  yeast 
you  cannot  make  good  yea«<-6reaef,  and  no  other 
bread  to  m«  is  at  all  acceptable. 

Hop-Tbast. — Take  two  common  sited  potatoes, 
pear  and  boil  them  thoroughly  in  onciquart  of  wa- 
ter, then  remove  them  from  the  water  jtnd  add  a 
small  handful  of  hops  to  the  same,  and  boil  fifteen 
minutes ;  in  the  meantime  mash  your  potatoes  flne 
in  a  dish  upon  the  stove,  where  they  will  keep 
warm,  and  strain  the  hop- water  npon  them — ^boil- 
ing hot — and  thicken  quickly  as  possible,  with 
wheat  flour,  to  a  stiff  batter,  then  set  it  in  a  oool 
place  till  it  is  about  mllk-warm,  whefi  you  may 
add  two-thirds  of  a  cup  of  liquid  yeast,  or  two 
baker's  yeast  oakes,  and  put  in  a  warm  place  to 
rise.  When  light  and  foai^y  add  a  great  spoonful 
of  white  sugar,  and  a  teaspoonful  of  salt— then 
bottle  and  eork  for  use. 

For  making  bread  of  this  yeast,  take  one  quart 
of  -warm  water— or  half  milk,  as  one  chooses — a 
small  piece  of  butter,  one  great  spoonful  of  sugwr, 
one  teaspoonful  of  salt,  and  a  full  oup  of  yeast,  and 
stir  into  it  flour  enough  t*  make  it  hard.  Give  it 
a  good  moiMing  and  put  to  riseu  When  well 
vaised,  mould  well  again  and  put  in  the  tins-«>mise 
and  bake.  This  muoh  will  make  a  large  pan  of 
flice  biscuit  and  a  loaf  of  bread.  Orafaam  bread 
can  be  made  in  the  same  way,  adding  molasses  in 
place  of  sugar — one  half  cup. 

To  Makv  Ouaham  Grms,  for  Tka  or  Brrak- 
PAST,  FOR  A  Small  Favilt.— One  quart  eoTd  water, 
one  gtMt  spooufbl  brown  sugar,  one  teaspoonful 
salt ;  add  Graham  flour  for  a  batter  stiff  enough  to 
drop  ftom  a  spoon  easily.  Have  your  tins  or  irons 
hni,  apon  the  stove,  all  greased.  Then  fill  half  full 
and  bake  in  a  hot  oven  till  done.    When  made  and 


baked  after  this  receipt,  tbey  will  be  found  a  meit 
delicious  and  healthy  bread,  of  which  the  most 
f'.elicate  invalid  can  partake  with  impunity. 

BvHSOR  Ro8C.-*One  egg,  one  and  a  half  eapi 
sugar,  half  oup  butler,  half  teaspoonful  soda»  dis- 
solved in  a  little  milk,  and  one  pint  of  raised  dough. 
Mix  all  Well  together,  add  a  little  oinnamoD,  nut- 
meg, or  eloves  if  you  hke.  Mold  and  raise  once  or 
twice,  ae  you  please,  and  bake  like  biscuit.  When 
nearly  done,  wash  them  over  with  a  little  milk  aad 
ugar. 

French  Custard. — Boil  one  quart  of  milk,  sweet- 
ening it  to  your  liking — but  first  boil  a  small  piece  of 
vanilla  in  a  gill  of  water,  and  strain  it  into  ths 
milk.  (If  you  use  the  extract  of  vanilla,  this  will 
be  unnecessary.)  Beat  separately  the  whites  and 
the  yelks  of  five  eggs.  After  the  milk  boils,  taks 
it  from  the  fire  and  sti^  the  whites  of  the  eggs  into 
the  milk,  and  then  skim  them  off  and  lay  the  fh»th 
on  a  plate  \  then  take  a  small  portion  of  the  hot 
milk  and  add  it  to  the  yelks  of  the  eggs,  and  after 
this  mix  the  whole  of  the  milk  in.  Put  it  orer  the 
fire  and  let  it  simmer.  Pour  the  milk  into  a 
pitcher,  fill  your  custard-cups,  and  place  a  portion 
of  the  whites  of  the  eggs  on  the  top  of  each  cup- 
ful of  the  oustard. 

Sjiow-ball  CuiTARD^—One.tqnart  of  new  milk, 
the  whites  of  four  eggs,  and  the  yelks  of  six  tf^ 
as  much  sugar  as  you  please,  and  ten  or  twelve 
drops  of  oil  of  lemon.  Beat  the  whites  of  the  eggs 
^^^J  light,  and  float  them  on  top  of  the  custaid, 
with  jelly  dropped  on  them. 

DsssBRT.— One  quart  of  cream  most  be  boiled 
and  then  stood  away  to  cool.  Boil  it  a  seoDod 
time,  and  add  the  whites  of  eight  eggs,  beaten,  and 
sugar  and  vanilla  to  suit  your  taste. 

Orah«b  Cakb. — One  pound  of  butter,  one  pooad 
of  sugar,  and  one  pound  of  flonr,  the  yelks  of  three 
eggs,  and  the  rind  of  ene  orange,  with  the  Juiee. 

Spiced  Oiivoer-Cakk. — The  ingredients  are: 
One  quart  of  molasses,  three  cupf^ls  of  sugar,  one 
cupful  of  ginger,  one  teaspoonful  of  black  pepper, 
one  tablespoonful  of  cloves,  one  tablespoonfnl  of 
cinnamon,  one  tablespoon fVil  of  allspice,  two  cnp- 
fuls  of  butter,  one  egg,  and  half  an  egg-shell  full  of 
water. 

GiKOBiaHtvAD— No.  1.— The  ingredients  are;| 
One  quart  of  molasses,  one  pint  of  sour  milk,  and 
half  a  pint  of  lard,  three  eggs,  one  tablcspoonfol 
of  saleratus,  two  tablespoonfnls  of  ginger.  Make 
the  dough  tolerably  stiff.  First,  mix  in  the  mo- 
lasses, and  lasUy  the  milk,  with  the  saleratus  dis- 
solved in  it 

GiiraBRBRXAD—No.  2.-~Disso1ve  a  tablcspooB- 
fttl  of  pearlash  in  not  quite  a  pint  of  sour  milk» 
or  oream,  then  pour  it  into  a  quart  of  mola^Mlb 
and  stiffen  it  with  flour  to  the  consistency  of  pound' 
cake  dough,  adding  in  a  teaoupful  of  butter  and 
lardy  half  of  each. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ISTETV   I>UBIL.IO^TIONS. 


A  Ctancxh  DicnoviBT  of  English  Literature  aud  British 
and  American  Authors,  living  and  decea'sed,  ft'ora 
the  enrliesi  aecotnits  to  th«  latter  half  of  the  Kine- 
iMufeh  Centaiy.  Containing  over  Forty-tliree  Thou- 
sand Artricles,  (Authors,)  with  l<orty  Indexes    of 
8abject8.    By  S.  Austin  Allibone.    Vol.  III.    Phil*- 
delphia :  J.  B.  Lippineott  d  Oo. 
The  eompktion  of  this  great  work  is  an  event  in 
American  literature.  Twenty  years  of  patient  labor 
has  been  giren  to  it  by  Dr.  Allibone,  and  it  now 
•taada  forth  as  the  most  complete  work  of  its  kind 
erer  produced.    How  thoroughly  he  hafe^one  hi« 
work,  is  strikingly  illustrated  in  the  Tomininous 
indexes  with  which  it  is  supplemented.'^  These 
indexes  alone  occupy  228  royal  octavo  pages,  and 
an  elutfified  under,  forty  distinct  departments  pt  \ 
•  htcrature.     It  is  interesting;  to  notice  the  relative 
importance  which  learned  men  have  attached  to 
tkese  Tarions  departments.     Thus  Divinity  leads 
•ff  with  12,829  authors.    Then  comes  Poetry,  with 
S^194  names ;  Biography  and  Oorrespondenoe,  4,596 1 
History,  4,189;' Medicine,  3,805;  Essayists,  8,490; 
Law,   3,175;    Education,    3,119;    Travels,  2,775; 
Politics,  2,557;  Fiction,  2,257;  and  69  on  down  to 
Domestic  Economy,  which    can  only  boast  274 
names.  Another  index  develops  the  fact  that  there 
are  810   literary  Smiths;   330  Wilsons;  325  Wil- 
Uamses;  251  Taylors;  202  Whites,  etc. 

In  treating  of  the  more  celebrated  authors,  Dr. 
Allibone  gives  interesting  biographical  sketches  of 
them,  with  able  criticisms  upon  their  leading  works, 
quoted  from  the  best  reviewers.  In  brief,  the 
"Dictionary  of  Authors"  gives  a  complete  record 
ef  what  has  been  done  in  the  world  of  letters  in  the 
English  tongue,  from  the  earliest  records  down  to 
the  present  time.  It  is  a  work  which  has  required 
an  ontiring  devotion  and  a  wide  erudition  to  master 
its  great  difficulties ;  but  this  has  been  successfully 
iehiered,  and  we  congratulate  both  author  and 
poblishers  on  a  result  which  cannot  fail  to  receive 
a  most  cordial  and  substantial  welcome  from  edn- 
•ated  people  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Lars  or  FnMSMTinoir,  and  the  Wines  of  the  Ancients. 
.  By  Rev.  William  Patton,  EK  D.    New  York :  NaUomtU 
f  l^ipavmee  SoeUty  and  FnUicatUm  Moute,  178  Wil- 
liam Street. 

This  is  a  neat  voloaae,  ia  which  all  thai  relates  to 
the  temperance  incoleated  in  the  Bible,  and  to  the 
wines  of  aneient  times,  is  presented  in  a  Dew«  elew, 
aad  satlsfaotcry  manner.  While  explaining  the 
law*  of  forraentation,  it  gires  -a  large  number  of 
rsfci'<Boei  aad  stattsties  never  before  oolleoted, 
skewing  oondmsiTely  the  ezistenee  of  unfermonted 
wiM  in  tiM  oMon  time.  In  his  final  pamgraphs, 
tho  arvtlior  thns  swns  np : 

'I  have  now  o*lIed  attention  to  every  pttsage  in 


the  New  Testament  whore  wine  is  mentioned,  and 
have  given  to  each  that  interpretation  whioh  to  mm 
appeared  just  and  proper.  Uow  far  I  have  carried 
toe  full  conviction  of  my  readers,  each  one  must 
determine  for  himself.  The  results  recorded  in 
these  pages  have  cost  me  years  of  patient  and 
laborious  investigation.  My  own  convictions  have 
steadily  deepen^,  and  become  firmer,  as  I  have 
canvassed  the  positions  maintained  by  writers  who 
bold  views  widely  dififering  from  my  own.  This, 
some  may  think,  is  stubborn  obstinacy  on  my  part; 
but  I  do  not  thus  judge  myself,  as  I  am  conscious, 
however  I  may  err,  of  desiring  only  to  know  the 
truth,  and  hold  such  an  understanding  of  the  JBiblo 
as  will  best  harmonise  the  law  of  God,  as  developed 
by  true  science,  and  the  law  of  God  as  written  in 
the  inspired  page. 

"I  do  not  say  that  there  are  no  difficulties  con- 
nected with  the  wine  queetion.  All  I  ask  is,  that 
the  students  of  the  Bible  will  treat  these  with  the 
same  candor,  and  desire  to  harmonise  them,  that 
they  do  the  difficulties  connected  with  astronomy, 
geology,  and  conflicting  historical  statements.  If 
th»klfcngoage  of  the  Bible  can  bo  honestly  so  inter- 
preted as  to  harmooiM  wkh  the  undisputed  facts» 
developed  by  the  temperanee  reformation,  in  rela- 
tion to  the  effects  of  alcoholic  drinks,  and  with  the 
testimony  of  the  most  intelligent  pbftsieians  and 
eminent  chemists,  that  alcohol  contains  no  nourislu 
ment,  will  neither  make  blood  nor  repair  the  waste 
of  the  body,  but  is  an  intruder  and  a  poison,  this 
will  secure  the  firm  friendship  of  many  who  now 
stand  aloof,  and  will  promote  the  temporal,  spiritual^ 
Mid  eternal  happiness  of  mankind.''^ 

Thb  THoaouan  Bass  School  :  An  Easy  and  Progressive 
Course  for  Acquiring  a  Practical  Knowledge  of 
Rudimenta!  Harmony.  Written  for  the  Piano-Forto 
or  Organ.  By  W.  Ludden.  Chicago :  Boot  Ǥ  Om^ 
i7  Washington  Sfeceofe. 

An  admirably  arranged  work,  eflpedally  adapted 
to  the  wants  of  those  desirous  of  learning  to  play 
or  write  church  music,  aeconpaniments,  songif, 
choruses,  etc.  It  consists  of  two  parts  and  an  ap- 
pendix. Part  I.  is  designed  for  such  as  desire  to 
play  harmonies,  bat  not  to  writo  them — to  learn 
accompaniments  to  songs  and  the  simpler  styles  of 
ohnreh  nraslc.  Part  II.  may  be  considered  as  really 
the  commencement  of  the  coarse,  which,  thovgb 
strictly  cleoMntary,  is  yet  foil  and  elaborate  enoagb 
to  give  the  papil  such  an  insight  into  the  soienoo 
of  harmony  as  will  render  his  after  studies  in  norr 
advanced  works  comparatively  easy.  Theappendia 
forms  a  key  to  the  principal  lessons,  and  win  protO' 
especially  usefnl  to  those  who  have  no  teachor  to 
aid  them.  A  pleasing  and  novel  feature  of  the 
book,  is  the  uniting  of  a  partial  coarse  for  general 
practice  on  the  piano>forte  or  organ,  with  the  courso 
on  hannony.  This  onion,  however,  is  optional  with 
the  student,  the  general  practice  being  in  no  way 
obHgatoiy,  if  the  solH^ar's  facility  of  performanoo 
U  sooh  ns  to  rsnder  it  nnnecessary. 

(343) 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


244 


ABTEVR^a   LADT8   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


SCHLBOBL  AND  GEANUIT'B  COCKflB  OF  THE  GUMAM  LaMQUAQI. 

Part  First  A  German  Graoimar  for  Beginners.  Hj 
Charles  A.  Schlegel,  Professor  in  the  Female  Nor- 
mal Ck>lIego  of  the  City  of  £<ew  York.  Mew  York: 
KSteiger. 

'  The  plan  of  this  trvly  philosophic  grammar  is 
based  npon  the  Genetie  Method  of  Mager — a  method 
which,  by  proceeding  from  the  example  to  the 
rule,  is  equally  in  harmony  with  the  nature  of 
the  human  understanding  and  with  the  process  of 
human  thought  Every  lesson  comprises,  first,  the 
forms  of  tho  German  language,  with  a  preceding 
vocabulary ;  then  the  grammatical  laws  contained 
in  the  examples;  and,  lastly,  the  application  of 
those  laws  in  translating  from  English  into  Ger- 
man. The  examples,  unlike  those  in  too  many 
recent  works  of  this  character,  are  model  sentences 
in  every  respect,  being  taken  from  classic  authors 
in  both  languages,  and  from  the  conversation  of 
the  best  educated  classes.  The  typographical  ap- 
pearance of  the  Tolame  is  worthy  of  especial  men- 


tion. A  second  part,  for  advanced  pupils,  ty 
Professor  Gfanert,  is  announeed  to  appear  shoHlj, 
as  is  alau  a  series  of  Classical  German  Readers,  witk  < 
notes  by  Professor  Sehlegel.  Price  $1.25,  sent  t» 
any  address  postpaid.  Teachers  desirous  of  es>! 
amining  the  grammar,  with  a  view  to  introdnotio^j 
furnished  with  specimen  copies  for  62  cents.  { 

Ths  Soko  Echo.  By  H.  8.  Perkins,  author  of  the  0*  j 
lege  Hymn  and  Tune  Book.  New  York :  J.  L,  Ptiay 
690  Broadway. 

This  is  a  pleasing  collection  of  copyrig;ht  soBg^ 
duets,  trios,  and  sacred  pieces,  suitable  for  pnbfii 
schools,  juvenile  classes,  seminaries,  and  the  hoot 
circle.  It  also  includes  an  easy,  concise,  and  iti- 
tematic  course  of  elementary  instruction,  with  exer- 
cises at  ence  appropriate  and  attractive.  Many  of 
the  pieces  contained  in  this  volume  will  prove  s^ 
ceptable  additions  to  the  songs  of  school  and  hooe, 
and  as  such  cannot  but  secure  an  enduring  koU 
upon  the  popular  favor. 


EDITORS'  DEPARTMENT. 


IVORK  FOR  IVOMBN. 

NOT  long  since  we  took  up  a  publication  In 
which  a  writer  strongly  objected  to  the  open- 
ing of  any  new  fields  of  labor  for  women,  on  the 
ground  that  in  the  chnroh  they  eonld  find  every 
opportunity  to  dispose  of  all  surplus  energy  and 
time.  This  writer  overlooked  one  important  fact 
in  the  consideration  of  the  question.  Women  are 
seeking  not  so  muoh  employment  merely  as  a  means 
9f  disposing  of  leisare  time,  as  employment  that 
shall  be  renumerative,  and  shall  afford  them  a  liveM- 
Hood.  To  talk  to  those  women  who  must  work  for  a 
living  of  charitable  duties,  is  like  giving  thorn  a 
stone  when  they  ask  for  bread. 

We  have  said  this  muoh  by  way  of  introduction, 
in  order  to  prevent  any  misunderstanding  of  our 
views  on  this  subject  of  women's  work.  But  there 
ia  a  large  class  of  women  to  whom  appeals  for  help 
in  religious,  charitable  and  social  duties  should  be 
made.  Those  women  whom  a  kind  Providence  has 
plaoed  beyond  the  need  of  any  aetive  exertion  for 
tiie  means  of  support,  should  feel  themselves  speci- 
ally called  upon  to  do  the  work  of  the  world.  They 
are  not  obliged  to  work  for  themselves,  therefore 
let  them  work  for  others. 

One  of  the  most  appropriate  and  most  exalted 
mitsiens  a  woman  can  have  is  that  which  tends  to 
the  amelioration  and  refinement  of  the  unfortunate 
and  outcast  of  her  own  sex.  And  it  is  all  the  more 
neoessary  that  women  should  awake  to  this  duty 
Vfoause  men  are  so  utterly  regardless  of  it  One 
<if  the  oity  officials  of  London  was  recently  asked 
why  some  effort  was  not  made  to  reform  and  save 
the  younger  female  unfortunates  and  outcasts  of 


that  city.  «  Oh,"  was  his  rejply,  "  they  ar«  sot 
worth  saving."  And  this  answer  strikes  the  kej- 
note  of  all  of  men's  legislation  in  regard  to  ibid 
class  of  society.  Never  was  a  crueller  or  more  os- 
Just  doctrine  taught  than  that  a  woman  onco  de* 
graded  can  never  again  become  worthy  of  esteoa 
and  respect  And  tho  cruellest,  wrctchedest  part 
of  it  is  that  this  doctrine  in  its  practical  workiof 
is  sure  to  justify  itself.  It  efiectually  blocks  tb« 
way  to  reformation,  and  then  its  holders  point  oBt 
in  triumph  that  these  wretched  creatures  never  do 
reform. 

There  is  no  sex  in  sin,  neither  is  there  sex  in  7«- 
pentance.  A  degraded  man  may  turn  from  liii 
evil  courses,  and  become  an  honest,  respected,  tnd 
upright  member  of  society ;  so,  too,  may  and  vill 
a  degraded  woman  if  the  same  way  is  left  open  to 
her,  the  same  help  extended  to  her. 

Any  one  who  has  ever  frequented  for  any  fax- 
pose  our  oity  police  stations,  can  testify  how  ufi- 
fortunato  women  are  treated  in  them.  If  they  had 
one  spark  of  modesty  or  womanliness  remaining,  it ^ 
would  be  there  extinguished  by  their  treatment  it 
the  bands  of  hmtaiSsed  oAciala. 

Then  we  have  one  fiaet  in  regard  to  tho  Phila- 
delphia city  prison,  which  should  he  recorded  i» 
the  shame  of  the  parties  concerned,  and  be  read  hy 
all  women  from  one  end  of  the  country  to  anothtf. 
A  lady  physieiao,  having  had  oeeasioB  to  visiithi 
city  prison,  and  seeing  how  illy  it  was  arranged  U 
a  reformatory  for  women,  petitioned  conneilib  *^ 
afterward  the  State  Leglslatnre— her  .petition  heiaf 
signed  by  many  Philadelphia  ladies — that  womes 
be  added  to  the  board  of  directors  for  the  porpoM 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


EDITOHS'    DBPAM.TUBNT. 


S45 


of  attending  speciallj  to  tlie  female  inmates  of  tbe 
institntion.  This  petition  was  not  granted,  the 
direetors  working  against  it,  and  giving  aa  one  of 
titeir  reasons  why  women  shbttld  not  be  appointed, 
thst  it  would  not  be  proper  for  them  to  listen  to 
tiie  talk  eonoerning  the  female  prisoners  by  the 
direetors  at  the  meeting  of  the  board.  If  these 
■en  are  capable  of  talking,  in  their  olBcial  eapaei- 
tisi^  abont  eren  the  vilest  and  most  unfortunate  of 
women  in  a  manner  that  would  cause  a  pure  woman 
a  blosh  to  hear,  they  are  unfit  to  have  the  charge 
of  either  men  or  women,  and  instead  of  their  pro- 
test resalting  in  the  failure  of  the  petition,  it  should 
be  tbe  cause  of  their  own  speedy  removal  from  the 
board. 

We  find  in  a  recent  number  of  the  Hevohittofi,  an 
aoeoont  of  the  labors  of  the  late  Mrs.  Farnham  and 
othen^  in  the  Sing  Sing  prison.  Mrs.  Farnham  oo- 
mfkA  the  position  of  matron  in  the  female  prison, 
ttd  bad  for  her  assistant,  Mrs.  Mary  Ann  John- 
taa,  a  lady  well  qualified  to  assist  her  in  carrying 
OBt  ber  schemes  for  reform.    The  writer  says : 

*I  learn  from  looking  oyer  the  reports  of  the 
fov  years  during  which  Mrs.  Farnham  was  in 
charge,  that  the  system  of  daily  instruction,  kind- 
usi,  and  constant  appcols  made  to  their  self- 
Kfpeot,  and  the  promise  of  help,  produced  the  hap- 
piest results  upon  tbe  minds  of  tho  convicts.  Many^ 
tfier  emerging  from  the  prison  shadow,  had  a  kind 
tad  watchful  care  thrown  about  them,  to  see  to  it 
tbat  they  did  not  slip  on  the  glare  edge  of  the 
pteipieo  where  they  had  before  fallen.  Many 
vere  placed  in  faonilies  as  servants,  where  for  years 
tbey  led  honest  and  useful  lives." 

One  of  the  successors  of  Mrs.  Farnham  gives  as 
ber  deliberate  opinion,  formed  fVom  experience 
vitb  that  class  of  women  which  is  necessarily  the 
vont :  "  My  conviction  has  deepened  that,  how- 
^cr  degrxbded  by  sin  or  hardened  by  outrage  and 
vroDg,  while  reas6n  maintains  its  empire  over  tho 
luindi,  there  is  no  heart  so  eallous  and  obdurate 
tbat  tbe  voioer  of  sympathy  and  kindness  may  not 
Rack  it,  or  sontterly  debased  as  to  give  no  response 
to  tbe  tones  of  Christian  love  and  benevolence." 

Tbe  same  lady  informed  the  writer  of  the  article, 
"Uttt  after  the  li^se  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  oen- 
^rji  she  had  recently,  reoetved  ft  Utter  finom  one 
of  tbe  women  under  hex  eharge  at  Sing  Sing,  in- 
fernii^  l^r  that  she  bad  been  living  in  the  same 
^ily  where  the  kindness  of  friends  placed  her 
vbea  tbe  prison  door  opened  twenty-five  years 
H^'  The  latter  went  on  to  state  that  the  old  peo- 
ple bad  died  some  years  ago,  that  the  children  had 
{nvn  up  and  married  off,  and  now  sho  was  no 
longer  needed,  and  the  writer  added  :  '  Haven't  I 
^  &  faithful  servant,  and  isn't  this  very  well  for 
little  Jaoo,  as  yon  used  to  caU  me  when  you  was 
aWbo  with  me  and  X  was  very  good  7* " 

"We  will  make  one  further  eztraot  firom  this  ar- 
ticle: 
''Ohs  of  the  eoBTieta  was  so  TioXuit  in  her  |»a»« 


sibna  that  she  beat  and  maltreated  every  woman 
who  was  placed  to  sleep  in  tho  same  celL  To  ap- 
proach her  cover  was  almost  like  entering  a  wil<jl 
beast's  den ;  but  one  of  the  naatrons  determined 
upon  her  reformation,  got  near  her,  and  by  the  ap- 
peals which  she  made  to  the  little  spark  of  goodness 
still  glimmering  in  the  poor  creature's  bosom,  made 
her  weep.  When  a  promiso  was  demanded  tbat 
sho  should  try  to  ourb  her  terrible  temper,  the  pas- 
sionate creature  sobbed  :  '  I  love  yon,  and  if  yon 
will  give  mo  something  that  belongs  to  you,  so  that 
I  can  touch  it  when  I  feel  tho  evil  one  getting  hold 
of  me,  I  think  I  oan  remember  what  you  say,  and 
be  helped  to  do  better.' 

"60  the  matron  gave  her  a  beautiful  tropical  shelly 
that  she  could  always  keep  about  her  as  a  reminder 
of  her  good  resolutions,  and  for  some  weeks  no  sin- 
ister sounds  were  heard  to  issue  from  the  convict's 
eeU ;  and  whenever  her  friend  passed  that  way  she 
was  met  by  a  face  that  always  lit  np  by  her  smiles 
and  kind  words.  At  the  end  of  this  time  a  terrible 
uproar  of  mingled  screams  and  cries  iasoed  from 
the  place,  and  running  to  learn  the  cause,  the  ma- 
tron discovered  her  protege  pommelling  another 
woman  vigorously.  She  stopped  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  grieved  expression  of  mingled  rebuke 
and  disappointment,  and  the  poor  creature,  throw- 
ing herself  at  her  friend's  feet,  sobbed  out:  'That 
woman  stole  my  shell  and  the  devil  got  hold  of  me 
right  away.' 

"  It  suiBoes  to  say  that  another  fetish  was  given 
to  this  blind  and  bewildered  soul,  trying  to  feel 
her  way  to  the  light,  and  that  she  was  reformed 
and  saved. 

''These  few  facts,"  the  writer  adds,  ''in  regard 
to  an  experiment  which  proved  a  complete  snocoss, 
and  fully  demonstrated  the  orimiaality  of  shutting 
female  convicts  away  from  tho  saving  influence  of 
the  good,  and  wise,  and  true-hearted  of  their  own 
SOX,  will  be  appropriate  just  at  this  time  when  an 
effort  has  been  made  to  get  female  inspcotors  ap- 
pointed on  Prison  Boards  in  Pennsylvania,  a 
measure  which,  as  we  understand,  was  defeated  by 
tho  wire-pulling  of  unscrupulous  politicians." 


DBAVH  OF  Allien  OART. 

On  the  12th  of  February  this  gifted  woman  died 
in  Kew  York  City,  where  she  had  resided  for  many 
years.  The  Cknrtian  CTatea  Of  Febmaiy  IMh, 
pays  this  tender  tribute  to  her  memory : 

^  Last  Sunday  morning,  after  eighteen  months* 
of  suffering  as  acute  as  mortal  ever  experienced/* 
Alice  Gary,  that  truewomaa  and  true  poet,  went 
to  her  rest.  Few  of  the  many  writers  who  minis- 
ter, from  day  to  day,  to  tbe  intellectual  wants  o^ 
the  people  could  pass  away,  so  deeply  and  univer-i' 
sally  naoomed  aa  shsL  Uer  spiritual  and  melodi- 
ous verses  havo  made  niusio  and  diffused  peace  in, 
many  an  aching  heart;  and  thousands  who  havo 
never  seen  her  face  have  loved  ber  as  a  true  sister* 
ef  charity,  and  will  weep  to  know  that  the  voue  of* 
the  ohaoner  M  sUented  forever. 


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246 


A R THUS* 3  LALY*a   MOME   MAGAZINE, 


"  Having  pM8«d  one  daj  from  hor  ekanber-of 
anguish,  niu.«ing  upon  her  dQspondcDCjr  at  beiog 
thus  laid  aside  frum  active  eiuploymcnt,  we  re- 
eoQDted  her  words  at  the  bedside  of  another  sufferer^ 
who  had  never  seen  the  afflicted  poet.  The  latter, 
in  reply,  draw  her  eommonplaoe  book  from  beneath 
her  pillow  and  pointed  to  poem  after  poem  by  Alice 
Cary,  which  had  been  her  solace  during  weary 
months  and  years  of  sickness  and  pain,  and  bade 
ns  gif  0  her  greeting  of  gratitude  to  that  unknown 
but  beloved  benofaotor.  Thai  does  the  all-seeing 
Pather  blosa  our  anooDsoious  influence,  and  often 
make  our  seeming  helplessness  more  potent  lor 
good  than  our  best  hours  of  purposed  cflbrt. 

"  The  attractive  home  in  Twentieth  Street  is  now 
left  to  Phebe,  tho  sole  survivor  of  that  gifted  circle 
which  onoe  drew  to  its  oosey  library  and  parlor  to 
many  bright  and  beantiful  spirits.  We  rvgoiee  to 
know  that»  while  she  is  a  sharer  to  the  full  in  the 
intellectual  endowments  which  so  distinguished  her 
family,  she  has  always  enjoyed  exceptional  health 
and  a  buoyant  disposition,  from  which  we  derive 
for  her  a  ebeerftel  aogwry  of  many  remaining  yean 
nf  happy  usef alneat." 


i¥ARFIEI.D*9  COI^D-ITATKRy   SBLF- 
WK^mSiO  SOAP. 

An  advertisement  in  this  number  of  Tns  Hon B 
Magazine  gives  the  names  and  addresses  of  the 
various  manufacturers  and  agents  of  this  remark- 
able soap.  What  we  said  of  it  two  or  three  months 
ago,  from  actual  knowledge,  thousands  of  house- 
keepers have  since  proved  to  be  true  in  every  par- 
ticular. Colonel  narris,  of  tho  Ohio  Farmer,  who 
baa  used  it  in  his  family,  says : 

"Whi^e  at  the  State  Fair  this  year  in  Spring- 
field, we  received  from  tho  agent  of  the  '  Warficld 
Cold-Water,  Self- Washing  Soap,'  a  trial  bar  for  ex- 
periment in  our  family,  which  we  consigned  to  the 
woman  of  the  house,  with  no  expeetation  of  ever 
bearing  ftora  it  again,  aa  is  nsnai  in  aneh  eases.  A 
while  after  tho  good  wife  aaid  to  mo :  'I  wish  you 
would  get  some  more  of  that  soap;  it  is  tho  nicest 
soap  I  ever  used,  especially  for  washing  your  flan- 
nel shirts,  and  is  so  nice  for  washing  hands.'  Then 
we  remembered  the  gift  of  the  aoan  at  the  State 
Fair,  and  the  namea  of  Gregory,  Blisa  A  Co.,  of 
Mansfield,  as  the  manufacturers.  So,  aa  wo  hap- 
pened to  be  in  Mansfield  last  woek,  we  procured  a 
Dox  of  this  soap,  and  thereby  made  the  good  wife 
happy,  and  thia  week  the  family  waahing  went  on 
to  the  lino  without  filling  the*houae  with  steam  and 
parboiling  the  washerwoman's  lurndf  in  Hot  suds. 
Thero  ia  no  mistake  in  this  article," 

We  again  oommend  this  aitiole  as  a  blessing  to 
hoosekeepevs.  If  your  gn>oer  does  not  keep  it  lor 
sale,  give  him  the  address  of  the  nearest  manufac- 
tarer,  (see  advertisement,)  and  ask  him,  to  send  £or 
a  box. 

(f  n  ffifffH 

Bee  advertisement  of  Mr.  Hakvov  BxirKSicv  on 
fourth  page  cover,  Boms  Maoazinb.  He  is  our 
authoriaod  agent  for  the  United  States,  and  is 
offering  veiy  liberal  terms  te  all  who  engage  in 
eanvassing  for  oar  mttgaiiass  and  pietoces. 


OUJEl  Il.l<17ftTaAT10H8. 

We  give  another  fine  cartoon  this  month ;  a  pio- 
tore  of  great  power,  already  described.  In  **  Wait- 
ing for  f  athcx^"  the  artUt  sweetly  illnstratea  the 
poet; 

"I  turn 
Homeward  my  stepi^  seeing  before  me,  far 
Throagh  the  dim  twilight  and   the  thickening 

gloom. 
Warm  welcomes   sweet,  good  cheer,  and  needful 

rest; 
My  fond  wife's  greeting  smile,  whose  oheerinesa 
Makes  glad  my  heart,  and  all  the  pain  of  weariness 
Turns  to  delight  for  which  there  are  no  words; 
And  the  great  shout  and  rush  uproarious 
With  which  the  children  hail  my  coming  in 
And  of  my  sweet  anticipations  still 
The  aweeteat  one,  the  mute  and  aober  look 
Of  the  dear  youngling  of  my  littlo  flock. 
Straining  hia  dark  and  steadfast  eyes  to  pieroe 
The  twilight's  gray,  and  catch  tho  first  faint  glimpse 
Of  my  approaching  form,  aa  on  the  atepa 
Of  Home  he  stands, '  to  watoh  and  wait  for  father.' " 

"  Shall  I  Divide"  tells  its  own  story.  The  expres- 
sion of  the  littlo  girl's  face  shows  plainly  the  struggle 
going  on  Sn  her  mind.  She  has  an  apple,  or  peach, 
or  pear,  no  doubt  a  rarity  with  her,  and  ia  debat- 
ing whether  she  shall  enjoy  St  by  herself,  or  aharw 
it  with  her  brothers  and  slaters  or  companions.  Iiet 
us  hope  she  docs  the  latter ;  for,  though  the  fniit 
divided  will  give  but  a  mouthf\al  to  each,  perhaps, 
still  that  mouthful,  flavored  with  generosity,  will 
be  sweeter  than  the  whole  eaten  in  aelfiahnees. 

BOinrD  TOLUMKa  OF  «THB  CUIL.. 
DRKH'S  HOUR.** 

Theae  finely  printed   and  elegantly  illnatrated 

books  for  children,  we  send  by  mail,  postage  psdd, 

to  any  part  of  the  United  States. 

8  volumes,  eaoh      •    .    .    •    •  $1.00 

The  whole  sot 7.00 

4  double  volumes,  each   •    •    •    1.75 

The  whole  set 6.00 

The  set  oontains  over  250  ehoiee  engravings. 

We  know  that  no  ehesper,  purer,  or  mote  alegSMt 

hooks  for  children  oan  be  found* 

BOm>  T01.tr AKS   OF   MTHflS  ^VTORK- 
IHOMAlf.'* 

The  first  volume  of  this  elegant  piet<irial,  hand- 
aomely  bound,  is  now  ready,  and  will  be  aent  to 
any  address  by  mail  on  receipt  of  80  cents.  It 
oontains  some  60  fine  engravings,  and  a  large 
amount  of  carefully  edited  reading  matter  suitable 
for  family  reading.  Its  splendid  flhistratlons  are 
worth  more  than  the  price  of  the  book,  while  its 
temperance  stories  and  great  variety  of  naefol  and  . 
entertainhig  aitielea  make  it  a  moat  attimetlve  pnb- 
lication  for  young  and  old.  It  ia  rarely  that  so 
BSnsb  good  reading  ean  be  had  f«ff  to  mall  a  priee. 

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▼' 


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OUST  IN  THE  EYE. 
(See  page  279.  J 


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EMBROIDERY  FOR  HANDKERCHIEFS. 


[^"Cr^ 


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I 
o 


i3 

SZ5 


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TBIMMINO  FOR  BLACK  BILK  DBBBS. 

This  eoBfliets  of  a  ttntlffht  band  of  nateiial  the  Mine  m  the 
dress,  and  bouod  with  either  colored  or  with  tarUm  silk.  The 
band  nma  throagh  pointed  loope  of  black  ribbon  relTot 


WHITE  DRQ38. 

■dee  of  silk,  and  is 
dte  dress.  It  has 
;  the  centre  one  is 
-minate  with  rich 
r.  There  are  fonr 
iree  loares  at  the 
rhe  shoulder  bow 
le. 


No.S. 

DEB  KNOT. 

with  sash  No.  t 


BLACK  VELVST  BASH. 

This  sash  is  made  of  Mack  Telret,  and  orange 
or  any  other  colored  satin.  The  two  ends  and 
four  loops  are  of  velvet;  the  fire  leaves  of  satin. 


IN8EBTI0N. 


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FASHION    DEPj^RTMEISTT. 

FASHI0V8  V0&  MAY. 
aild  spring  weather  has  renewed  the  tanie  oostaoMi  of  last  jewr.  They  are  made  in  all  mate- 
in  almost  all  styles.  As  we  said  last  month,  narrow  stripes  are  the  most  popular  patterns, 
nd  hair-striped  silks,  cambrics,  percales,  and  prints  in  light  and  delicate  colors,  mad«  into  suits 
aed  with  ruches  of  the  same,  will  be  much  worn,  and  are  inexpensive.  Blaolc  silk  suits,  trimmed 
Bt,  lace,  or  ruohings,  are  always  Aishionable.    In  wearing  the  tnnio  costume,  either  th«  tanio  or 

be  in  black, 
led  muslins  and  cambrics  will  be  worn  for  houie  dresses  with  a  wide,  soft  scarf  of  black  silk 
e  back  with  fringed  ends. 

ive  this  month  several  pretty  designs  for  tnnios  and  orerskirti,  which  are  so  simple  that  they 
}uire  description. 

:iues  and  mantles  of  black  silk  and  cashmere  will  be  much  worn  this  season.  A  pretty  mantle 
named  after  the  Princess  Louise.  It  is  round  at  the  back,  where  it  only  reaches  to  the  waist, 
I  with  square  tabs  in  front.  A  belt  snrronnds  the  waist,  with  broad  sash  ends  behind.  This  is 
ty  over  muslin  dresses. 

spring  bonnets  and  hats  are  principally  of  straw.  The  gypsy  is  the  style  that  takes  preoedenoe 
8.  This  style  is  variously  modified ;  some  turn  up  at  the  back,  some  in  front,  some  are  simply 
all  around.  A  pretty  style  is  in  English  straw,  the  brim  lined  with  pale  pink  or  blue  sUk,  and 
ig  of  black  velvet  and  daisies  or  roses  around  the  crown. 

leaking  of  the  fashions  for  young  girls,  Madame  Demorest  says:  "The  tendency  is  .toward  sim- 
*  fashions  for  young  girls,  less  jewelry,  less  Arllls,  and  less  furbelows  of  every  description,  and 
'^tention  to  fineness  and  daintiness  of  fabric.  Cheap  finery  is  an  index  of  a  naturally  low  and 
ste,  and  we  advise  our  young  lady  readers,  tn  the  selection  of  their  wwdcobes,  to  restrict  them- 
Little,  if  need  be,  but  let  that  little  be  of  the  best" 

advice  which  she  gives  is  excellent,  not  only  for  young  girls,  but  for  every  one. 
e  is  a  great  effort  to  revive  embroidery  as  trimming  upon  dresses,.  Jackets,  tunics,  sashes,  and 
Dut  in  this  country  it  can  never  achieve  more  than  a  limited  success  on  account  of  its  enormous 
dies  who  are  willing  to  pay  so  high  a  price  for  decoration  generally  prefer  lace,  or  something 
outlast  the  fabric  upon  which  it  is  employed. 

best  method  of  using  embroidery  in  this  countiy,  where  the  labor  costs  so  much,  is  to  have  it 
upon  bands  of  silk,  or  velvet,  or  cashmere,  and  applied  to  garments  and  dresses  in  such  a  way 
n  be  removed  and  utilized  a  second  time  if  it  is  needed. 

difiloulty  in  the  way  of  this  method  is  the  rapid  change  of  fashion,  which  compels  different  forms, 
lesigns,  with  every  season,  and  subordinates  altogether  the  permanently  beautifiil  to  the  passing 


BONNETS  AND  HATS. 
{See  double-page  Engraving,) 
. — A  round  hat  for  a  young  lady,  to  be  made  in  light-green  gros-grain,  the  narrow  brim  indented 
es,  and  formed  of  two  puffs,  the  crown  soft  and  high,  encircled  by  a  ronleaaof  a  gros-grain  and 
a  darker  shade,  and  the  additional  trimmings  composed  of  a  large  pompon  of  velvet  in  front, 
ch  springs  a  green  ostrich  tip  falling  over  the  right  side,  a  full-blown  tea-rose  in  foliage  on  the 
itde,  and  streamers  of  the  two  shades  of  gros-grain. 

I, — Pamela  bonnet  in  white  chip,  the  front  turned  back  en  diaddme,  faced  with  a  puffing  of  blue 
completed  by  a  bandeau  of  velvet  of  a  darker  shade,  over  which  is  disposed  a  garland  of  fine 
ers.  A  rouleau  of  silk  encircles  the  crown,  confining  loops  of  velvet,  and  the  back,  which  is 
ed  up  slightly,  is  ornamented  with  a  pink  rose  surrounded  by  white  wheat-heads  and  loops  of 
on,  from  which  depend  long  streamers  fringed  at  the  ends  and  tied  in  tassels.  Long  brides  of 
on,  tied  very  low. 

). — One  of  the  prettiest  designs  for  gypsy  bonnets  which  is  sure  to  become  a  favorite.  It  pes- 
)  three  elements  of  a  bonnet--crown,  front,  and  cape — and  for  early  spring  is  most  beautifully 
lavender  terry  velvet,  the  front  fhced  with  violet  gros-grain,  the  left  side  quite  plain  except  a 
f  violet  and  lavender,  and  the  back  and  right  side  ornamented  with  loops  of  violet  and  laven- 
n,  placed  at  the  base  of  the  cape,  and  intermingled  with  a  garland  of  morning-glories,  shaded 

Streamers  and  brides  of  the  two  shades  of  gros-grain  ribbon, 
t.— A  hat  for  a  little  girl,  of  English  straw,  garnished  with  plaitings  of  green  ribbon  and  loops 
r  green  velvet  encircling  the  crown,  and  the  revers  at  the  back  confined  by  a  cluster  of  fleld- 
nd  loops,  and  streamers  of  green  ribbon. 

5. — A  simple  round  bat,  suiuble  for  school  wear,  of  gray  felt,  the  crown  surrounded  by  mchings 
red  blue  silk  set  between  blue  velvet  bands.  The  rest  of  the  trimming  consists  of  a  rosette  of 
on,  and  streamers  proceeding  from  the  sides,  and  united  low  down  on  the  back  in  a  cluster  of 

). — Visiting  bonnet  of  a  modified  gypsy  shape,  the  front  somewhat  resembling  the  Fanchon. 
e  in  gros-grain  of  a  very  light  shade  of  brown,  almost  a  ouir  color ;  the  crown  soft,  the  cape  and 
ming  in  chestnut-brown;  pompons  of  silk  of  the  two  shades  placed  across  the  front  in  the  rear 
adem,  a  bow  of  brown  at  the  left  side  and  a  cluster  of  brown  tips  on  the  right,  from  which  pro- 
brides,  one  of  each  shade,  which  are  tied  under  the  chin.    Intended  to  complete  a  costume  of 
n  in  the  two  shades  of  the  bonnet 
Walkiif.— Round  hat  in  white  chip,  rather  low  in  the  crown,  the  brim  indented  at  the  sides,  the  trim- 
put  on  skuteposed  of  bows  and  bands  of  black  velvet,  narrow  black  thread  lace ;  a  lace  scarf  at  the  back, 
mSS^  °P>ted  with  velvet  bows,  and  a  pink  rose  on  the  left  side  supporting  a  humming-bird.    Very  sty- 
wacx  stnr^  ^^^^  cashMcie  costume,  IrisMied  with  white. 


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COMPOSED  BY  WM.  O.  BBEW3TER. 


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^iw  greea, «  Washington,  D.  C.J 

T0Hxxvn.-18.  Digitized  by  C^OglC 


256 


ARTHVBS   LADY'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


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ARTHUR'S  LlDY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


MAY,    1871. 


EEMEMBEEED. 

BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  "WATCHIKQ  AJBTD  WAITIKQ." 


A  TINY,  attic  room,  daintily  dean,  and 
with  little  pitiful  attempts  here  and  there 
at  humble  adornment,  but  with  no  warmth  or 
comfort  in  the  air,  no  glow  and  buetleof  happy, 
healthful,  hopeful  life. 

A  woman,  small  and  slight,  sitting  before 
the  fireless  grate,  with  head  bowed  upon  her 
boiom,  and  slender  hands  tight  clasped  and 
lying  listless  in  her  lap ;  at  her  feet,  and  striv- 
ing to  wrap  himself  in  her  dress,  a  dark -eyed 
hoj  reflecting  gravely  in  his  childish  fashion 
00  the  mysterious  ways  of  God  and  of  the 
world. 

''Little  mother,  I  cannot  tell  how  is  it. 
Last  summer,  you  know,  the  sun  was  like  a 
great  fire  that  our  Father  had  kindled  up  there 
ui  the  sky,  and  it  shone  down  everywhere  and 
on  everybody  just  alike,  and  we  were  all  warm ; 
hot  now  it  is  put  out,  or  it  is  moved  a  great 
way  off,  and  people  build  fires  in  their  houses^  \ 
hat  it  is  all  lor  themselves  and  not  a  bit  for  us 
who  are  bo  cold,  and  cannot  buy  anything  to 
nuke  one  little,  little  blase  to  stretch  our 
fingers  over.  Why  don't  they  do  like  God, 
•nd  build  fires  to  warm  us  all?  Why  do  we 
have  to  dimb  up  these  long,  dark  flights  of 
■(airs  that  make  you  pant  and  grow  so  white^ 
and  git  here  shivering  in  the  cold  when  there 
ue  big  houses,  all  summer  inside,  and  lots  and 
^ts  of  room,  and  beautiful  things  to  look  at 
tod— and  plenty  to  eat  T 

"Hush,  Benny,  darling ;  don't  talk." 

"  But  I  must,  little  mother ;  for  when  I  keep 
*^  and  think  I  am  so  hungry  and  " — wrap^ 
piog  himself  closer  in  her  dress — ''so  cold, 
^oa  did  not  tell  me  why  we  could  not  go  into 
^  beautiful  houses  and  get  warm." 

''  Because  they  are  not  ours,  dear,  and  we 
We»no  right  there." 

A  deeper  shadow  fell  over  the  child's  face. 
^«  was  silent  Ibr  a  space,  striving  to  compre- 


hend the  mystery  of  possession  which  expe- 
rience had  never  interpreted  to  him.  "  I  can't 
see,"  he  said,  finally,  sighing  deeply,  "  if  our 
Father  loves  us,  why  doesn't  He  give  us  these 
things,  too  T    Why  aren't  they  ours  ?" 

Another  silence,  and  then  die  soft,  murmur- 
ing  voice  rose  again. 

"It  was  dififerent  before  papa  went  to 
Heaven.  I  remember  a  great  many,  many 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,"  said  the 
child,  as  if  he  were  already  a  centenarian ;  **  I 
remember  we  had  nicer  rooms  than  this,  and 
not  up  such  long,  stumbly  stairs,  and  we  had 
a  ^^  that  blazed,  and  sparkled,  and  flashed — 
oh,  my,  how  beautiful  it  was  1"  And  the  little 
blue  hands  were  spread  out  as  though  they  felt 
in  imagination  the  warmth  of  glowing  coals 
that  had  long  since  dropped  into  ashes.  '*  I 
cannot  think  why  papa  went  away  and  left  us. 
It  was  cruel,  little  mother.'' 

"  My  darling,  he  had  to  go." 

"  But  doesn't  he  love  us  just  the  same  now  7 
Has  he  forgotten  us  in  the  beautiful  dty,  and 
doesn't  he  care  how  cold  and  hungry  we 
are?" 

"Hush,  child  I  don't  ask  me  such  ques- 
tions." 

"But  I  wonder  so  much,  mamma.  Don't 
you  think  he  wants  to  see  us?  Don't  you  be- 
lieve he  wants  to  come  and  catch  us  both  in 
his  arms  just  as  he  used  ?  If  he  could  come 
to-night  I" 

"Ohymy  Godl"  broke  from  the  white  lipe 
of  the  tortured  listener. 

The  boy  caught  his  breath,  awed  by  the 
anguish  in  voice  and  look,  and  by  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  name  so  pasfdonately  called.  Touch- 
ing the  hands  wrung  together  in  unutterable 
grie^  he  bowed  his  head  and  slipped  down 
upon  his  knees. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  he  said,  solemnly. 

(257) 


Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC_^ 


258 


ARTHUR'S   L ALT'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


ConsciouB  only  of  her  great  need  and  sorrow, 
the  mother  knelt  beside  her  boy,  and  together 
in  tears,  and  sighs,  and  broken  words,  thej 
prayed,  as  if  the  dear  Lord  were  standing  there 
before  them,  and  they  felt  that  through  Him 
only  oould  help  and  comfort  come. 

"I  can^t  see  Him,"  said  Benny,  softly,  "but 
it  seems  as  if  He  Were  right  here  and  would 
give  us  what  we  want" 

And  his  simple,  childish  supplications  were 
poured  out  with  a  fervor  and  faith  that  stirred 
the  soul  of  Nellie  Archer  with  a  hope  she  had 
wellnigh  relinquished,  for  disappointment  aifter 
disappointment  had  pressed  upon  her  soheayily 
of  late  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  apathy  of 
despair,  and  seemed  only  waiting  the  final 
stroke  of  &te.  She  had  etmggled  so  desper* 
ately  against  the  gaunt  enemy — had  strained 
every  nerve  to  hold  off  want  and  destitution, 
only  at  the  last  to  be  borne  down  and  over* 
come.  If  there  had  been  only  herself,  she 
thought  dreamily,  she  would  have  given  up 
the  fight  long  ago,  and  lain  down  quietly  to 
die;  but  the  mute  appeal  of  a  helplessness 
greater  than  her  own  had  pricked  her  agala 
and  again  to  exertion  when  it  seemed  her  last 
grain  of  strength  and  courage  was  gone.  It 
was  not  much,  perhaps,  that  she  had  done^  bat 
it  was  all  she  oould.  It  was  not  her  fault  that 
she  was  small  and  weak,  and  shrank  with  dread 
from  contact  with  a  world  that  she  had  known 
only  from  the  nairow  outlook  of  a  happy,  love- 
guarded  home,  and  that  seemed  so  vast,  and 
cold,  and  cruel  to  face  alone.  It  was  not  her 
fault  that  she  had  be«i  trained  to  habits  of  \ 
dependence,  and  was  bewildered  and  crushed 
by  cares  of  which  she  had  never  thought  until 
they  devolved  an  overwhelming  weight  upon 
her.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  the  places  she 
might  have  filled  were  shut  against  her,  and 
that  the  scanty  work  that  fell  to  her  portion 
was  such  as  she  was  illy  fitted  to  perform. 
She  had  done  her  best,  her  level  best,  and 
the  grandest  hero  of  them  all  could  do  no 
more. 

But  there  had  been  sad  failures  of  late. 
Only  the  Father  in  Heaven  knew  under 
what  difficulties  and  discouragements  she  had 
wrought  at  her  tasks,  what  trouble  pressing  on 
heart  and  brain  had  weighted  and  deadened 
her  powers ;  and  her  work  had  been  but  im- 
perfectly done,  and  strict  justice  had  been 
meted  to  her  in  the  withholding  of  reward. 
There  was  nothing  to  complain  of  in  all  that 
If  one  gets  strict  justice  in  this  world,  it  is  all 
one  need  to  expect.  So  much  for  so  muoh, 
and  it  is  none  of  the  world's  basineM  to  take 


into  account  the  reasons  why  the  oontract  ii 
not  fairly  met 

Nevertheless,  under  recurring  diaappoint- 
ments,  as  I  said,  the  heart  of  Nellie  Archer 
had  at  last  sunk  ^  low  thai  the  thrill  of  hxMt 
awakened  bf  Benny'fi  simple  |)«ayer  was  Ipe 
a  resurrection  from  the  dead.  Could  it  b« 
after  all  that  there  was  something  better  fat 
her  than  the  slow,  cruel  death  she  had  sat  down 
dumbly  to  wait?  Was  there  indeed  One  who 
felt  her  sorrow,  her  loneliness,  and  need,  and 
looked  upon  her  weakness  with  tenderness  and 
compassion? 

She  rose  from  her  knees  strangely  comfoited 
and  strengthened,  and  stood  a  few  moment! 
with  Benny's  hand  close  clasped  in  hers,  think- 
ing so  intently  that  the  child,  watching  her  is 
silence,  hesitated  to  disturb  her  with  the  qiieB> 
tions  and  suggestions  ever  flowing  from  bis 
lips.  Then  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a  small 
gold  locket,  and  passionately  kissiiig  the  pie- 
tured  &ce  within,  dosed  it  and  restored  it 
again  to  its  plaoe.  He  had  seen  the  sans 
action  so  often  that  it  did  not  seem  significut 
to  him,  and  gave  no  clue  to  the  resolve  that  he 
read  in  her  face. 

'*  We  will  go  out,  Benny,"  she  said  present!;. 
''We  will  be  warmer  walking  in  the  sheltend 
streets,  and  I  think  I  see  a  way.  to  bring  hone 
the  nice  little  supper  you  are  longing  for." 

"  I  knew  our  Father  would  show  us  what  to 
do,"  said  the  boy,  confidently,  keeping  doss  to 
her  down  the  dark,  dangerous  stain,  asd 
through  the  crowded  streets,  where  they  Mt 
even  more  alone  than  in  their  bare  little  attics 
but  making  no  inquiry  regarding  her  destina- 
tion until  they  eame  into  the  neighborhood  of 
a  pawnbroker's  shop,  with  which  frequent 
errands,  before  their  small  stock  of  valoaUei 
was  exhausted^  had  made  him  tolerably  fr- 
miliar. 

"Have  we  anything  more^  mamma?"  he   i 
asked,  in  pleased  surprise.  j 

She  pressed  his  hand  without  answer,  and 
hurried  forward,  as  if  fearful  that  her  oourage 
would  fail  her  at  the  last.  Entering  the  shop^ 
she  passed  swiftly  up  to  the  man  in  waitings 
and,  detaching  the  precious  lodcet  firom  iti 
ribbon,  laid  it  down  before  him  as  she  might 
have  laid  her  head  upon  the  executioncf'i 
blodc. 

He  looked  at  it  critically  and  named  a  som 
so  pitifully  small  that  she  reached  forth  ker 
hand  involuntarily  to  take  back  her  treasure. 

"That  is  all  it  is  worth,  Mrs.  Archer,'^ isi^ 
the  man  restoring  it,  and  turning  aside  indif- 
ferently. 


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REMEMBERED. 


269 


8he  held  it  to  her  heart,  her  breath  eoming 
noefealjy  her  face  growing  more  white  and 
tense  with  hex  inward  straggle.  Then  she  laid 
it  dowD  again ;  there  was  not  wealth  enough  in 
all  that  city  to  buy  this  earliest  love  gift  of  her 
deadHarrj;  but  her  boy  must  not  starve.  ''Ke- 
move  the  picture^"  she  faltered,  shoving  the 
dinket  toward  the  broker,  who  proceeded  un- 
moved to  execute  her  bidding. 

A  gentleman  standing  near,  white-haired 
and  kindly  faced,  leaned  forward  and  glanced 
carioQsly  at  the  likeness  as  it  was  withdrawn 
liom  the  setting  and  passed  back  to  the  owner. 

''Madam,''  he  said,  kindling  with  sudden 
Mgeroess,"  is  the  original  of  this  picture  a 
Mend  of  yours  7" 

''My  husband,''  was  the  simple  answer. 

"And  he — ah !  I  see,  poor  child,"  he  said, 
with  quick  compassion,  reading  the  story  in 
W  quivering  face.  "  Pardon  this  seeming 
ndenees  of  a  stranger,  but  your  husband  did 
■e  a  favor  once,  a  great  favor  which  I  have 
never  foigotten^  and  after  hearing  your  name 
ind  seeing  the  picture  I  could  not  let  you  pass 
without  inquiry.  I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to 
Htny  Archer  that  all  I  can  do  in  this  world  will 
never  quite  cancel.  Come  home  with  me  and 
let  me  tell  all  about  it.  And,  here,  have  back 
the  locket  for  your  picture — ^his  gift,  no  doubt — 
jou  cannot  afibrd  to  leave  it." 

Nellie  Archer  looked  into  the  true,  kind 
&ce,  and  felt  her  heart  wanning  with  a  strange, 
cveet  confidence,  and  settling  into  a  soft  repose 
as  if  the  burden  of  cares  it  had  borne  were 
ilipping  quietly  off.  Benny,  already  with  a 
child's  instinctive  trust  had  given  his  hand  to 
the  stranger,  and  like  one  in  a  dream,  she  fol- 
lowed where  he  led,  nestling  down  with  a  tired 
ngh  in  the  luxurious  carriage  where  he  placed 
her,  oonscions  of  the  imprudence  of  putting 
niQch  faith  in  one  wholly  unknown  to  her,  yet 
lomehow  feeling  no  fear,  no  tantalizing  doubt. 

"It  was  all  very  strange  how  I  came  to  go 
into  the  pawnbroker's,"  said  the  gentleman, 
whose  name  she  had  not  even  cared  to  inquire, 
ukd  which  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  to  give. 
"I  had  no  errand  there  that  I  knew  of,  but  I 
&lt  impelled  to  step  in  and  make  some  iboliFh 
excuse  to  look  at  something  which  I  did  not 
want  to  see  at  alL  Then,  too,  I  have  thought 
of  Harry  Archer  a  great  deal  of  late — ^in  fact 
1  have  hardly  been  able  to  get  him  out  of  my 
inhid.  His  brave,  handsome  face  has  come  up 
before  me  again  and  again,  with  some  pleading 
egression  in  it  that  troubled  me  sadly.  Tak- 
ing it  all  in  all  there  seems  to  be  some  special 
providence  in  our  meeting  to-night.    Here  we 


axe  at  home,  and  mother  will  be  very  happy 
to  see  you,  be  sure^"  he  added,  cheerily. 

They  had  stopped  before  a  handsome  house 
which  looked  homelike  and  inviting  even  from 
the  outside,  with  its  warm  light  shining  out 
through  the  evergreens  that  dotted  the  deep 
yard  in  front.  At  the  door  a  woman  with 
serene,  beautiful  face,  and  soft,  silver  hair 
matching  her  husband's,  stood  waiting  to  re- 
ceive them. 

"  Ah,  father  1  and  so  you  are  come  at  last^' 
she  said,  sofUy. 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  I  have  brought  you  wel- 
come visitors — Harry  Aroher*s  wife  and  boy," 
he  returned,  with  a  pitying  look  which  her 
quick  instincts  helped  her  to  understand.  She 
put  out  both  hands  to  Nellie  in  warm,  moth- 
erly greeting.  "  I  am  very,  very  haj^y  to  see 
you,  my  child,"  she  said  kindly,  and  drew  her 
into  the  cheery  parlor,  managing,  by  the  way, 
to  bestow  a  gentle  caresa  on  Benny,  who  looked 
about  him  in  happy  amazement,  uttering  a  de- 
lighted exclamation  as  his  eye  caught  the  glow 
of  the  heaped  up  anthracite  in  the  grate,  and 
the  warmth  penetrated  to  his  chilled  and  be- 
numbed sense.  Such  comfort  and  beauty 
breaking  upon  him  all  at  once  seemed  too  un- 
real, and  he  gaaed  as  if  he  expected  it. mo- 
mently to  vanish.  Beautiful  pictures  on  the 
walls,  flowers  blooming  in  the  windows  and 
scenting  all  the  air,  books  that  had  a  kind  of 
sacredness  in  his  eyes,  scattered  plentifully 
here  and  there,  soft^  warm-colored  lounges  and 
eaay  chairs  inviting  rest,  and  roses  glowing 
and  bursting  into  blossom  under  his  very  feet — 
surely  it  must  all  &de  like  a  dream,  and  he 
should  wake  in  the  cold  little  attic  at  home. 
"Have  we  got  to  Heaven,  mamma?''  he 
whispered  in  awe. 

But  mamma  only  smiled,  nestling  in  her 
chair  before  the  generous  fire,  and  spreading 
her  thin  hands  to  the  grateful  warmth. 

The  lady  of  the  house  meantime  vanished  a 
moment  from  the  room,  and  presently  there  was 
a  summons  to  tea,  and  they  all  went  out  and 
sat  down  to  a  table  spread  with  such  luxuries 
as  Nellie  Archer  and  her  boy  had  not  tasted 
for  noany  a  month,  host  and  hostess  all  the 
time  chatting  pleasantly  and  attending  deli- 
cately to  their  wants,  as  if  they  were  enter- 
taining equal  and  honored  guests,  instead  of 
dispensing  charities.  ^ 

*'  And  now  I  will  tell  you  abomt  it,"  said  the 
gentleman,  when  they  had  returned  to  the 
parlor,  and  he  had  placed  Nellie  in  the  ooseyest 
of  arm-chairs,  and  had  taken  Benny  upon  hia 
knee. 


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260 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   EOIIE   MAGAZINE. 


''  Did  you  «yer  hear  your  basband  Bpeak  of 
a  Mr.  Randall,  whose  life  he  ODce  sayed  f* 

Nellie  shook  her  head,  leaning  forward  with 
a  look  of  breathless  interest. 

''  It  was  at  the  time  of  the  great  fire,  twelve 
years  ago.  I  had  been  working  steadily  for 
hours  to  save  some  portion  of  the  property 
going  to  swift  destruction,  and  in  my  excite- 
ment had  grown  quite  reckless  of  danger,  ven- 
turing into  places  where  in  ordinary  moments 
nothing  could  have  tempted  me  to  set  my  foot. 
At  last  I  found  myself  where  it  seemed  nothing 
short  of  a  mirade  could  save  me  from  awful 
death.  I  had  been  working  on  the  upper  floor 
of  a  three> story  block,  helping  to  rescue  some 
valuables,  unconscious  of  the  near  approach  of 
the  fire,  and  of  the  flight  of  my  co-laborers, 
and  there  I  was  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
burning  walls,  the  staircase  by  which  I  had 
ascended  wrapped  in  a  mass  of  flames,  and 
every  way  of  retreat  cut  ofi*  except  by  a  win- 
dow, from  which  I  could  scarcely  expect  to 
descend  alive.  I  leaned  out,  gasping  for 
breath,  and  shrieking  to  the  crowd  below. 
Bopes  were  thrown  to  me,  but  I  was  too  nearly 
overcome  by  heat  and  exhaustion  to  secure 
them  or  let  myself  down ;  and  briefly  com- 
mending my  soul  to  God,  I  resigned  myself  to 
die.  At  that  crisis,  up  the  fiery  stairway 
leaped  my  deliverer,  seized  upon  me,  and 
bound  me  securely  to  himself,  dragged  me  out 
the  window,  and  descended  with  me  safely  to 
the  ground.  And  a  moment  after  the  walls 
fell  with  a  crash,  and  there  was  only  a  rolling 
sea  of  flames  where  I  had  lately  stood. 

"  When  I  got  upon  my  feet  again,  I  went  in 
search  of  the  man  who  had  risked  his  life  for 
mine,  and  ofiered  him  half  my  fortune  as  the 
least  expression  of  my  gi*atitude.  He  drew 
himself  up  proudly,  put  his  bandaged  hands 
behind  him,  and  looked  me  bravely  in  the 
eyes.  *  I  do  not  want  your  money,  Mr.  Ban- 
dall,'  said  he,  quietly,  'but  only  the  kindness 
-of  a  brother  man  if  ever  you  should  find  me  or 
mine  in  need.' 

"  And  that  was  Harry  Archer,  whose  good, 
manly  face  I  have  never  seen  from  that  day  to 
this,  but  which,  as  I  told  you,  has  haunted  me 
incessantly  of  late,  with  some  look  in  it  that 
has  troubled  and  disquieted  me  strangely." 

There  was  a  little  silence  after  this,  in  which 
thi  woman  wept  softly,  and  Benny  nestled 
closer  to  his  new-found  friend,  and  to  each  it 
seemed  as  if  Harry  Archer  were  standing  there 
in  their  midst,  mutely  invoking  for  his  help- 
less ones  the  kindly  sympathy  and  protection 
of  which  they  stood  in  need. 


And  then,  little  by  little,  Kellie  was  won  to 
tell  her  story — not  a  long  one,  and  its  saddesi 
portions  delicately  withheld,  her  griefe  sacredly 
covered,  and  the  pitiful  shifts  and  straits  to 
which  she  had  been  reduced  only  lightlj 
touched  upon,  yet,  nevertheless,  understood  bj 
her  breathless,  sympathetic  listeners. 

"  That  is  all  over  now,"  said  her  host,  who 
had  set  Benny  down,  and  was  pacing  the  floor  | 
nervously.  **To  think  I  have  been  living  hoe  ' 
in  stupid  comfort,  and  the  widow  of  my  pre- 
server sufiering  for  the  barest  necessities  of 
life!  That  is  all  ended,  I  say.  It  is  late  to 
pay  the  debt  I  owe,  but,  thank  Heaven,  not  too 
late.  From  this  night  forward  you  are  to  con- 
sider my  house  your  home,  wherein  you  are  to 
enjoy  every  privilege  of  a  loved  and  cherished 
daughter." 

Something  of  Harry  Archer's  pride  flashed 
into  Nellie's  face. 

"  I  cannot  accept  so  much,"  she  said.  "Only 
help  me  to  help  myself,  and  I  shall  be  inex- 
pressibly grateful.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
dependent." 

"Dependent!  Who  talks  of  dependencer 
exclaimed  Mr.  Bandall,  warmly.  "  Would  I 
stand  here  to-  night  pressing  my  meagre  services 
upon  you  if  your  husband  had  not  plucked  me 
out  of  the  very  jaws  of  death  ?  It  is  I  that  im 
dependent  Will  yoa  be  so  unjust  and  un- 
generous as  to  deny  me  the  privilege  of  ex- 
pressing gratitude  for  the  very  breath  I  draw? 
And,  besides,  we  need  you.  You  confer,  ratber 
than  receive,  favors  in  staying  with  us.  Mother 
and  I  are  alone ;  our  children  are  settled  in 
homes  of  their  own — some  in  Heaven  and 
some  on  earth,  and  we  want  a  daughter  to  pet 
and  comfort  us  in  our  old  age." 

"  Yes,  deer  child,"  added  the  silver-haired, 
beautiful  lady  by  her  side,  leaning  over  to 
touch  her  hand  ;  "  we  need  you  bo  much.  We 
cannot  let  you  go." 

"  You  will  not  leave  grandpa,  will  yon,  mj 
boy  ?"  said  the  gentleman,  lifting  Benny  agam 
to  his  knee. 

And  for  answer  Benny  nestled  close  to  the 
sheltering  breast,  and  heaved  a  blissful  sigh. 

Was  this  the  same  life  that  had  looked  so 
dark  and  desperate  a  few  hours  ago  ? 

It  seemed  to  the  young  widow  that  the  armi 
which  had  dropped  away  in  the  chill  and  stiff- 
ness of  death  were  reaching  down  inviHiblr 
again  to  enfold  her.  She  lifted  her  shining 
eyes  in  mute  thankfulness.  The  old  love,  and 
care,  and  watchfulness  were  not  withdrawn 
from  her  life.  She  was  remembered — remem- 
bered. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE  EOBIN'S  NEST  IN  THE  ELM. 


BY  BOBELUL  BICE. 


ISHAUlf  never  foiget  that  morning.  I  was 
bending  over  the  oook-stove  making  coffee, 
and  peeping  into  theoren  to  see  if  the  potatoes 
vocdd  be  baked  by  the  time  I  had  the  rest  of 
the  breakfast  ready,  and  I  was  thinking,  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  poor  men  having  to  work  so 
hard  I  wouldn't  go  to  the  trouble  ef  cooking 
potatoes  at  all,  when  Bub  came  in  and  said : 
T  do  believe,  Zella,  that  the  old  robin  is  going 
to  make  a  nest  in  jour  elm." 

"  Nest  in  my  elml  oh,  good  I  nothing  in  this 
world  of  little  things  could  make  me  gladder  1" 
■aid  I,  paahing  my  hair  away  back  from  my 
fcrdieady  so  I  could  open  my  eyes  their  widest 
and  happiest.  "  That  would  crown  my  sum* 
mcr,"  I  added,  excitedly. 

I*  Well,  I  hope  she  won't  build  there,"  re- 
plied Bub ;  "  I  don't  see  how  I  could  stand  so 
much  small  talk  as  we  should  be  compelled  to 
hear.    For  my  part  I  felt  a  little  relieved  when 
your   last  canary  hung   himself,  because   I 
thought  it  would  put  an  end  to  so  much  baby 
talk.    I  always  had  my  misgivings  though, 
about  his  death  being  accidental.    It  is  my 
deliberate  opinion  that  he  committed  suicide" 
Just  then  zip  came,  the  dear  old  robin,  round 
the  comer  of  the  house  with  her  mouth  full  of  ] 
straw.    She  alighted  on  the  grape  vine  and 
twinkled  her  beady  little  eyes,  and  tipped  her 
head  sideways  as  much'as  to  say:  "Ah,  you 
and  I  know  all  about  it,  don't  we,  Zella  1"  and 
away  she  went  up  into  my  drooping  elm,  and 
I  lost  sight  of  her  among  the  green  leaves.    I 
nid,  **  Why  bless  the  dear  old  plump-breasted 
iongstress  1"  and  with  a  lighter  step  went  about 
my  work. 

A.  robin  building  her  nest  close  to  the  house, 
would  be  a  very  matter-of-fact  occurrence  to 
nearly  all  families,  but  to  me  it  was  a  source 
of  rejoicing. 

When  we^  sisters  and  brothers,  were  chil- 
dren, long  ago,  my  Brother  Bube  said  to  me : 
There  is  room  for  two  more  trees  out  beside 
^e  path,  and  let  us  dig  up  and  transplant  for 
OQTBelves,  and  they  will  be  our  very  own.  Let 
ns  have  native  trees,  and  see  which  will  be  the 
incest  and  grow  the  best" 

He  took  a  mattock  and  went  away  off  to  the 
*toep  side  of  our  highest  woodland,  and  dug 
Qp  a  tall,  slender,  quivering  quaking  asp.  I 
went  in  another  direction,  and   selected  a 


ragged,  unsightly  drooping  elm«  Oh,  it  was 
BO  hard  to  dig  out  I  I  would  dig  in  the  hard,  dry 
ground  until  the  tints  of  the  rainbow  would 
glint  before  my  eyes,  then  I  would  lie  down 
and  rest,  and  then  get  up  and  dig  agaii;. 
My  poor  hands  were  badly  blistered,  and  I 
was  80  tired  that  I  only  dug  a  small  hole  and  put 
in  some  chip  dirt>  and  set  out  my  tree  and 
watered  it.  Bube  put  his  beside  mine.  It  was 
a  beauty,  and  grew  all  the  better  for  being 
moved.  Mine  grew  very  shapely  and  grace- 
fully, but  slowly. 

He  said  our  trees  would  be  like  ourselves ; 
but  I  guess  he  was  sorry  he  said  that,  for  a 
hard  wind  came  the  next  summer  and  broke 
his  off  dose  to  the  ground.  But  in  a  little  while 
a  beautiful  young  tree  came  up  from  the  root. 

I  never  used  to  pass  my  tree  without  feeling 
of  it,  and  petting  it  and  putting  my  cheek  to 
its  rough,  gray  bark,  after  the  manner  that 
little  girls  pet  kittens. 

That  was  twenty  years  ago.  Our  two  trees, 
tall  and  stately — one  with  trembling  leaves 
that  are  never  still,  but  always  quivering  and 
whispering,  and  the  other  high  and  beautiful, 
with  drooping  branches,  to-day  stand  close  to 
the  new  and  more  modern  house,  and  they  add 
much  to  the  picturesque  beauty  that  sur- 
rounds it. 

So,  when  the  old  robin  came  and  chose  mine 
from  among  all  trees  in  the  yard  in  which  to 
build  her  nest,  and  rear  her  brood,  and  fill  our 
ears  with  the  sweet  melody  of  rare  bird-music, 
it  was  to  me  a  cause  for  r^oicing. 

She  selected  a  fork  in  the  tree  in  which  to 
build,  a  place  that  no  wind  however  hard  * 
could  loosen  or  disturb  her  nest.  It  was  for- 
tunately in  full  view  of  the  south  and  east 
doors  and  windows,  so  that  I  could  watch  the 
progress  of  building.  They  both  worked  with 
a  good  will,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  coarse 
straw  and  bits  of  sticks,  and  then  left  it  a  day 
or  two.  I  was  afraid  they  had  forsaken  the 
site,  but  I  suppose  they  left  it  to  dry  or  settle, 
before  they  proceeded  with  the  fine  work, 
I  believe  men  work  on  this  plan  somewhaL 

One  morning  when  I  got  up  X  found  them'both 
busily  engaged  flying  hither  and  thither,  se- 
lecting materials,  and  carrying  mud  and  slash- 
ing around  like  beavers.  When  they  came  to 
the  fine  work  or  finish,  one  of  them  woald 

(261) 


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262 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S. HOME   MAGAZINE. 


stand  inside  and  fix  things  awhile,  then  sit 
down  and  turn  around  and  around,  to  give  the 
nest  the  right  shape.  Tlien  it  would  lean  its 
chin  oyer  the  rim,  and  nod  its  head  this  way 
and  that,  as  though  smoothing  down  all  rough, 
scratchy,  uneven  places,  so  that  when  the  little 
bMies  came  everything  would  be  comfortable. 

It  just  seemed  to  me  that  I  oould  understand 
tiiem,  and  when  the  children  wondered  what 
their  names  were,  I  told  them  I  knew  by  their 
looks  that  their  names  were  Nancy  and  Jona^ 
than.  Nancy  would  smooth  her  neck  all 
round  the  edges  of  the  nest,  and  I  would  hear 
Jonathan  twitter  out  in  a  voice  quite  hoarse 
and  manly:  ^  I  say,  Nannie,  I  think  that  will 
do.  You  women  are  over  nice  and  particular 
in  little  things."  Then  he  would  make  an 
attempt  to  pull  up  his  collar  and  clear  his 
throat,  and  icj  to  pucker  up  his  lips  and  ap- 
pear wise. 

Nancy  would  whimper  out  in  a  husky, 
screechy  voice:  **I  don't  want  children  of 
mine  to  be  cradled  in  such  a  nest  as  Cousin 
Jenny's  young  uns  were.  I'd  feel  ashamed  to 
let  any  robin  see  such  a  nest  as  that.  Why, 
the  wool  hadn't  been  picked  and  sorted  at  all 
that  it  was  lined  with,  and  the  hairs  lay  every 
which  way,  and  the  young  uns  were  ^ways 
getting  their  toes  caught  in  the  sdtches."  And 
Nancy  would  draw  down  her  eyebrows  and 
j  erk  her  head  jauntily,  and  was  very  particular 
about  trifles. 

The  nest  was  finished,  and  Nancy  was  setting 
in  a  few  days.  It  was  a  good  time  for  Jona* 
than  to  make  calls,  and  collect  bills,  and  pay 
taxes,  and  see  where  the  finest  cherries  could 
be  found.  But  he  was  never  gone  long  at  a 
time.  He  went  to  visit  Nancy's  mother,  who 
lived  among  the  oaks  over  at  the  stone  quarry ; 
and  called  to  pay  a  visit  of  condolence  to  an 
^  old  distant  relative  on  Goose  Creek,  who  had 
flown  against  the  telegraph  wires  and  broken 
one  wing ;  and,  I  believe,  at  Mrs.  Nancy's  sug- 
gestion, he  attended  a  robins'  concert  down 
among  the  alders  one  morning,  and  brought 
her  home  a  fine  fat  curling  worm,  and  sat  on 
the  eggs  while  she  breakfasted  on  it. 

I  heard  her  say  as  she  picked  her  teeth  and 
shook  the  wrinkles  out  of  her  skirts :  "  What 
fine  marrowy  worms  they  do  have  down  at  the 
alders  and  along  the  creek ;  they  are  so  much 
better  than  Uioee  you  get  under  the  logs  and 
among  rotten  wood;  they  taste  kind  o'  wild 
and  woodsy.  And  now,  dear,  I  will  sit  while 
you  go  in  under  the  eaves  and  take  your  morn- 
ing nap." 

I  thought  Jonathan  was  very  willing  to  let 


his  poor  wife  stay  at  home.  Confinement  made 
her  look  dull,  and  listless,  and  dreamy-eyed, 
while  unrestrained  lib^ty  did  him  good.  He 
really  grew  quite  heavy  and  portly,  and  his 
cheeks  stuck  out;  but  I  don't  suppose  robins 
drink  anything  stronger  than  dew. 

One  morning  early,  while  I  was  washing,! 
heard  a  great  commotion  in  the  elm,  and  har- 
ried out  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Jonathan  was  standing  on  one  side  of  the 
nest,  with  his  thumbs  sticking  in  his  armholes 
and  his  head  thrown  back.  Nancy  stood 
wearily  on  the  other  side,  a  sad,  sweet  expres- 
sion on  her  face.  With  a  voice  half  coo  and 
half  caress,  she  was  saying:  "Oh,  you  littld 
beauties,  you  exceed  my  fondest  dreams  1" 

He  said :  "  I  tell  you,  Nancy,  Uie  small  ooe 
has  your  eye  and  forehead,  and  the  very  idenk 
tical  dimple  in  the  diin ;  it  will  be  the  veiy 
image  of  its  mother,"  and  he  sidled  and  laughed 
and  tried  to  look  very  afi^ionate. 

'*0h  !"  she  said,  "the  other  one  looks  just 
like  you ;  there  is  a  haughty  toes  of  the  head, 
and  a  curl  of  the  lip,  a  manly  dignity  about  it, 
young  as  it  is,  that  makes  me  think  of  you," 
and  she  simpered,  and  giggled,  and  smoothed 
the  faded  red  feathers  on  her  frowsy  bretst. 
That  was  how  I  found  out  that  there  were  two 
of  them. 

Well,  I  watched  the  old  ones  feed  their  young 
fo>  several  days  before  a  sign  of  a  little  piak- 
and-gray  fleshy  head  oould  be  seen  above  the 
rim  of  the  nest ;  but  one  morning  I  heard  a 
whirring,  chirring  sound  in  the  elm  that  I  hid 
not. heard  before.  I  looked  up,  and  from  over 
the  rim  hung  two'  unsightly,  grizsly  little 
heads.  Jonathan's  dignified  little  image  was 
a  good  deal  the  larger  and  stronger.  He 
looked  quite  manly.  He  opened  his  fishy  eyes 
as  widely  as  an  owl  would,  and  stared  unwink- 
ingly  at  me. 

I  said :  "  Grood-moming,  little  fellows  I  mom- 
ingl" 

They  laid  their  whole  heads  apart  like  young 
alligators,  and  wheeeed  out:  "Whee-a^h-h, 
whee-a-h-h." 

If  I  had  been  a  little  boy,  I  do  believe  I 
should  have  thrown  a  stick  toward  them ;  but 
as  it  was,  I  thought  young  birds  were  very 
ugly  looking,  and  should  not  try  to  answer  at 
all  when  anybody  spoke  to  them  in  a  compli- 
mentary way. 

I  was  very  much  amused  one  afternoon. 
We  keep  no  cats  at  all — ^they  are  crafty  and 
dishonest,  and  I  won't  have  one  around— asd 
because  of  this  the  birds,  and  squirrels,  and 
chippies,  and  innocent  things  have  full  free* 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE   BO  BIN'S   NEBT   IN    THE   ELM. 


dom  IB  cmr  yftrdi^  and  on  our  trees,  and  yines, 
and  roofs,  just  the  same,  as  in  the  woods.  An 
QiBophisticated  little  squirrel  had  been  watck- 
iflg  the  robin's  nest,  and  wondering  what  was 
in  it  that  drew  so  heavily  upon  the  attention  of 
the  birds,  Nannie  and  Jonathan. 

One  day  it  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  roof  a  long 
vhile  watching.  It  would  rub  its  ears,  and 
rob  its  eyes,  and  flirt  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  and  while  the  old  birds  were  away  hunt- 
ing food  it  made  up  its  mind  to  see  what  was 
in  the  elm.  So  he  gave  his  feathery  tail  a  flip 
and  started  down  the  house.  He  stopped  on  a 
ahntter,  winked  a  little  bit,  and  then  ran  on, 
jumped  into  the  top  of  the  maple  and  peered 
over  inquisitively.  He  couldn't  see  clearly. 
He  sprang  into  the  top  of  a  plum*tree,  ran  to 
its  cater  branches  and  alighted  on  one  of  the 
kog  lithe  limbs  of  the  elm.  He  listened; 
there  was  no  danger.  Jonathan  and  Nan<7 
ktd  stopped  at  a  berry  patch,  where  the  purple 
fioit  hong  ripe,  and  tempting,  and  sweet-smell, 
log,  and  free  for  man,  or  beast,  or  bird. 

He  stoleslowly  along  on  tiptoe  with  his  plumy 
tail  laid  up  over  his  back,  so  that  the  leaves 
would  rustle  softly  if  they  touched  its  tender 
down.  He  walked  very  slowly  for  a  squirrel, 
eo  cautiously  that  the  seconds  were  passing 
and  the  old  birds  were  getting  their  fill,  and 
viping  the  stains  from  their  mouths,  and  pack- 
mg  up  their  worms  preparatory  to  a  home. 
ward  flight.  He  reached  the  nest  softly,  and 
was  peering  in  with  his  fore  paws  laid  up  over 
the  edge.  He  was  making  fun  of  the  sleeping 
little  treasores,  when  a  whirr  of  wings  stirred 
the  JeaTes  above  his  head,  and  the  old  birds, 
hden  with  worms,  and  bugs,  and  berries, 
darted  down  to  the  nest.  Nancy  dropped  her 
hmden,  and  as  the  squirrel  ran  down  the  tree 
she  tocJc  after  him. 

She  pounced  on  his  head,  caught  him  by  one 
ear  and  whirled  her  body  round,  and  twisted  his 
car  until  it  looked  like  a  bit  of  a  flabby  string. 

Jonathan  stood  over  the  nest  enraged  and 
called  oat :  *'  Pursue  him,  Nancy ;  kill  him ; 
tear  off  his  proud  tail,  pick  out  his  villanous 
cycB,  and  scatter  every  hair  of  his  cheap  fur  to 
the  winds  I"  Both  bird  and  squirrel  fell  to 
the  ground,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  fierce 
eomliat  between  a  pair  of  fluttering  wings  and 
a  feathery  tail — sqneaks  and  shrieks  rose  on 
the  air,  while  Jonathan's  sharp  shrill,  "Hurrah, 
Naney !"  could  be  heard  from  a  safe  place  high 
np  in  the  ehn. 

At  last  the  squirrel  escaped,  and  the  bird 
darted  after,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  she 
kicked  and  cufled  him  real  humanly,  until  he 


veached  a  hole  in  the  siding  of  the  old  house 
into  which  he  slipped  suddenly,  dragging  his 
battered  tail,  while  his  ears  lopped  down  and 
his  fur  all  turned  the  wrong  way.  She  called 
him  ill  names,  and  scolded,  and  forbade  his 
ever  showing  his  face  out  in  the  sunshine 
again.  When  she  returned  to  the  nest  they 
examined  the  young  birds  all  over,  to  see  if 
they  were  hurt,  or  any  of  their  bones  broken, 
or  their  precious  little  featl^ers  pulled  out. 

Jonathan  said  very  deliberately,  after  the 
examination  was  over:  ^*It  \&  my  opinion, 
Nancy,  that  the  fellow  was  only  a  poor  travel- 
ling phrenologiat,  and  that  he  saw  they  were 
no  common  birds,  and  perhaps  he  contem<- 
plated  taking  a  cast  of  their  heads." 

^  Well,  ru  teach  any  interloper  like  him  to 
keep  out  of  my  way,  prowling  around  when 
little  rolttns  are  asleep,  and  the  mother  absent. 
Let  him  come  when  I'm  at  home  and  ask  to 
see  them  as  a  gentleman  should ;"  and  she 
smoothed  her  ruffled  feathers,  and  wiped  the 
perspiration  ofi'her  forehead  and  ears. 

It  was  not  long  until  the  young  ones  could 
sit  out  on  the  branches,  and  gape  about  with  a 
see-saw  motion  of  their  bodies,  that  often  re- 
sulted in  a  tumble  to  the  ground. 

I  saw  the  one  who  was  his  father's  image  try 
to  eat  a  hard-shell  bug  one  morning.  He  acted 
just  like  a  poor  little  boy  with  his  first  chew  of 
tobacco.  He  would  chew  awhile,  and  then 
take  it  out  and  rest,  and  look  at  it  wistfully. 
Then  he  would  try  the  other  end  of  it,  and  find 
it  so  flinty  that  he  would  drop  it,  and  after  a 
good  many  attempts  he  threw  it  away  Id  dis- 
gust. 

The  shell  was  so  hard  and  shiny  that  he 
couldn't  reach  the  kernel,  and  though  he  hated 
to  give  it  up  he  had  to. 

They  still  live  among  these  home  trees  in 
the  yard,  and  I  hope  another  year  they  will 
multiply  ten-fold. 

These  domestic  robins  are  full  of  song ;  in 
the  spring  and  summer  mornings  their  melody 
seems  to  fill  our  house  as  would  a  strong- voiced, 
sweet-toned  piano.  We  sing  back  in  happy 
response,  and  fully  comprehend  each  other. 

Just  as  soon  as  Nancy  and  Jonathan  felt 
that  the  young  robins  could  make  their  own 
living,  they  built  another  nest  and  reared 
another  pair  of  songsters.  This  time  the  nest 
was  in  the  old  roof  tree— the  apple-tree  that 
was  called  for  me  when  I  was  a  chubby,  five- 
years-old,  and  loving  hands  planted  it  in  the 
sunniest  spot.  The  branches  of  the  old  tree 
sweep  against  my  up-stairs  bedroom  window 
The  great  limbs  reached  out  and  scratched  the 


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264 


AETEUB*8    LADT8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


oarpenters  when  they  built  the  new  home ;  bat 
the  same  loving  hands,  tender  as  in  benedio- 
tion,  drew  them  aside  and  tied  them  out  of  the 
waj,  to  saye  them  for  one  who  loyes  eyerj 
quivering  leaf  on  her  mossj  tree.  Oh,  the 
dear  robins  whose  glad  throats  swell  with 
sweet  songs  in  the  spring-time  I 

It  may  seem  a  little  thing  to  others,  but  to 
me  it  did  seem  a  epecial  favor  coming  from 
the  tender  love  of  pne  of  whom  we  read,  that 
not  even  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without 
Hi^  notice.  What  a  tender  way  of  sending  a 
blessing  down ! 

Since  the  robins  came  to  my  drooping  elm 
and  filled  its  beautiful  branches  with  the 
melody  of  song,  it  seems  to  me  set  apart  like  a 
sanctuary.  Among  the  other  trees  in  the  yard, 
it  stands  aloof  like  a  priestess  in  her  flawing 
robes,  so  like  are  the  drooping  branches  unto 
the  graceful  folds  of  drapery. 

And  BO,  when  the  silver- throated  robins 
come  ogain  with  the  return  of  another  spring, 
we  only  hope  their  glad  wings  will  bear  them 
hither,  and  that  they  may  find  an  abiding  place 
in  the  breezy  depths  of  its  green  foliage. 

CRADLE  SONG. 

BY.    M.    B.    ROOKWBLL. 

SWEETLY,  baby,  sweetly  rest, 
Little  hands  upon  thy  breast 

Folded  in  repose. 
While  I  part  with  tender  care 
Folds  of  softest,  nnt-browo  hair 

Back  from  cheeks  of  rose. 
Sweetly,  baby,  sweetly  sleep, 
While  I  loving  vigils  keep 

O'er  thy  pillowed  head, 
Soft  as  sammer  rain- drops  flow 
Breathing  music  tender,  low. 

By  thy  cradle  bed. 
Sweetly,  baby,  sleep  and  dream, 
May  but  blessed  visions  beam 

O'er  thy  pure  young  soul,* 
May  good  angels'  hallowed  art, 
Weave  a  spell  around  thy  heart 

Ever  to  control. 
Yet,  my  baby,  I  would  seem 
Nearer,  even  in  thy  dream, 

Than  the  angels  bright ; 
Jealously  I  yield  thy  care, 
E'en  in  baby-dreamland  fair, 

To  their  arms  of  light ! 
Dreamless  still  of  grief  and  sin. 
Dreamless  of  life's  toil  and  din. 

Of  its  sorrows  deep ; 
Angel'guarded,  pure  and  blest, 
Guiltless  hands  on  guileless  breaity 

Sweetly,  baby,  sleep. 


A  THOUQHT  FOB  MOTHEBa 

BY  MBS.  M.  O.  JOBiraOK. 

MOTITERS  of  an  earnest  and  thoughtful 
nature  realize  more,  perhaps,  in  dailj 
experience,  than  any  other  class,  the  force  of 
the  apostolic  caution — "  Ye  have  need  of  pa- 
tience." Dear  as  a  child  is,  there  comes  maay 
an  hour  when  flesh,  and  nerve,  and  brain  aia 
strained  and  wearied  almost  beyond  endnranea 
The  constant  cares  of  infancy  and  restless  cbild< 
hood,  the  anxieties  of  sickness,  and  difficaltkl 
of  moral  and  mental  training ;  all  these  proi 
on  the  mother.  And  sometimes  the  responrf* 
bility  she  feels  seems  to  her  the  heaviest  bv" 
den  of  all. 

Truly,  she  "has  need  of  patience,"  brt 
coupled  with  this :  "  If,"  she  says—"  if  my  bsy 
grows  up  to  honorable  manhood,  if  his  feet 
keep  the  way  of  integrity  and  purity,  I  sliall 
be  well  repaid  for  all  my  care." 

Time,  watchfulness,  thought,  efibrt — and  all 
inspired  by  and  springing  from  love — these  are 
needed,  but  not  anxiety.  When  the  will  of  the 
Father  is  done,  the  promised  blessing  becomes 
an  inheritance.  The  hope  should  grow  out  of 
the  duty,  and  be  to  patience  as  flower  to  stem. 
The  fruit  will  come  in  good  time. 

The  path  of  the  hopeful  mother  is  snnligbted 
all  along.  Shadows  may  sometimes  gather, 
but  they  are  fleeting,  and  prove  the  Bunshke. 
Her  children  are  freest  and  happiest,  and  ber 
motherhood  becomes  her  crown  ! 


Flowers  andShbubs. — Why  does  not  cvoy  '-. 
lady  who  can  afford  it,  have  a  geranium  or 
some  other  flower  in  her  window  7  It  is  veij 
cheap— its  cheapness  is  next  to  nothing  if 
you  raise  it  from  seed,  or  from  a  alip  ;  and  itii 
a  beauty  and  a  companion.  It  was  the  lemaik 
of  Leigh  Hunt,  that  it  sweetens  the  air,  re- 
joices the  eye,  links  you  with  nature  and  in- 
nocence, and  is  something  to  love.  And  if  ii 
cannot  love  yon  in  return,  it  cannot  hate  yoa ; 
it  cannot  utter  even  a  hateful  thing,  even  if 
you  neglect  it ;  for  though  it  is  all  beauty,  it  ; 
has  no  vanity ;  and,  such  being  the  case,  and  | 
living  as  it  does,  purely  to  do  yon  good,  afloitl 
you  pleasure,  how  will  you  be  able  to  neglect 
it?  We  receive,  in  imagination,  the  soent  of 
these  good-natured  leaves,  which  allow  yon  to 
carry  off  their  perfume  on  your  fingers;  ibr 
good-natured  they  are  in  that  respect  above  all 
other  plants,  and  fitted  for  the  hospitality  of 
your  room.  The  very  feel  of  the  leaf  has  a 
household  warmth  in  it — something  analagov 
to  clothing  and  comfort. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


BY  C. 


A' 


,  KNA  Maria  Loaba  Germaine  Necker  was 
boin  in  Paris,  in  1766.  Her  father  was  a 
lemarkable  instance  of  tlie  power  of  integrity 
aod  persevering  industry  to  raise  a  man  from 
obtcarifty  to  a  position  where  the  eyes  of  all 
FVsBce  were  fixed  on  him,  as  the  only  hope 
for  the  salvation  of  their  country  from  bank- 
Toptcy,  to  the  very  vei^  of  which  the  dis> 
astrous  reign  of  Louis  the  Fifteenth  had 
brought  them.  >Vhen  Necker,  the  wealthy 
Swiss  banker,  became  minister  of  finance  to 
I/rals  the  Sixteenth,  his  influence  was  speedily 
tod  beneficially  felt  in  the  restoration  of  public 
endit,  and  in  various  reforms  great  and  small, 
vbieh  testified  that  a  clear  head  and  a  strong 
had  were  at  work.  And  though  he  had  many 
enemies,  being  both  a  Protestant  and  a  for- 
eigner, he  made  his  name  illustrious,  and  be- 
came very  popular,  and  would  never  accept 
toy  compensation  for  his  invaluable  services. 
Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  Swips  deigy- 
nan,  and  was  highly  educated  and  accom- 
pliBhed,  and  was  the  only  teacher  her  daughter 
ever  had. 

Madame  Necker^s  ideas  of  training  were 
fpite  rigid,  and,  to  a  child  of  Germaine's  im- 
pulsive nature,  far  too  severe  to  be  palatable; 
and  though  she  succeeded  admirably  in  some 
respects,  guiding  her  naturally  fine  taste  into 
the  choicest  paths  of  literature,  she  could  never 
repress  her  ardent  temperament.  She  was  a 
child  of  genius.  At  fixteen,  she  wrote  a  drama 
for  the  amusement  of  her  friends,  and  soon 
iter  ''Letters  on  Rousseau/'  a  sort  of  apology 
for  him,  and  full  of  admiration  for  that  great 
>ian.  Her  enthusiasm  showed  itself  in  all  her 
works. 

She  was  married  at  the  age  of  twenty,  through 
her  mother's  management,  to  Baron  de  Staei- 
Holstein,  the  Swedish  minister.  This  mar- 
riage gave  her  rank  and  position  in  society ; 
but  there  was  little  in  the  wishes  or  sympathies 
of  the  parties  to  recommend  it;  and,  as  it  was 
a  marriage  of  convenience,  the  result  was  such 
is  might  have  been  expected  from  one  of  her 
nature. 

They  had  two  children.  The  son  was  Baron 
Aoguste  de  Stael-Holstein,  and  the  daughter, 
Albertine,  Duchess  de  Broglie,  both  eminent 
for  virtue  and  piety.  They  died  in  the  prime 
of  lives  of  usefulness.  Augoste  was  the  founder 


of  a  Bible  society,  and  was  so  earnest  in  his 
efibrts  for  the  abolishment  of  the  slave  trade, 
that  he  was  called  the  Wilberforce  of  Franoe. 

The  husband  of  Madame  de  Stael  had  no 
idea  of  the  value  of  money,  and  spent  her  im* 
mense  dower  so  rapidly  that  she  was  obliged 
to  return  the  remnant  of  it  to  her  father's  safe 
keeping  for  her  children. 

The  husbands  of  illustrious  women  are  apt 
to  become  nonentities. 

A  visitor  at  her  dinner  once  inquired  of  her : 
'^  Where  is  that  quiet  old  gentleman  we  used 
to  see  at  your  table  so  often  ?" 

''That  was  my  husband,"  she  replied;  "he 
is  dead." 

Baron  de  Stael  died  in  1802.  After  his 
death,  Madame  de  Stael  married  M.  Rocca,  a 
young  officer,  but  the  marriage  was  not  made 
public  on  account  of  her  reluctance  to  part 
with  a  name  so  long  identified  with  her  literary 
fame. 

She  wrote  many  well-known  works,  some  of 
which  were,  "  Literature  Considered  in  Rela- 
tion to  Social  Institutions,"  "Delphine,"  "Co- 
rinne,"  and  "  Oermany."  After  ten  thousand 
copies  of  this  last  work  were  printed,  they  were 
seised  by  order  of  Napoleon. 

When  Madame  de  Stael  wrote  "Corinne,'' 
she  was  travelling  in  Italy ;  her  impressions  are 
rendered  in  a  work  tuU  of  eloquent  remarks  on 
scenery,  manners,  and  art,  unsurpassed  as  a 
poetical  description  of  a  poetical  country.  It 
has  been  a  number  of  times  translated  into 
every  European  language,  and  is  the  work  on 
which  her  literary  reputation  rests.  Both  she 
and  her  productions  were  severely  criticised 
and  censured  by  the  press. 

Madame  de  StaSl  was  not  a  thorough  re- 
publican; she  believed  that  liberty  was  not 
impossible  in  a  monarchy,  and  that  France 
would  one  day  be  free  under  a  king.  What- 
ever mistakes  she  made,  no  one  can  doubt  her 
sincerity  of  purpose,  and  all  allow  that  her 
genius  shone  brightly  among  the  many  stars 
which  adorned  the  literature  of  her  age. 

She  and  her  writings  were  alike  obnoxious 
to  Napoleon.  He  used  to  say :  "  Whatever  her 
subject  be,  whether  history,  politics,  or  ro- 
mance, after  reading  her  books  the  people  do 
not  like  me." 

And  before  his  day  she  was  no  favorite  with 

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Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


266 


ABTHUB*8   LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


the  rulers.  At  one  time  during  the  reign  of  i 
terror,  she  barely  escaped  from  Paris  with  her 
life,  having  first  saved  the  lives  of  Prince  Tal- 
leyrand, and  seven  others  of  the  nobility  of  ' 
France,  who  had  been  condemned  to  die. 
They,  with  many  other  illustrious  exiles, 
formed  a  settlement  near  Bidimond,  in  £ng» 
land,  and  lived  there  a  number  of  years.  Their 
property  had  been  seised,  and  they  were  very 
poor,  and  the  means  these  flowers  of  the  ancient 
nobility  were  obliged  to  resort  to,  that  they 
might  even  live,  were  at  times  ludicrous  in  the 
extreme. 

After  Napoleon  came  into  power,  she  re- 
turned to  Coppet,  to  her  father's  chateau,  where 
she  enjoyed  the  ancient  park  and  grounds  as 
she  never  did  before.  This  place  is  nine  miles 
from  Geneva,  in  Switzerland.  Afterward  she 
removed  to  Paris,  when  Napoleon  attempted 
in  vain  to  receive  her  support ;  but  finding  she  \ 
would  not  favor  his  views,  he  ordered  her  to 
quit  Paris,  and  not  to  remain  within  forty 
leagues  of  the  city.  She  had  always  looked 
with  distrust  on  his  designs.  After  this  she 
was  closely  watched,  but  at  last  succeeded  in 
making  her  escape  to  England  a  second  time. 
She  was  obliged  to  proceed  by  a  tedious  ovei>  \ 
land  journey  through  Germany,  Russia,  and 
Sweden,  the  seaports  being  all  closely  watched 
by  the  French. 

She  became  a  devout  Christian  a  few  years 
before  her  death.    She  had  one  son  by  her  last 
marriage,  and  died  at  Greneva  at  the  age  of  ' 
fifty-seven,  but  was  buried  at  the  old  cemetery 
at  Coppet  with  her  father  and  mother. 

Delaj'ield,  Wis. 


TEACH  THEM  TO  HATE  IT. 

SENSIBLE  parents,  who  would  have  their 
children  well  educated,  talk  much  with 
them  of  the  value  of  education,  or  provide  for 
tbem  the  very  best  teachers,  books,  instru- 
ments, and  appliances  to  aid  them  in  the  proper 
courses  of  study.  Nor  are  they  content  with 
this.  They  question  them  about  their  studies, 
visit,  when  practicable,  the  schools  they  att^d, 
and  manifest  to  their  children,  in  a  variety  of  \ 
ways,  their  anxiety  that  nothing  which  they 
can  supply  shall  be  wanting  to  their  success. 
Their  good  sense  prompts  them  to  do  for  their 
secular  education  what  Moses  commanded  the 
Hebrews  to  do  for  the  instruction  of  their  chil- 
dren, in  reference  to  the  commandments  and 
statutes  of  the  Lord — '*  And  thou  shalt  teach 
them  diligently  unto  they  children,  and  shalt 


talk  of  them  when  thou  sittest  in  thy  houee, 
and  when  thou  walkest  by  the  way,  and  when 
thou  Hert  down,  and  when  thou  risest  up.". 

Now,  if  parents  who  would  guard  their  chil- 
dren from  the  sin,  the  sufiering,  and  slavery  of 
intemperance,  would  set  to  work  in  the  sensi- 
ble way  indicated  above,  we  should  have  Iim 
lamentation  over  the  ruin  of  children  by  the 
wine  cup  and  its  natural  successor,  the  whiakj 
botUe.  We  knew  a  physician,  some  twenty- 
five  yean  since^  who  had  half  a  dosen  boyi 
growing  up  around  him.  When  taking  fail 
professional  round,  or  travelling  Ux  other  pu^ 
poses  in  their  company,  he  used  to  talk  witl 
them,  as  he  passed  the  wretched,  dilapidated 
home  of  the  drunkard,  of  the  causes  of  the  nil 
they  witnessed;  and,  on  the  contrary,  poiat 
them  to  the  comparative  neatness,  beauty,  lod 
comfort  of  the  homes  of  those  who  abstained 
i^m  the  pse  of  intoxicants,  and  wisely  cared 
for  their  interests.  Very  many  brief  lectorei 
did  those  boys  get  from  the  father  on  all  those 
aspects  and  results  of  intemperance  which  thar 
young  heads  could  comprehend.  At  home, 
their  mother  taught  the  same  important  les- 
sons with  no  less  diligence^  They  were  in- 
structed to  hate  the  whole  liquor  system,  asd 
to  regard  tippling  habits  with  supreme  coo* 
tempt.  As  they  advanced  in  years,  the  best 
books  and  papers  were  placed  in  their  handsi 
and  they  were  taken  ftom  time  to  time  to  tem- 
perance meetings  and  conventions,  where  thej 
heard  the  subject  discussed  in  its  various 
aspects. 

What  now  was  the  result  of  all  this?  Six 
sons  grew  to  manhood,  and,  altogether,  never 
drank  a  glass  of  intoxicating  liquor  in  their 
lives;  and  I,  some  time  since,  heard  the  father 
state  in  public  that,  all  together,  they  had 
never  caused  him  nor  their  mother  one  hour  of 
sorrow  by  acts  of  unkindnesa,  or  insubordinar 
tion,  or  yielding  to  vicious  courses.  Had  not 
those  parents  a  rich  reward  for  their  feithfnl- 
ness  ?  O  parents  1  train  your  children  to  hate 
and  despise  the  practice  of  moderate  drinking 
as  well  as  drunkenness,  which  is  but  one  of  the 
many  penalties  of  the  sin  of  drinking. 

Some  men  make  a  great  flourish  about  always 
doing  what  they  believe  to  be  right,  but  alwtya 
manage  to  believe  that  is  right  which  is  for 
their  own  interest. 

Better  in  Ckid's  sight  are  the  broken  but 
heartfelt  utterances  of  a  child  than  the  higb^ 
flown  utterances  of  some  who  think  themselreB 
wonderful  in  prayer. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TO  GIVE  IS  TO  LIVE. 


BT  T.  B.  ARTHUR. 


rH£  house  was  a  marrel  of  iCrchitectaral 
beauty,  and  its  furniture  the  richest  and 
Host  elegant  that  Paris  could  supply.  All 
ihit  money  was  able  to  procure  for  the  heart's 
Hitisfaction  had  the  princdy  owner  of  this 
IJendid  mansion  gathered  around  him.  Was 
K  hippy  ?    We  shall  see. 

"Is  Mr.  Goldwin  at  homef '  asked  a  gentle- 
Bian  at  the  door  of  this  mansion. 

''Yes,  sir.''  And  the  Tisitor  was  shown 
hrto  the  library,  where  Mr.  Goldwin  sat  alone. 
'  "  Ah,  Mr.  liatimer  I    Glad  to  see  you." 

And  the  two  men  shook  hands  with  the  cor^ 
^ty  of  friends. 

When  they  were  seated,  each  regarding  the 
otber  with  a  kindly  interest,  Mr.  Latimer  said 
fcniiliarly  and  with  genuine  warmth : 

^  It  is  pleasaot  to  look  into  your  face  again, 
looald  not  pass  through  the  city  without  see- 
ing you." 

"1  should  have  been  sorry  if  you  had  done 
n.  Old  friends  are  worth  more  than  new. 
thaf  8  my  experience." 

'^  You  are  not  looking  so  well  as  when  I  last 
**v  yonf  and  Mr.  Latimer  leaned  closely 
to  his  friend  and  scanned  his  face  narrowly. 
''Kot  as  well  in  either  mind  or  body,  I  should 
«y.» 

''You  read  the  signs  aright^"  Mr.  Goldwin 
tsswered. 

''What^s  the  meanbg  of  it?"  asked  his 
^^d.  "  A  man  who  counts  his  two  or  three 
miUions  ought  to  be  at  ease  in  mind,  and  haye 
^  opportunity  to  look  after  his  bodily  oondi- 
tbn» 

'^As  to  the  ease  of  mind,"  was  replied, 
^that  IB  something  which  great  wealth  does 
not  bring ;  but  rather  care  and  worry,  and  vex- 
ation of  spirit.  I  give  you  my  experience,  and 
^^^tKrvation  tells  me  that  it  differs  little  from 
*^of  other  men  in  my  position." 

"What  are  you  doing  with  your  money?'' 
queried  the  friend. 

**  Doing  as  other  men—eeekiBg  to  make  it  as 
Jwgely  producdve  as  possible." 

"  Adding  bond  to  bond,  house  to  house,  land 
to  land?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  six,  or  ten,  or  twenty  per  cent. 
I^pier  evory  year,  aceording  to  the  ratio  of 
Mwnease  m  your  fortune  f 

^*  Ooldwin,  whose  eyes  had  been  resting 


on  the  floor  in  a  dreary  kind  of  stare,  raised 
them  quickly  to  the  face  of  his  fnend  and 
looked  at  him  cariously. 

"  You  never  thought  of  that?" 

"No." 

"  What  profit,  then,  if  our  gains  do  not  add 
to  our  happiness—if  we  do  not  reap  a  double 
interest?" 

"None  that  I  can  see,"  answered  Mr.  God- 
win. 

"  There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere  in  th# 
calculation  of  most  men  who  get  ri<^.  They 
seek  wealth  as  above  all  things  desirable; 
and  yet  a  happy  rich  man  is  rarely  if  ever 
found.  Some  that  I  know  are  among  the  most 
miserable  people  to  be  found." 

Mr.  Goldwin  heaved  a  deep'^igh,  but  made 
no  anawer. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  a  rich  man  should 
not  be  among  the  happiest  on  earth;  for  to  him 
God  has  given  the  largest  opportunity." 

"  In  the  means  of  enjoyment  ?" 

"Yes." 

"From  some  sad  defect  in  the  order  of 
things,,  these  means  do  not  reach  the  end  so 
much  desired,"  said  Mr.  Goldwin. 

"  Our  own  fault  in  a  misuse  of  the  means." 

"  You  were  always  a  preaching  philoeopher,' ' 
said  Mr.  Goldwin,  with  a  forced  smile.  "  Vm 
in  a  listening  mood.    Go  on." 

"The  Being  who  made  us,"  resumed  his 
friend,  "  is  the  richest  and  happiest  in  all  the 
wide  universe.  He  created  us  for  happiness, 
and  stamped  upon  us  His  image  and  His  like- 
ness^ The  law  of  His  happiness  He  made  the 
law  of  our  happiness.  CSan  we  be  anything 
bu(  nuserable  if  we  violate  that  law?  Now 
what  is  that  law?" 

Mr.  Goldwin  did  not  answer. 

"The  Lord  is  a  giver — ^never  a  reodver. 
Always  and  forever  He  is  giving  to  His  crea- 
tures ;  first  life,  and  then  everything  to  make 
that  life  blessed.  Are  you  a  giTer,  my  dear 
old  friend?" 

Mr.  Goldwin's  head  drocped  slowly  until  it 
rested  on  his  bosom.  Very  still  he  sat  for  a 
long  time.  A  dim  perception  of  what  his 
friend  meant  b^gan  to  dawn  upon  his  mind. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  said  Mr.  Latimer,  "  for  any 
creature  who  violates  the  tjrue  order  of  his 
beitig  to  be  happy  ?  Let  us  take  an  illustra^ 
tion :  Suppose  the  lungs,  instead  of  giving  baok^ 


Digitized  by 


fflogle 


268 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


to  the  heart  for  diatribution  through  the  arte- 
ries and  veins  the  blood  that  is  constantly  pour- 
ing in  upon  it,  were  selfishly  to  keep  the  rich 
treasure  of  life  to  themselYeSy  would  not  oon- 
gestion,  pain,  and  death  be  the  result.  '  To 
give  is  to  live,'  is  a  saying  full  of  the  profound* 
est  truth ;  and  so  is  this  other  saying :  '  We 
only  possess  what  we  have  bestowed.'  Qod  is 
the  great  Giver ;  and  only  in  the  degree  that 
we  are  like  Him  can  we  be  happy.  This  is 
the  burden  of  all  preaching  and  the  essence  of 
all  Scripture.  To  seek  for  happiness  in  any 
other  way  is  fruitless." 

Mr.  Qoldwin  lifted  his  head  and  looked 
for  some  moments  earnestly  into  his  friend's 
fitce. 

**  To  give  is  to  live."  He  repeated  the  sen- 
tence in  a  slow  and  thoughtful  manner.  "  I 
have  heard  that  saying  before,  but  did  not  see 
its  meaning.  It  touched  my  ear  as  an  idle 
play  upon  words." 

**  It  involves' the  whole  philosophy  of  life," 
answered  Mr. Latimer.  "It  expresses  the  law 
stamped  on  all  nature,  animate,  and  inanimate. 
The  earth  gives  its  vitalising  force  to  seeds 
and  nourishes  the  tender  roots.  The  roots 
send  up  the  living  juices  they  receive  and  give 
them  to  the  growing  stems  and  trunk ;  these  in 
turn  send  forward  the  treasures  of  life  to  the 
branch,  leaves,  and  flowers ;  and  these  again 
conspire  with  the  whole  plant  or  tree  for  the 
production  of  fruits  and  seeds  that  are  for  the 
use  of  man  and  beast.  Nothing  for  itself- 
each  and  all  for  others.  This  is  Qod's  image 
and  likeness  in  creation.  But  man  obliterates 
that  image  and  likeness,  and  sets  at  naught  the 
divine  law.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  all  through 
life  his  way  is  strewn  thickly  with  disappoint- 
ment, sorrow,  and  pain  ?  How  oould  it  be  other- 
wise? If  a  dear  stream  breaks  from  its  narrow 
boundary  and  goes  wandering  off  into  low  mea- 
dow-lands, where  nature  has  made  no  channel 
for  its  course,  shall  we  be  surprised  to  find  it  in 
after  years  the  source  of  poisonous  miasmas  and 
marshy  wastes  fiill  of  foul  and  hurtful  creatures  ? 
All  evil  is  but  some  perverted  good — the  viola- 
tion of  some  divine  law;  and  all  mental  pain  has 
this  origin  and  this  alone.  If  we  seek  happiness 
in  obedience  to  the  law  of  our  being,  we  will  find 
it — if  not,  not.    The  rule  has  no  exception." 

**  Rich  and  poor  are  alike  bound,"  said  Mr. 
Goldwin,  drawing  a  deep  breath  as  he  spoke. 

"  Alike  bound,"  answered  his  friend.  "They 
who  regard  only  themselves,  be  they  high  or 
low,  wise  or  ignorant,  rich  or  poor,  will  find  no 
true  peace  or  rest  either  in  this  world  or  the 
next." 


A  servant  opened  the  door  and  said :  '^Mr. 
Orton  is  here." 

"Tell  him  to  come  in,"  answered  Mr.  Odd- 
win,  without  rising.  "My  agent,"  he  said, 
speaking  to  Mr.  Latimer.  "  I  will  detain  him 
only  a  few  minutes  to-day." 

A  small,  hard-iaced  man  of  about  &^j  cams 
in. 

"Anything  special?"  asked  Mr.  Goldwin. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  man. 

''It  can  wait  until  to-morrow,  I  presomeb 
I'm  engaged  to-day." 

"Not  very  well,  sir.  It  is  the  matter  of 
Hart  &  Wilson's  rent  We  must  give  notioe 
of  an  advance  to-day,  or  they  will  hold  over 
for  another  year  at  five  thousand ;  and  we  can 
get  six  thousand  just  as  well  as  not.  It  would 
cost  them  twice  this  advance  to  move^  besides 
deranging  their  business.  I'd  put  the  rate  it 
seven  thousand  if  I  were  you.  They'll  pay  it 
rather  than  risk  the  loss  of  going  into  another 
neighborhood." 

'*  Have  you  talked  with  them  about  an  ad- 
vance?" asked  Mr.  Goldwin. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  did  they  say  r 

"  Oh,  talked  like  all  the  rest  of  them--made 
a  dreadful  poor  mouth.  Said  their  busineai 
hadn't  earned  a  dollar  for  the  last  six  months. 
But  all  this  goes  in  one  ear  and  out  of  the 
other  with  me.  Tm  used  to  it.  The  store  is 
worth  to  you  what  it  will  bring,  and  you  ooght 
to  get  it." 

"  Business  has  not  been  good  for  the  part 
year,"  said  Mr.  Goldwin. 

"That's  nothing  to  us,  sir.  Beal  estate 
keeps  up,  and  good  business  places  like  this 
one  are  in  demand.  If  Hart  &  Wilson  can't 
make  the  rent,  somebody  else  can.  Shall  I 
give  them  notice  of  an  advance  7" 

Mr.  Goldwin  did  not  reply  immediately.  A 
struggle  to  which  he  was  wholly  unused  was 
going  on  in  his  mind. 

"A  thousand  dollars,"  he  said  at  length, 
speaking  in  a  low,  reflective  tone,  "will  not  be 
much  to  me.  Whether  added  to  or  taken  away 
from  my  income,  I  shall  not  perceive  the  dif- 
ference. But  to  these  men,  exposed  to  all  the 
perils  of  business,  safety  or  ruin  may  turn  on 
the  pivot  of  this  sum.  No»  Mr.  Orton,  I  will 
not  advance  the  rent." 

The  agent's  look  of  surprise  was  a  comment 
ary  on  his  principal's  usual  determination  in 
such  cases. 

"These  men  have  yua  to  thank,"  said  Mr. 
Goldwin  as  Orton  retired.  "  But  for  our  talk, 
I  would  have  raised  the  rent" 


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269 


"And  in  so  doing  added  nothing  to  your 
kippineiB." 

"Nothing." 

"Do  jou  feci  better  or  worse,  for  this  hn- 
mtne  consideration  of  others?"  asked  Mr. 
Litimer.  "Look  down  into  your  oonscioos- 
ncH  snd  see  how  the  case  stands.  Is  the  sense 
of  fidlare  to  add  a  thousand  dollars  to  your  in- 
oone  ibr  the  next  year  strong  enough  to  ob- 
literate the  satisfaction  that  pervades  your 
heart  with  the  yeiy  warmth  of  Heaven  ?" 

"It  is  not  strong  enough/'  said  the  rich 
■an.  "  Ahy  nay  iriend  I"  he  added,  with  ear^ 
BCitDeM,  ''you  have  opened  for  me  the  door  of 
anew  world,  and  given  me  glimpses  of  a  new 
Older  of  life.  I  feel  something  here,"  and  he 
laid  his  hand  against  his  breast,  *^  that  I  have 
Defer  felt  before — a  rest,  a  peace,  a  satisfaction 
Uiat  no  gain  of  money,  no  matter  how  large, 
eter  produoed." 

"Tbe  reason  is  dear,*'  answered  his  friend. 
"You  have  considered  another's  good  rather 
than  your  own ;  and  in  so  doing  have  turned 
from  self  to  God— turned  as  a  flower  turns  to 
Ike  aon  and  receives  light  and  warmth  into  its 
bosom." 

''You  speak  in  attractive  metaphor,"  said 
Mr.Goldwin. 

"No,  in  plain  truth.  We  turn  our  souls 
frmn  God  when  we  turn  our  affections  to  self 
and  the  world ;  and  then,  of  course,  we  are  in 
darkness,  cold,  disquietude,  and  pain:  how 
rauld  it  be  otherwise,  when  God  is  the  only 
ioorce  of  light  and  warmth,  of  tranquillity  and 
joj?  We  turn  ourselves  toward  him  when, 
like  him,  we  seek  the  good  of  others,  and  the 
klessednessof  his  life  begins  to  flow  into  ours." 

*'A  new  gospel,"  said  Mr.  Goldwin,  with 
fteling. 

''No.  It  is  two  thousand  years  old : '  A  new 
commandment  I  ^ve  unto  you,  that  ye  love 
one  another.'  '  As  ye  would  that  men  should 
do  unto  you,  do  ye  so  unto  them.' " 

Another  caller  was  announced. 

"Mr.  Bacon,"  said  a  gentleman  who  was 
■kown  into  the  library,  thus  introducing  him- 
telf.  *^Mr.  Bacon,  of  the  firm  of  Hallet  A 
Bacon." 

"Oh,  yes.  Fve  not  had  the  pleasure  of 
■Medng  you  before,"  replied  Mr.  Goldwin, 
ooorteously.    **  Be  seated." 

"  I  have  called  to  see  you  about  a  new  lease," 
nid  the  vLitor,  coming  at  onoe  to  his  subject 

"My  agent,  Mr.  Orton,  will  arrange  that 
WnesB  for  you."  Mr.  Goldwin  spoke  with  a 
■light  change  of  countenance,  as  though  the 
vibjectwere  an  unpleaaaat  one. 


"  Pardon  my  intrusion,  sir,"  replied  the  vis- 
itor; **  but  in  this  matter  we  ask,  as  a  favor, 
to  confer  with  you,  as  we  cannot  make  Mr. 
Orton  comprehend  the  situation  of  afiairs.  He 
is  as  inflexible  as  iron." 

"  Say  on ;  I  shall  be  pleased  to  confer  with 
yon ;"  and  Mr.  Goldwin's  manner  softened. 

"Our  lease  will  expire  in  May  next,"  said 
Mr.  Baoon.  "We  have  been  paying  nine 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  Mr.  Orton  says 
that  the  lease  will  not  be  renewed  at  less^than 
eleven  thousand.  Such  an  advance  for  us  is 
out  of  the  question.  Our  business  does  not 
justify  even  the  present  rate." 

"  You  are  old  tenants,  and  have  always  paid 
promptly,"  replied  Mr.  Goldwin.  **  If  the  case 
is  as  you  say,  there  shall  be  no  increase  of 
rent" 

The  countenance  of  Mr.  Baoon  lightened, 
but  a  shadow  still  rested  upon  it.  Mr.  Gold- 
win  observed  this,  and  said :  "  Will  that  be 
satisfactory?" 

"  It  would  be  entirely  so  if  we  were  able  to 
make  any  fiiir  calculation  in  regard  to  business. 
But  we  are  not  Everything  is  working  down- 
ward,  as  you  know,  and  next  year's  earnings 
may  be  fiur  less  than  the  po<«  returns  of  this. 
In  that  case,  nine  thousand  dollars  taken  out 
for  rent  would  scarcely  leare  an  amount  equal 
to  our  expenses.  We  do  not  expect  to  make 
money  as  things  are ;  but  we  wish  to  keep  up 
our  business  connections  and  hold  our  own 
until  affiurs  get  into  a  more  stable  and  healthy 
eondition.  Is  it  asking  too  much  of  our  land- 
lord that  he  take  some  share  in  the  evil  as  well 
as  the  good?  His  real  estate  is  sure,  but  our 
business  is  not.  His  principal  cannot  be 
touched;  ours  may  be  swept  away  in  some 
sudden  disaster." 

'*  How  much  rent  can  you  pay  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Goldwin. 

"Seven  thousand  is  the  utmost  we  feel  that 
it  would  be  safe  for  us  to  undertake." 

"Suppose  I  will  not  oome  down?  What 
thenr 

"We  shall  consider  the  subject  carefully, 
and  decide  to  hold  on  or  move,  as  seems  best 
If  you  will  give  a  new  lease  at  seven  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  we  are  ready  to  take  it ;  if  you 
will  not,  then  we  must  look  around  and  see 
what  offers." 

Mr.  Goldwin  mused  for  some  time. 

"  Two  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  five  years," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  will  be  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars. A  handsome  sum  to  throw  into  the 
street." 

The  sympatby  he  had  b^gun  to  feel  for  the 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   ffOMS   MAGAZINE. 


gftnigi^ing  merdhante  died  ont,  and  the  old 
luurdness  of  heait  retumed. 

<a  will  think  about  it,"  he  replied  to  Mr. 
iboon,  in  a  hriak  and  rather  ehcip  voiee. 

**  When  shall  we  know  about  it  r  asked  the 
other. 

"  In  a  dajr  or  two;  or  an  Boon  as  I  ean  ocm^ 
far  with  Mr.  Oton,  my  a^nt." 

Mr.  Baoon  aroeey  bowed  and  withdrew; 

"  You  see  how  it  is,"  laid  Mr.  Goidwin  to 
his  Mend,  as  soon  as  thej  were  alone* 

''  Yes,  I  see/'  replied  Mr.  Latimer. 

'^  They'd  want  mj  store  for  nothing,  if  I 
were  weak  enough  to  giye  them  the  rent." 

"  Your  way  of  pptting  h,"  said  Mr.  Larimer, 
a  smile  playing  about  his  lips. 

"A  gentleman  wishes  to  see  you." 

The  servant  had  opened  the  door  for  the 
third  time. 

Mr.  Goidwin  gave  a  kind  of  nenrons  start  as 
he  took  the  card  handed  him  by  the  servant 
and  read  the  name—"  Edward  S.  Ldiooi»n." 

''More  trouble  about  rents,"  he  said,  aside, 
to  his  friend.  "I  shall  put  a  stop  to  this." 
Then,  speaking  to  the  servant,  he  told  him  to 
show  Mr.  Lincoln  into  the  library.  The  vis- 
itor, with  care  written  all  over  his  face,  en« 
tered*  When  seated,  he  opened  the  business 
on  which  he  came  without  cironmlocntion. 
There  was  a  trenuHr  of  anxiety  in  'his  voice. 
Mr.  Goidwin  was  right  It  was  another  case 
of.  "trouble  about  rent"  But  the  landlord 
felt  irritated.  Interrupting  the  speaker  before 
half  through,  he  said  in  a  hard,  impatient 
way: 

"  My  agent,  Mr.  Orton,  attends  to  these  mat- 
ters, and  I  must  beg  to  refer  you  to  him." 

"  We  can  do  nothing  with  your  agent,"  re- 
plied the  visitor,  in  a  half-distressed,  half  in- 
dignant tone  of  voice. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  then,  but  cannot  help 
it"  The  cold  indifference  with  which  this 
was  said  sent  a  chill  alcmg  Mr.  Latimer's 
nerves.  The  voioe  seemed  scarcely  like  that 
of  his  friend. 

"  You  wiU  not  consider  our  case?"  said  Mr. 
Lincoln,  rising. 

"  No,  sir ;  Mr.  Orton  is  my  business  agent" 

The  merchant  withdrew,  anger  and  disap- 
pointment darkening  his  iaoe. 

"  Y«u  see  again,"  said  Mr.  Goidwin,  tuniing 
to  his  friend,  with  the  hardness  still  in  his  eye. 

"  Yes,  I  see  again,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

"  If  I  hadn't  an  agent  to  stand  between  me 
and  these  men,  they  would  worry  the*  life  out 
of  me." 

"  What  li£»7"  astosd  Mr.  Latimer. 


"I  don't  undentand  you."  Mr.  Goidwin 
looked  puzzled. 

"  The  life  that  seeks  happiness  in  getting,  or 
in  giving?" 

A  few  swift  changes  swept  over  the  faoeef 
Mr.  Groldwin.  He  started  from  his  chair  aad 
walked  the  floor  rigidly.  Then  he  eat  dova, 
looking  thoughtful  aad  subdued. 

"'As  ye  would  that  men  should  do  ntoi 
you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them.' "    Mr.  Latinol 
spoke  in  a  low  voioe  and  with  impresaive  cs^ 
nestness.    "My  dear  old  friend,"  he  added, 
after  a  brief  silence,  ''I  would  not  urge  tkii 
matter  upon  you  if  yon  were  professedly  given 
over  te  the  service  of  self  and  the  world.    Bol 
you  are  not      In  early  childhood  a   piov 
mother  stored  jrour  memory  with  heavealy 
truths,  and  led  your  feet  into  the  ways  of  kiiid- 
ness  and  charity.    As  you  grew  toward  msn- 
hood,  the  good  seeds  thus  planted  aent  dows 
roots  into  your  mind,  and  leaves  and  blesMfiis 
unfolded  in  the  air  and  sunshine.  After  avhile 
you  became  a  member  of  the  Church,  aad  a 
partaker  of  its  solemn  ordinances.    Yon  took 
upon  you,  before  men  and  angels,  the  nameef 
Christ ;  and  you  are  hoping  for  salvatioD  in 
His  name.    Now,  a  name  signifies  qualitr. 
You  cannot  be  saved  through  His  name  unk» 
you  have  His  quality;  and  He  cannot  0n 
you  thb  quality  unl«s  you  live  in  obediotf 
to  His  laws.    We  must  abide  in  the  Vine^  mi 
draw  life  from  the  Vine,  or  be  cast  off  as  ofr 
fruitful.    We  must  be  like  our  Lord,  or  ve 
cannot  live  with  Him  in  Heaven." 

Mr.  Goldwin's  head  was  bent  again  on  Uf 
bosom.    He  sat  motionless,  almost,  as  a  statne. 

"There  are  two  lives,"  continued  the  fiiend 
— "a  natural  lifcv  into  which  each  of  us  i> 
bom,  and  a  spiritual  life  into  which  we  oome 
through  regeneiation.  'That  which  is  boro 
of  the  flesh  is  flesh,  and  that  which  is  bom  of 
the  Spirit  is  spirit  Marvel  not  that  I  said 
unto  you.  Ye  must  be  bom  again.' '  The  natn* 
ral  loves  self,  and  the  spiritual  loves  thene^b- 
bor.  The  natural  seeks  to  draw  every thbg  to 
itself;  the  spiritual  finds  its  highest  delight  is 
giving  of  its  good  things  to  others.  If  we  ait 
bom  of  God,  we  have  the  love  of  giving  i« 
our  souls ;  but  if  we  are  not  bom  of  God,  our 
delight  is  in  getting  and  holding.  Eachose 
of  us,  by  self  examination,  may  know  wbich 
life  rules— the  heavenly  or  the  earthly." 

"There  is  no  doubt  in  my  case,"  said  Mr. 
Goidwin,  speaking  in  a  firm  voioe;  "it  is  the 
earthly,  and  not  the  heavenly." 

"What  then?" 

"  Ahl  that  is  the  mamentoos  question." 


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87:1 


'  "The  piTotomrliidiaU  your  fbtoxetiinify^ 

^       \idMr.LaUoMr. 

"WhatahaUIdor 
/  'Settkiy  IKnit»  in  yoar  own  mind,  joor  trae 
r  xelation  to  Qod  and  man;  and  then  compel 
jrounell^  through  divine  strength — which  will 
be  given  if  yoo  aek  for  it — '  Ask,  and  ye  shall 
itceivei' — to  do  what  you  see  to  be  right  To 
God  your  relation  is  that  of  one  who  receives 
boontifully  of  EUs  natural  blessings.  He  has 
entrusted  you  with  large  wealth — a  thousand 
times  more  than  you  can  use  for  bodily  and 
mental  well-being — entrusted  it  to  you  that 
yoQ  may  be  a  free  or  a  constrained  dispenser 
of  His  bounty.  If,  from  a  love  of  the  neigh- 
bor, yoa  are  a  free  dispenser,  then  your  bless- 
ing b  doubled ;  if,  from  a  love  of  self  only,  a 
constrained  dispenser,  jou  lose  the  blessing  of  ' 
both  receiver  and  giver.  Your  relation ''to 
nan  I  need  hardly  state;  it  is  involved  in 
what  I  have  just  said." 

^  Then  I  must  sell  all  that  I  have  and  give 
to  the  poor,"  said  Mr.  Groldwin,  strong  lines 
gathering  on  his  forehead. 

**  All  the  riches  of  pride  and  self-love,  and 
become  poor  in  spirit,  for  of  such  is  the  king- 
dom of  heaven.** 

The  lines  faded  off  from  Mr.  Goldwin's  fore- 
head, and  light  as  Arom  some  new  reveladon 
paled  the  shadows  on  his  face. 

**  You  are  leading  me  into  the  thought  of  | 
new  and  better  things,"  he  said.  '*!  see  a 
divine  philoeophy  never,  understood  before. 
God  has  given  me  great  possessions,  and  laid 
on  me,  at  the  same  time,  great  responsibilities. 
How  shall  I  meet  these  responsibilities  7" 

*'  Not  by  shifting  them  off  on  another,  my 
friend.  If  any  wrong  is  done  in  the  admin- 
istration of  your  trusty  it  will  avail  nothing, 
when  your  final  accounts  are  settled,  to  say 
'Mr.  Orton  is  my  agent ;  go  to  him.' " 

Mr.  Goldwin  gave  a  start  A  slight  pallor 
overspread  his  face. 

"  You  have  a  novel  way  of  putting  things, 
my  friend,"  he  remarked,  a  huskiness  in  his 
toioe. 

"  A  true  way,  I  hope,  was  the  reply. 

"  Too  true  for  my  comfort  Your  visit  has 
not  made  me  a  happier  man." 

*^  If  it  help  to  make  you  a  better  man,  then 
I  know  that  you  will  be  a  happier  man.  Shall 
I  not  be  content?" 

It  would  weary  the  reader  were  we  to  put  on 
record  all  the  long  conversation  that  followed. 
Was  it  fruitless  ?    Let  us  see. 

A  year  later.  Time^  evening.  Mr.  Goldwin 
Bitting  alone  in  his  library.    A  visitor  enters. 

VOL.  xxxvn.— 19. 


"Why,  Latimer!  Wa^  thinking  of  yoa  this 
moment    Glad  to  see  you  again  1" 

And  the  two  men  shook  hands  with  the  cor- 
diality of  real  friends.  As  they  still  held  each 
other  tightly  by  the  hand,  eyes  reading  eyes, 
Mr.  LAtimer  said : 

**•  It  is  well  with  you,  I  see.  Body  and  mind 
in  better  condition  than  they  were  a  year 
•gor 

"Ihopesa" 

^*  Life  not  worried  out  7" 

'*  No ;"  answering  with  a  quiet  smile. 

''Mr.  Orton  saves  you  from  that  damage?" 

A  flash,  as  from  some  old  fire  of  indigna- 
tion, homed  for  a  moment  aoroas  Mr.  GoU- 
win's  face. 

"  He  is  no  Iob^^  my  agent" 

''Ahl  Pm  pleased  at  that  I  hsx^  yoxue 
present  agent  has  a  heart  of  flesh  and  not  of 
stone." 

"He  is  at  least  trying  to  administer  with 
judgment  and  justice." 

"Tempered  with  humanity,  J  hope?"  said 
Mr.  Latimer.  ^ 

"  I  hope  so.    I  am  my  own  agent" 

"Is  that  so 7" 

"Yes ;  and  the  result  is  a  loss  of  income  for 
the  last  year  of  over  twelve  thousand  dol- 
lars as  oompared  with  the  previous  year." 

"  And  the  gain— what  of  that  7" 
-  "  I  am  not  able  to  count  the  gain,  it  is  so 
laige."    The  voice  that  said  this  waa  clear  of 
utteranoe  and  full  of  satisfaction. 

"Of  what  does  it  consist?" 

"  Of  so  many  things  that  I  fail  to  make  the 
enumeration." 

"  Mention  a  few.    I  am  deeply  interested." 

"I  have  quietude  of  mind,  instead  of  the 
old  restless,  dissatisfied  states  that  often  made 
my  days  and  nights  a  burden.  The  hours  I 
devote  each  day  to  a  careful  administration  of 
my  aflidrs  give  my  thoughts  a  healthy  activity ; 
and  the  knowledge  I  get  of  the  men  to  whom 
my  property  is  leased,  and  the  nature  and  con- 
dition of  their  business,  enables  me  to  be  con- 
siderate and  just;  and  this  brings  its  own  re- 
ward, deep  and  pure." 

"Above  all  that  can  be  counted  in  dollars 
andoents?" 

"  Yes,  fior  above.  I  think  now,  of  two  men, 
who,  if  Orton  had  remained  my  agent,  would 
have  gone  into  bankruptcy.  They  are  out  of 
danger  to*day.  Th^  were  tardy  in  paying 
their  rent  I  asked  an  interview,  and  kindly 
invited  their  confidence,  Sbr  I  believed  them 
to  be  honest  They  showed  me  their  business. 
It  had  been  prudently  conducted,  but  was  not 


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ARTEUR'8   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


lai^e  enough  to  juftify  the  rent  th^f  were  pay- 
ing. Two  or  three  loaees  had  embarraMed 
them.  They  were  diaheartoned.  1  pided 
them,  and,  losing  eight  for  the  time  of  my  own 
intereatB,  thonght  only  of  theirs.  I  put  myself  \ 
temporarily  in  their  place,  and  considered 
their  aflairs  as  if  they  were  my  own.  The 
rent,  as  I  have  said,  was  too  high ;  it  had  been 
paying  me  a  very  large  percentage  on  the  value 
of  the  property.  I  made  it  lower.  It  would  have 
done  you  good  had  you  seen  the  surprise  and 
relief  that  lit  up  th^r  faces  when  I  volunteered 
a  reduction.  I  did  more:  I  said, '  Meet  your 
move  pressing  demands,  and  let  me  wait  to  a 
mere  convsnient  seasoo;  only  see  that  I  am 
kept  secure.' 

''Well,  they  weathered  the  storm,  and  I 
have  been  paid  to  the  last  dollar.  It  would 
have  been  very  difieient  with  these  men  had 
Orton  remained  my  agent;  and  very  different 
with  me." 

^  You  neyer  think  of  this  without  a  feeling 
of  Jleep  satisfaction,"  said  Mr.  Latimer. 

*  Never." 

*'  The  memoiy  of  a  good  deed  is  a  perpetual 
delight.  It  is  a  treasure  laid  up  in  the  heaven 
of  our  minds,  wliere  moUi  and  rust  do  not 
corrupt,  and  where  theives  do  not  break 
through  and  steal.  Oh,  my  friend,  what  golden 
o|i(K>rtunities  the  Good  Father  has  placed  in 
your  way !  You  have  gold  and  silver  in  lavish, 
abundance,  and  God  is  showing  you  how  it 
may  be  transmuted  into  imperishable  riches." 

A  servant  entered,  and  gave  Mr.  Goldwin  a 
letter.  He  broke  the  seal  and  read  it,  in 
silence,  twice  over.  Mr.  Latimer,  who  was 
watching  his  fiiee,  saw  a  flood  of  light  pass 
over  it. 

-^'Frem  a  lady,  but  anonymons." 

-"  Ah !  4ihe  contents  give  yon  pleasure,  I  see." 

*<  I  will  tead  it  for  you ;"  and  Mr.  Goldwin 
fead-: 

**  Dear  avb  Hokoreb  8ir!  A  gratefbl  wife 
and  mother  writes  to  you  in  the  fulness  of  her 
-heart,  impelled  by  an  inner  dictate  which  she 
cannot  disregard.  You  had  my  husband  in 
your  power — ^he  was  legally  and  morally  bound 
-to  you  in  a  contract,  the  enfcnrcement  of  which 
on  your  part  would  have  been  ruin.  He  stood 
•on  the  -edge  ^of  a  gulf,  and  your  hand  could 
pull  him  back  or  puali  him  in.  If  you  had 
considered  <mly  yourself,  as  most  men  do,  I 
shudder  to  think  of  how  it  might  be  with  me 
and  mine  to-day.  Something  far  wonie  than 
poverty  would,  I  fear,  be  our  bitter  portion. 
May  He  who  put  it  into  your  heart  to  be  mcr- 
'^aSxA  bless  you  with  even  more  abundance  of  < 


this  woi4^  goods,  and  with  the  higher  Utt- 
sing  of  eternal  riches  in  Heaven. 
"  Truly  yours, 
**  A  GBATEPiTii  Wipe  akd  Mother." 

''Do  you  guess  the  writer's  namef  asked 
Mr.  Latimer. 

''No;  how  ci^i  I  think,  at  this  moment, of 
any  transaction  like  that  to  which  she  refenf  | 

"  You  are  learning  to  live,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  i 
Latimer — "are  finding  out  the  secret  of  hii^f 
piness — are  truly  enjoying  the  wealth  that,  a 
year  ago,  like  great  masses  of  stagnant  wata^ 
was  filling  your  soul  with  oppression  and  sick- 
ening miasmas.  The  air,  so  poisonous  tben,k 
clear  and  wholesome  to-day,  and  every  breath 
of  it  you  inhale  reddens  your  blood  with  a 
new  vitality,  that  is  felt  in  pleasant  thriUs 
through  every  artery  and  vein  of  your  monl 
being." 

"  For  all  of  which  I  thank  you,  as  a  wise 
and  faithful  friend,"  answered  Mr.  Goldwin. 

"Bather,"  was  replied,  '*let  your  thanb  90 
to  Him  who  put  it  into  my  heart  to  qpetk 
words  of  truth  and  soberness,  which,  happilf 
fell  like  good  seed  into  good  ground,  biingiiig 
forth  in  due  season  a  harvest  of  blessings." 


ONCE, 

BT   HOP!  OLLIS. 


0' 


^NGE,  only  oaoe. 
And  long  ago, 
How  inaoy  years 

I  hardly  know — 
Onoe»  only  once 

Thai  form  I  met; 
Fond  memory 

Can  ne'er  forget 
Once,  only  oaoe 

Those  speaking  eyes 
Looked  into  mine 

With  glad  sarprise. 
Once,  only  once 

I  heard  that  voioe. 
Whose  music  made 

My  heart  rejoice. 
Once,  only  onoe 

That  hand  I  met. 
Whose  magic  touoh 

Is  with  me  yet 
Once,  only  once, 

As  pilgrims  here, 
May  each  to  each 

In  time  appear — 
Once,  only  onoe 

On  earthly  shore ; 
But  up  in  Heaven -« 

Forevennoro ! 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


A  DOLLAB  A  DAY. 


BY  YIBOINIA  F.  TOWKSE27D. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
'"DOYB,  do  yon  knovr  it?    We've  palled 

SJ  through  withont  a  fight  t*' 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Creney  Forsyth 
pat  her  head  into  the  chamber  and  confh>nted 
her  brotherB  in  their  shirt  sleeveis  getting  ready, 
at  laaty  for  bed.  The  rooms  where  tlie  boys 
slept  connected  by  folding  doors,  and  to-night 
the  brothers  were  together,  talking  over,  excit- 
edly, the  jolly  evening  they  had  had,  the  fan 
that  was  to  be  to-morrow,  when  the  yoang, 
trinmphant  voice  broke  in  apon  them. 

Looking  up,  they  saw  Cressy  standing  in  the 
door,  in  her  white  night-gown,  a  crimson  cloak 
fithered  across  her  shoulders,  and  her  hair, 
riiaken  all  oat,  a  brownish,  goldenish  cloud 
tboat  her  hux  snd  neck. 

Sach  a  pretty,  picturesque  sight  as  it  was — I 
despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  it.  People 
always  look  the  best  on  the  most  commonplace 
occasions — when  the  beauty  is  all  wasted  so 
&r  as  sensation  and  effect  are  concerned. 

Here  was  Cressy  Forsyth,  for  instance,  in  her 
night-gown,  with  her  hair  loose,  just  ready  to 
jump  into  bed,  yet  I  doubt  whether  a  real 
artist,  seeing  her  a  thousand  times  before,  in 
her  jewels  and  handoome  dresses,  would  not 
have  chosen  this  time  to  paint  her,  when  she 
stood  there  patting  her  face  in  at  the  door,  eyes 
and  Yoice  full  of  a  glad  excitement  and  tri- 
omph. 

Even  the  boys,  whose  testhetic  sensibilities 
had  hardly  been  cultivated  in  the  way  of  art, 
were  struck  a  little  by  the  Tision : 

"Oh,  do  come  in.  Cress!**  they  shouted, with 
noi^y  mirth;  and  she  came  in,  gathering  the 
scarlet  cloak  a  little  closer  about  her,  saying: 
''HashI  boys;  now  papa  will  hear  you;  and 
you  know  how  he  packed  as  off  to  bed." 

'' Christmas  don't  come  but  once  a  year:  I 
say  a  fellow  ought  to  have  the  whole  benefit  of 
it!"  exclaimed  Proctor.  "What's  the  use  of 
going  to  bed  at  all?" 

''Ah,  but  you'll  find  the  use  of  it  before  to- 
morrow night  I"  said  Cressy,  decidedly.  I'd 
just  crawled  in  myself,  when  it  flashed  across 
me  that  we  had  not  had  a  squabble  to-day; 
and  I  couldn't  wait  until  to-morrow  morning — 
I  just  jumped  np,  threw  on  my  slippers  and 
this  old  cloak,  and  run  across  to  tell  you  boys. 
IsnH  it  splendid !" 

"^That  we've  been  saints  one  day.   Ifsanew 


kind  of  sensation,  anyhow,"  said  Bamsey,  kee|>* 
ing  the  joke  uppermost,  whatever  might  li« 
beneath  it 

**  It's  a  pleasant  one,  anyhow,"  said  Cressy, 
tripping  over  to  the  register  and  squatting  down 
on  a  stool,  while  the  wavy  chmd  whose  hna 
had  catised  her  so  many  a  sharp  pang,  so  many 
a  raging  storm,  fell  like  a  glittering  garment  to 
her  knees.  **  It  hasn't  been  so  dreadfully  hard, 
either;  only  two  or  three  times  I  came  within 
an  inch  of  popping  off;  onoe  was  when  yon, 
Proctor,  apset  my  card  basket,  and  I  thought 
you'd  cracked  the  handle:  and,  worse  yet,  when 
Bamsey  came  back  from  town  and  forgot  the 
tapers  for  the  Christmas  tree.  Didn't  I  long 
to  give  it  to  you  for  a  minute  I  I  had  to  bite 
my  tongue  to  keep  in.  It  was  sore  for  an  hour 
afterward." 

Both  the  boys  laughed.  The  peppery  tongue, 
the  swift  temper  might  master  the  little  girl, 
sitting  there  in  her  night-dress  and  her  loose, 
flowing  hair— she  was  ftill  of  all  kinds  of  feults 
and  naughtinesses;  hot  the  heart  under  all, 
when  you  got  to  it—what  an  honest  little  heart 
it  was !  the  very  best  thing  in  all  the  handsome 
house  of  Bichard  Forsyth ! 

With  a  little  skilful  management,  Cressy  drew 
out  of  Proctor  an  acknowledgment  of  which  he 
was  a  good  deal  ashamed,  before  Bamsey :  that 
he  had  made  a  conquest  of  himself  that  day, 
when,  on  visiting  the  stable,  the  boy  discovered 
that  Pat  had  not  groomed  his  pony  that  morn- 
ing. To  use  his  own  words,  he  **  wanted  to  lay 
the  horsewhip  on  the  fellow's  shoulders,  and 
was  going  to  make  a  blue  streak,  when  of  a  sud- 
den he  remembered  they'd  all  agreed  to  play 
saint  that  day ;  so  he  walked  out  of  the  oarriag«- 
house  without  letting  off." 

Now,  Proctor  Forsyth  did  a  great  many  things 
every  day  of  his  life  to  be  ashamed  of— that  », 
if  he  h  A  been  of  a  finely  tempered  natare ;  but 
I  believe  it  cost  him  more  shame  to  oonfoss 
that  night,  to  his  brother  and  sister,  the  mastery 
he  had  gained,  for  once,  over  his  passion,  than 
did  all  the  mean  and  shamefnl  deeds  and  ways 
of  the  boy's  whole  life. 

That  big,  domineering  Bamsey,  however,  was 
in  a  wonderfully  softened  mood  to-night  '<He 
did^hot,"  to  quote  his  yoanger  brother's  thought, 
"make  a  bit  of  game  of  Proctor's  oonfes- 
iion." 

And  now  it  was  his  tarn.    Br^t'ier  and  sister 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


274 


ARTHUR'8   LADT'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


reminded  him  of  that  fact«  He  played  with 
hia  watch-ReaU,  and  said :  "  Pshaw  I  wiiat  non- 
sense ;  I  haven't  anything  to  tell." 

The  others  knew  better.  Cressy  brought  her 
powers  to  bear  in  little  coazinj(  quaternions  of 
monosyllables.  **  Ah,  come  now,  do  I  Pleane 
this  once^  Ram ;"  and  being  in  a  wonderfblly 
softened  hnmor,  the  boy  at  last  yielded,  and 
went  over  to  his  deeply  interested  andience, 
with  the  whole  story  of  what  had  transpired 
betwixt  him  and  the  newsboy  that  night.  The 
thing  was  so  utterly  unlike  Ramsey  thatCresfi^ 
nibbed  her  eyes,  two  or  three  times,  fancying 
she  must  be  dreaming. 

But  the  boy  and  girl  were  touched  and  im- 
pressed with  the  story.  Ramsey  told  it,  it  is 
true,  with  jokes  and  a  little  swagger  •f  an  air, 
feeling  secretly  much  as  Proctor  hsd  done,  hut 
here  were  the  simple,  eloquent  facts  before  his 
isteners,  and  they  did  not  need  any  fine  setting 
of  words. 

When  her  brother  was  through,  there  were 
actually  tears  in  Cressy's  eyes.  "  I  never  read 
anything  prettier  in  a  story,"  she  said.  **  INe 
Heen  that  boy  seUing  papers  a  good  many  tiroes. 
He  wears  a  gray  eoat  and  a  mite  of  a  black 
oap,  and  he  stares  at  our  oanriage  in  the  oddest 
way.  I  never  knew  what  to  makeof  it;  but  I 
shall  look  at  him  with  a  great  deal  more  in- 
teiest  now." 

«  So  shall  I,"  added  Proctor.  "  I've  noticed 
him,  too,  but  I  never  thought  anything  about 
him  before,  only  as  the  boy  who  sold  news- 
papers." 

"  Who  knows  now,"  exclaimed  Cressy, "  how 
much  good  that  tye  dollars  may  have  done 
him  I  He'll  go  and  get  some  Christmas  things, 
you  may  depend.  Pd  like  to  know  whait  they 
are,  just  for  fan." 

"  So  should  I,"  said  Proctor.  *'  Who^d  have 
believed  this  of  you,  Ram  7  It  don't  seem,  any- 
how, as  though  it  could  be  you,"  looking  at  his 
brother,  and  ha  If- wondering  whether  he  was 
the  aame  loud,  eelf-cooceited  fellow  who  walked 
over  everybody  but  his  father,  rough-«hod. 

Cressy  putioipftted  in  the  feeling,  '^ou'ye 
done  the  best  of  any  of  us,  Ramsey,"  she  said. 

Then  suddenly,  as  though  some  wind  of  pro- 
phesy were  borne  in  upon  her  soul,  she  rose  up 
from  her  stool  and  stood  in  her  night-dress  like 
a  white-robed  sybil,  swathed  in  that  cloud  of 
golden  hair.  **  And  sometime,  and  eomewhere — 
in  this  world  or  another  yoa*ll  be  glad  of  what 
you've  done  to-day.  It  will  bring  you  a  blese- 
ing.    I  feel  it  Id  my  bones." 

She  spoke  very  solemnly,  the  girlish  face 
liflted  quite  out  of  its  ordinary  mood,  ao  that, 


looking  at  her,  a  classical  scholar  would  havi 
thought  of  Sibilla  of  Cumae,  a  medieval  saim 
of  his  favorite  Madonna,  but  the  boys  bein{ 
scholar  nor  saint,  stared  at  their  sister,  theii 
rude  nature  greatly  impressed  by  both  word 
and  manner. 

"Ah,  Cress,  you're  a  humbug  T'  said  Ramsey 
at  last,  his  speech  shooting  as  far  from  his  rea 
feeling  as  a  light  laag^  often  does  from  on 
deepest  emotions. 

Cressy  understood  her  brother.  He  migh 
call  her  names  now,  but  she  would  not  take  fire 
as  on  ordinary  occasions. 

Proctor,  following  his  brother's  cue,  ha< 
some  silly  joke  over  also ;  but  it  was  a  counter 
feit,  and  the  base  metal  rung  in  ears  that  couh 
not  be  deceived. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  Cressy  tip-toe< 
back  to  bed,  leaving  her  brothers  in  some  soft 
ened,  happy  mood  to  which  they  were  botl 
strangers.  What  a  Christmas-eve  they  havi 
had,  and  to  think  it  all  came  of  the  newsboy 
lying  fiist  asleep  in  the  old  "  lean-to  '*  at  th< 
other  end  of  the  town. 

"Such  a  dream  as  I  had  last  night,"  sai< 
Prudy  Hanes,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  afte 
the  Christmas  dinner  was  over,  with  a  ratbe 
uncomfortable  sense  of  repletion.  Such  a  din 
ner  as  the  trio  had  had !  the  subetantials,  tor 
key  and  vegetables,  rounded  off  with  a  tempt 
ing  little  dessert  of  cake,  and  fruit,  and  confec 
tionery. 

Cherry  had  crystallised  into  a  single  sentenc 
the  general  state  of  mind,  when  she  avowe 
that  she  "  did  feel  just  like  rich  folks  to-day; 
and  although  Darley  had  not  rnen  into  th 
eloquent  flights  of  the  night  before,  he  had  bee 
happy  in  his  quotations  about  casting  "dul 
care  to  the  winds,"  and  things  of  that  sort 

Indeed,  the  gaunt,  hungry  faase  of  the  wolf  i 
the  door  had  hid  itself  effectually  for  this  daj 
I  doubt  whether  there  was  a  happier  Christmi 
dinner  in  all  the  town  of  Thomley  than  thi 
one  in  the  old  "lean-to;"  the  dinner  fumishe( 
too — of  all  others  in  the  world — by  Ramse 
Forsyth !  He,  too,  in  his  handsome  home,  i 
the  midst  of  his  gifts  and  holiday  pleasure 
had  a  wonderfully  light  heart  this  Christmas 

It  is  true  that  Prudy,  with  that  habit  < 
forecasting  which  circumstances  had  develope 
her  so  early,  glanced  at  the  turkey  after  eac 
was  more  than  satisfied,  and  congratulated  hei 
self  that  one  half  of  the  biped  lay  yet  ui 
touched  by  the  carving-knife.  With  the  vari 
ous  edibles  that  flanked  the  turk^,  and  win 
renuuned  over  of  Barley's  market  basketi  ther 


Digitized  byCjDOQlC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


B76 


«M  little  daager  of  ai^  tcamped  mcais  toot  a 
week  to  eome. 

Berfamps  it  was  this  reflection  wjbacli  aog- 
ge«ed  ker  dream.  Pmdf  bai  been  too  busy 
wuaoog  happy  fiusta  to  think  of  it  before^  that 

''Ah,  what  was  it?"  said  Cherry^  in  j«Bt 
the  mood  for  a  atory. 

"Out  with  it,"  added  Darley,  impnidenUy 
cracking  a  filbert  with  hiH  teeth. 

*^  I  thought  Cheriy  aad  I  were  sitting  before 
the  fire  in  the  twUight,  waiting  for  Darky  to 
oome  home.  It  all  seemed  as  natural  as  life. 
We  waited  a  long,  long  time»  aad  it  was. dreary 
enough ;  and,  at  last,  after  we  had  worked  our- 
MlTes  up  into  a  real  worry  about  iiim,  Darley 
burst  in. 

'"Harrah,  gurlsr  he  shouted,  turning  all 
sorts  of  summersaQlts  on  the  floor,  '  You  doQ*t 
know  what  a  fish  has  floated  into  my  net.' 

"Now  if  that  isn't  just  like  him  kn  all  the 
world  1"  cried  out  Cherry. 

^  Yea,  it  was  a  wonderlblly  natumi  dream. 
We  knew  something  y^tj  nice  had  happened, 
aad  we  both  sprang  up  and  shouted:  *Ah, 
Darley,  do  tell  us  1'  At  hiRt  he  gaUiered  him- 
self up,  and  jirkiog  his  head  and  squaring  his 
elbows—" 

"Ah,  just  like  him  I"  interrupted  Cheny, 
again. 

"  Now  you  hold  up,"  cried  Darley.  "  I  want 
to  bear  Prudy's  dream." 

''He  cried  out:  Tve  had  an  ofier  of  busi- 
nesi^  aad  Pm  to  be  paid^  ca«h  down,  a  dolia?  a 
dayr" 

Caierry  drew  a  long  breath.  ''Ah,  n^  I  If 
it  wee  only  true,"  she  said. 

"  But  in  the  dream,  you  know,  it  seemed  so. 
Ah^  what  a  time  we  did  have,  shoming  and 
clapping  our  hands  for  joy,  and  laughing  and 
ciyiog  together.  At  last  we  grew  solemn,  and 
sst  down  by  the  fire  and  talked  about  how  we 
woiiki  do,  and  what  we  would  have,  now  we 
were  so  rich,  with  a  dollar  a  day  to  fall  baok 
OS.  At  laet  I  woke  apv  end  there  was  jest  a 
&iBt  bit  of  dawn  looking  in  at  the  east  window. 
I  lay  awake  a  good  while  before  I  oould  really 
briqg  myself  to  believe  it  was  a  dream.  It  was 
broad  daylight,  and  tbe  little  children  who 
hung  their  stockings  up  last  night,  must  have 
begun  to  peg  into  theno,  when  I  went  iiUo  a  nap 
again." 

"A  dollar  a  day,"  mused  Darley.  "It  was 
only  a  dream*    That's  the  worst  of  it»  Prudy." 

"Ah,  wouldn't  we  live  like  fighting*cocks 
with  itr  said  Cherry.  She  wak  a  refiqed  liule 
gjrly  as  ever  you  saw,  but  she  was  oooaaioaally 


betrayed  into  a  little  slangy  caoght  from.  Dar- 
Prudy's laoe  grew  solemn. 

"I  don't  believe  I  oould  liye  through  such  a 
good  fortune,"  she  said.  "I  think  the  joy 
would  kill  me^  if  it  was  a  real  thing  instead  of 
a  dresAi.  A  whole  dollar  a  day  to  live  on  \ 
Wouldn't  we  be  rich  I  Why,  there'd  be  no  more 
trouble  about  th^  sent,  for  that  would  only  take 
off  one  dollar  a  week.  And  we'd  have  Christ- 
mas dinners  every  day  I  And  in  a  little 
while  you  and  I,  Cherry,  would  have  such 
pretty  scarlet^wool  dresses,  and  Darley  a  new 
coat ;  and  there'd  be  no  more  pinching,  and 
screwing,  and  twisting  when  one  of  us  wants  a 
pair  of  shoes." 

"And  in  time  we  could  eaoh  of  us  have  a 
new  pair  of  kid  gloves,"  subjoined  Cherry,  who 
was  as  dainty  in  her  tastes  as  though  she  were 
the  daughter  of  a  rich  man. 

"  There's  no  end  to  tbe  things  we  could  have 
on  a  dollar  a  day,"  said  Prudy,  decidedly.  "  I 
know  the  capacity  of  money,"  with  a  sudden 
pride,  that  was  half-patbetio  and  half  amosiag, 
yet  Prudy  was  right,  for  her  knowledge  had  been 
attained  under  that  hardest  of  schoolmasters, 
experience.  "  If  I  could  live  at  all,  under  such 
a  grand  fortune,  I  should  never  be  able  to 
sleep  DtghtSy  thinking  of  all  the  ways  to  spend 
iL" 

"  Who  knowi^"  said  Darley,  pushing  back 
his  plate,  with  a  dreadful  sense  of  plethora, 
"  but  Prudy's  dream  may  come  true  some  day  ? 
As  wonderful  things  have  happened  I" 

"  It  would  be  a  miracle,  though,  with  us," 
answered  Prudy,  sorrowfully;  "and  they  don't 
happen  now-a-days." 

"Welly  anyhow,  we  oouldn't  have  had  a 
better  dinner  if  our  income  were  a  dollar  a 
day,"  said  Darley.    "  Fivt  act  all  through." 

"That'aa  fiuit,"  said  Prady.  brighteoing  up 
in  a  mooMmt.  Then  she  rose  and  spoke:  "A 
vole  of  thanks  to  Darley  for  his  diaiier." 

Cherry  seconded  the  motion,  and  there  fol- 
lowed seoM  fonny  little  apeeobes  irom  both 
the  girls,  which,  whether  they  sparkled  with 
wit  or  twinkled  with  humor,  served,  at  leaat, 
the  purpoae  of  making  ik^  trio  exceedingly 
merry. 

Darley,  especially,  ei\joyed  the  i^peeches,  he 
heing  rsgarded  as  the  here  of  the  occasion ; 
bui  he  spoke  up  suddenly :  "  There's  the  boy 
who  gave  me  the  five-dollar  bill.  Haven't  yoo 
got  something  to  my  for  him,  girls  7" 

A  husit  foil  upon  Prudy's  fiioe,  although  it 
did  noti  lose  its  brightness :  "  I  shall  ssy  some- 
thing to  Qed  for  him,"  said  the  girl^  softly*    . 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


With  all  Ms  fiuher'a  ibrtone,  md  his  cronies, 

and  hia  loud,  good  tiidea  generallr,  RaniMj 
Forsyth  had  nobody  in  the  world  to  aay  any- 
thing to  God  for  him,  that  ObristBtias,  but  the 
lonely  orphan  girl  in  tlie  old  "lean-to.'' 

Darley  and  Pmdy  were  silent  a  little  while, 
hot  the  talk  waxed  into  its  old  merrioBeBi  again. 
Tfo  need  to  be  in  a  hurry  to-night,  for  it  was 
Cbristraas,  and  there  were  no  papers  to  sell, 
and  even  Pmdy's  bosy  fingers  ooald  aflbrd  to 
rest ;  and  when  the  early  darkness  fell,  it  found 
them  still  sitting  around  the  dinner  table,  in 
the  room  that  looked  to  the  went,  a  happy, 
merry  hoasehold. 

And  while  the  twilight  deepened,  Darley 
spoke  up :  "I  wonder  where  Joe  Dayton  is  to- 
day, and  if  he's  had  any  Christmas  dinner. 
Dear  old  Joe  r 

Pmdy  thought  of  the  old  boots  on  which  she 
had  "  got  well."  « If  he  was  only  here  to-day, 
shouldn't  Joe  have  a  big  slice  of  that  turkey !" 
she  said. 

Darley  looked  at  his  sisters.  He  knew,  for  a 
dead  certainty,  if  it  had  not  been  for  them,  he 
should  have  been  swinging  that  day  whh  Joe 
Dayton  on  the  wide,  lonely  sea,  or  riding  at 
anchor  in  some  foreign  port,  with  a  babble  of 
strange  tongues  all  around  him. 

'^It  might  have  been  ever  so  much  letter  fbr 
me,"  thought  Darley  ;  '*but  the  girls  wouldn't 
have  had  any  Christmas  dinner ;  nor  anything 
else.  No,  I'm  not  sorry  I  stayed  behind,  Joe ; 
BO  sir  /*' 

But  Darley  kept  these  thoughts  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Ton  most  take  a  leap  with  me,  straight  across 
the  weeks,  from  Christmas  to  the  last  days  of 
winter.  Things  on  the  surtee  appear  to  have 
seUled  back  into  their  old  grooves  with  th«  two 
households  at  Thomley.  Darley  is  still  selling 
papers^  aod  Prady  folding  books  at  the  armory, 
and  the  wolfs  lace,  gaunt  and  iieree,  is  at  the 
door  again,  and  the  old,  breathless  struggle  ^ 
must  be  kept  up  with  him ;  for  five  doUaiw, 
though  attenuated  to  their  utmost  limits,  will 
soon  give  out  in  oov«ring  household  ezpensea. 

At  the  house  on  the  hill  they  have  been 
having  a  merry,  bustling  sort  of  winter:  com- 
pany fWmi  Hew  York  coming  and  going;  and 
what  with  these,  and  Cressy's  Frendi  and  mu- 
sic, she  has  had  a  busy  time  of  it.  Her  Ikther 
intends  she  shall  have  every  advantage  and 
accomplishment.  He  is  bent  on  making  a  lady 
of  that  young  daughter  €^  his-^he  maa's  ideal 
of  one  not  being,  of  coniae,  of  the  faigbeal  sott, 


slill  it  would  pasB  muster  in  tlM  worid ;  i 
then,  with  Oressy,  there  is  good  mateiial 
work  on. 

The  family  have  been  down  to  the  eity,iB( 
or  less,  too,  taking  their  turn  at  the  gayetisi 
the  season — Ramsey  plunging  into  them  w 
a  doable  lesl  on  aocount  of  his  taste  of  The 
ley.  The  lather  is  secretly  uneasy  about  tl 
boy  of  his— is  wondering,  these  days,  in  a  g( 
deal  of  perplexity,  what  he  shall  do  with  hi 
Ramsey  is  rushing  toward  adolescence  a 
startling  rate,  and  his  lather  fears  is  inclii 
to  sow  wild  oats— which,  with  Forsyth,  i 
comprehensive  term  ibr  ^  late  hours^  and  drii 
ing,  and  the  Devil  knows  what" 

Yet  his  fiither  resAemben  ^  it  doesn't  de 
draw  the  reins  too  closely  with  such  hei 
young  coHs  as  Ramsey.  If  they  get  deepen 
they  will  break  the  lines,  and  there  will 
trouble." 

Fonyth  has  one  strong  grip  on  his  eU 
son :  the  former  holds  the  purse ;  and  where 
a  man  does  that,  he  has  the  power  to  mi 
himself  lelt;  and  Ramsey,  just  now,  is  incHi 
to  be  a  spendthrift,  and  this  question  of  moi 
has  come  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  slor4i 
scenes  between  the  ihther  and  son. 

Ramsey  Forsyth  has  only  come  acroM  \ 
newsboy  two  or  three  times  sinee  that  mc 
orable  Christmas-eve.  They  have  hardly  < 
changed  a  word ;  for  one,  at  these  times^  wsi 
his  carriage,  and  the  other  on  foot. 

Once  Proctor  and  Cressy  were  along,  al 
They  saw  the  sudden  lighting  of  the  newsbo 
face,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Ramsey,  and  1 
way  he  took  ofiT  his  little  black  cap  and  boi 
to  him,  something  half>reverential  in  the  g 
ture. 

What  was  the  most  astonishing  of  all,  Bs 
sey  lifted  his  cap  and  bowed  also,  as  poUb 
as  he  would  to  the  Presidentt  The  boyi 
girl  were  breathless  with  amazement.  To  tbi 
of  that  rough,  blustering  Rasosey  doing  thai 
to  a  newsboy,  too  I 

But  Ramsey  knew  what  he  was  about— km 
too,  ^at  he  stood,  in  the  eyes  of  that  newsb 
set  apart  and  consecrated,  something  noble  s 
heroic,  by  one  act  which  was  entirely  out 
the  general  line  of  his  life. 

Ramsey  never  put  it  in  words,  but  his  i 
stinet  was  none  the  less  true,  and  he  acted 
it.  There  was  a  boy  who  had  faith  in  hi 
believed  in  him,  as  nobody  else  in  the  wo] 
did ;  and  it  was  so  pleasant  to  this  domine 
ing,  headstrong  boy  to  know  this  in  his  inm< 
soul,  that  he  would  always  be  delicate  and  ge 
tie  toward  Darley  Hanes— whose  name  he  d 


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A    DOLLAR    A    DAT, 


m 


Mt  ^  flo  mndi  88  know— whatever  he  night 
ha  to  mil  the  net  of  the  world. 

fiameej  was  not  at  all  singular  in  this.  If 
yoa  reflect  a  iftoiaent,  you  will  see  that  people 
arBTerjapt  to  be^  to  a  good  degree,  what  others 
expect  of  them ;  and  this  fact  largely  aeoounts 
for  the  wide  discrepancies  ^  opinion  we  jueet 
with  regarding  the  same  peraon. 

How  often  a  peevish,  narrow,  selfiah.  wo- 
man is  sweet  and  generous,  and  altogether 
eharming  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  loves 
her.  And  she  is  this,  too,%ithoat  any  pre- 
meditated deception  on  her  pert.  She  knows 
htttlnotively  to  what  height  his  fancy  has  ex- 
alted her;  and  her  approbativeness,  and  some- 
thing better  than  that,  is  stirred  to  be  all  that 
she  seems. 

How  many  a  man,  ooarse,  hard,  more  or  less 
Imlal  aaoong  his  kind,  is  generoas,  thoughtftil, 
toider  to  the  woman  who  trusts  and  adores 
Mm.  It  Is  wonderfally  pleasant  to  he  a  hero 
in  anybody^s  eyes.  It  will  often  make  us  one 
kar  a  lltUe  while  at  least 

Of  oeonpe,  Bamsey  Fonyth  bad  never  rea- 
soned it  ont  to  himself  in  this  philosophical 
tehioD,  bat  lie  did  know  that  a  pair  of  eyes 
looked  at  him  from  nnder  the  newsboy's  bit  of 
black  cap,  filled  widi  grateful  admiration,  and 
that  no  other  eyes  in  the  world  looked  at  him 
la  that  way ;  and  it  wrought  in  Bamsey  a  glow 
of  feeling  for  Darley,  a  generoos  interest  in 
him,  sndi  as  the  youth's  soul  had  been  an  otter 
stranger  to  all  his  lilb. 

'^I  wanted  to  smile  and  how  to  him,  too/' 
'Siid  Oremy,-  drawing  her  head  into  the  eaniage, 
as  this  wheeled  around  the  corner;  ''but  be 
was  so  btisy  looking  at  yon,  Ramsey,  he  had  no 
ejes  for  anybody  beside.  Did  yoa  see^  Prootor  7" 

*I  shoald  rather  think  I  did.  I  tell  you 
BOW,  Bam,  yoa  ate  something  grand  to  that 
b^.    Couldn't  I  put  a  flea  in  his  ear  I" 

^And  I  tool"  piped  in  Cressy:  and  than 
they  both  laughed,  even  the  big  brother  joining 
in,  though  the  joke  was  hardly  a  oompiimeat 
to  himself. 

*The  fiist  chance  I  get»  I  riwU  speak  to  that 
bey,''  said  Orassy,  decidedly. 

Bamsey,  too,  fully  intended  ie  have  an  inter- 
view with  his  beneficiary,  and  bestow  another 
pieseot  apon  him ;  but  what  with  the  company 
at  home  and  the  visits  to  New  York,  Bamsey 
had  not  found  a  chance  this  winter  for  any- 
thing more  than  a  bare  exchange  of  recogni- 
tions with  the  newsboy  on  the  'Street. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  Utile  efieiM  had  trans- 
pired, Cheny  Hanee  was  hanging  home  jost 
■taightlOL 


The  Spring  had  actually  come  now,  bursting 
with  a  marvel  of  sunfthine,  and  a  soft  flutter  of 
windsy  right  out  of  the  winter,  the  vety  mood  of 
May  softening  the  stormy  front  of  March. 

The  little  girl  had  ooaM  out  partly  for  a 
walk,  partly  on  some  small  errands  for  Frudy, 
and  had  taken  a  long,  rather  cireaitoos  route 
home. 

She  was  on  the  bread  highway  still,  a  good 
half  mile  from  the  ''lean-to,"  when  she  ob- 
served a  rather  tall,  stout  gentleman,  in  the 
finest  of  broadcloths  and  the  most  shiniag  of 
beavera,  walking  rapidly  in  front  of  her.  He 
was  not  a  young  man,  oerUialy,  although  he 
brandished  a  cane  with  something  of  an  air, 
and  whistled  a  tune  occasionally. 

He  had  evidently  come  from  the  post-offioe, 
for  he  suddenly  thrust  bis  hand  into  his  pocket 
and  drew  out  a  quantity  of  mail,  glanced  over 
some  of  this,  and  thrust  the  greater  part  back ; 
but  one  letter,  slipping  out  of  the  owner's  hand, 
fell  to  the  ground,  and  the  man  passed  on, 
quite  unconscious  of  his  inadvertence. 

Cherry  saw  it  all.  The  stranger  walked  at 
a  rapid  gait,  and  he  had  torn  open  one  of  his 
letters,  and  was  reading  this  when  the  little 
^irl  came  up  with  him  breathlessly. 

"Sir,"  she  panted,  ''you  dropped  a  letter 
just  now  I"  and  she  held  it  up. 

The  stranger  turned  and  looked  at  her.  8aoh 
a  pretty  girlish  face  as  he  saw  looking  up  at 
him  eagerly,  under  the  shadow  of  that  brown 
hat,  the  cheeks  all  in  H  glow  with  the  race,  the 
hair  with  its  flickers  of  vivid  gold,  and  the 
sparkle  of  •  the  bluest  eyes!  He  had  a  face,  fair 
and  round,  and  just  about  the  age  of  this,  at 
home ;  and  it  is  likely  he  thought  of  it. 

Not  at  all.  When  that  face,  with  the  sparkle 
of  its  blue  eyes,  and  its  eheeks  like  peach  blos- 
soms that  shake  In  the  sunshine  in  the  last  hours 
of  May,  looked  up  at  the  man,  a  picture  leaped 
out  clear  and  vivid  in  his  memory,  though  the 
eoloKS'wero'iaid  on  it  fiir  ofi*  in  his  boyhood, 
more  than  fbity  yeass  ago. 

It  was  just  at  sunset,  ia  a  wide  oU -stone 
house  in  the  country.  There  was  an  air  of 
thrill  and  sobriety  all  about  the  ample  hmne, 
aa  it  lay  amongst  its  well-kept  grounds  and 
•rtthaads.  In  a  comer  of  the  pleasaart^  ample 
kitchen,  just  at  nightfall,  sits  a  boy,  on  the  edge 
of  his  teeas^  ragged  and  tired  and  friendless  as 
you  can  imagine.  A  small  boodle  lies  en  the 
floor  at  one  side  of  him.  It  eomprises  his  sole 
possessions  in  the  world*  He  has  walked  a 
number  of  miles  to-day,  and  he  ia  foot-sore  ami 
hangiy,  now  that  he  has  reached  the  end  of 
hie  joumey ;  te  tfaeowner  of  the  propefty  is 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


T^\ 


haTiDg  MHne  manhes  dniotd  4a  4he  east  of  his 
groands,  and  the  overMer,  happeaing  to  hX\ 
upon  this  boy,  wbo  waa  looking  around  for 
wojrk^  hae  engaged  him  lor  the  next  month  to 
''do  choree"  for  the  hande. 

It  is  curious  bow,  looking  baok  acroea  the 
loog  upland  swell  of  those  fortj  jears,  the  man 
sees  the  sunset  smiling  on  the  walls  and  the 
shadows  of  the  grape*¥ine  ashake  on  the  floor 
in  old  Squire  Butterfield's  kitchen. 

Nobody  pays  any  aUenlion  to  the  boy  in  the 
comer,  for  the  ample  stone  house  overflows 
with  company  this  aflemooB,  and  hands  and 
feet  of  serrants  are  hxnsj,  and  eannot  stop  for 
anything  of  so  little  coBseqneaoeas  the  "hands' 
chore-boy/'  if  he  does  sit  tired  and  hungry  in 
the  comer.  Most  likely  they  do  not  ooce  think 
of  him. 

But  suddenly  a  little  girl  bounds  into  the 
kiteheu.  8he  wears  a  white  dress,  and  a  crim- 
son sash  about  her  waist^  and  she  cannot  have 
mounted  higher  than  a  doien  of  her  birthdays. 
She  stops  a  moment,  and  stares  at  the  boy  out 
of  her  blue  eyes,  and  dances  about  the  kitohen 
a  moment,  having  over  some  merry  jests  with 
the  maids  about  the  compftny ;  and  tlien  she 
goes  away,  stopping  a  moment  at  the  door  to 
glance  back  again  curiously  at  the  boy. 

In  less  than  a  minute  she  returns  again,  and 
flutters  up  straight  to  him,  with  some  pity 
straggling  up  into  the  brightness  of  her  lace. 
She  says  something  now,  as  frank  and  kindly 
as  tboi^h  she  felt  no  difference  between  them-<- 
he  the  ragged,  friendless  chore-boy  in  her 
fitther's  kitchen,  and  she  the  iair,  daintily 
reared  daughter  of  Squire  Butterfield. 

He  brightens  np  at  that,  and  there  is  a  liUle 
brisk  talk  between  the  twov  and  the  gtrl  very 
soon  discovers  that  the  boy  has  walked  ten 
milea  since  monung,  and  that  he  is  tiied  and 
almost  starved. 

When  the  squire's  little  daughter  learns  that, 
the  pity  has  no  longer  a  stmggla  with  her  ho^^ 
it  almost  puts  out  the  brightness. 

*'Wait  a  minute,''  she  says^  hurrying  off 
breathlessly  to  a  side  door.  She  has  hardly 
gone  before  she  is  back  again,  bringing  a  trsy 
heaped  with  aliaea  of  tongu^  and  dainty  bis- 
cnil,  and  cake,  and  berries  half  drowned  in 
cream-^a  banquet  flt  for  a  prince. 

The  girl  plaoes  the  txmy  before  the  boy. 
''Don't  you  stop  eating,  now/'  she  says,  "until 
you  can't  get  down  another  mcmthful;"  and  so, 
with  a  happy  little  laugh,  she  flatters  off  again 
to  the  company. 

And  this  was  the  pictore  which  flashed  oot 
in  Ihe  man's  memory  wiUi  tiie  freah  tints  of 


yeiUrday,  as  the  littk  girl  liftsd  up  her  fti 
to  him  in  the  road  and  handed  liim  the  droypi 
letter. 

"What  is  yoar  name^  my  Uttle  girl?"  1 
asked,  very  kindly,  taking  the  k|tef  like  ei 
in  a  dream. 

",Gheny  Hane^  sir/'  a  little  auipriaed  at  tl 
question  and  the  stare. 

That  told  the  whole  story.  Sqnire  B«tt< 
field's  daughter  had  married  a  young  sorv^ 
with  that  MumaaM,  and  Gheny  had  inherit 
her  mother's  bM. 

The  ragged,  homdess  boy  who  sat  thst  sv 
set  in  the  kitchen  corner,  and  the  portly  itn 
ger  who  had  jiMt  taken  the  letterirora  the  lit 
girl's  hand,  was  Bichazd  Foasyth. 

His  gaxe  went  all  over  Cherry,  fiill  of  staitl^ 
kindly  intereai.  The  little  brown  hat  and  fed 
sack  had  its  own  story  to  tall.  ThenuuDtheoi 
of  the  litde  girl  in  her  white  froek  and  erimi 
sash,  and  of  hia  own  daughter  al  home  in  li 
gay  drsases. 

"  See  here,  I  must  give  yon  a  little  somethi 
for  this,"  said  Forsyth,  in  sneh  a  tone  u 
hardly  ever  used  toward  anybody  in  the  wer 
unless  it  might  be  Gres^,  in  hia  softest  me« 
and  he  drew  oot  his  pnrse  before  Cherry  w 
understood  what  he  WM  about,  and  handed  1 
a  teupdollar  bill. 

"Oh,  sir,  I  can't  Uke  all  that  l"  faltered  t 
child,  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  amonnt,  i 
staring  at  the  stranger  as  one  might  at  soi 
old  magician  who  had  waved  his  wand  wh 
a  shining,  cloud  of  precious  stones  dropi 
through  the  aii;.  "It  was  such  n  litUe  thinj 
did." 

"lilever  mind,  my  dear,"  patting  her  on  I 
shoulder  as  he  patted  Ores^  enoe  in  a  gr< 
while.  Tviea  little  girl  at  honaa  about  y<: 
sine,  and  she's  always  wanting  some  pretty  gi 
crack  or  other.  JNow  go.  and  get  a  toy  oi 
ribbon,  or  whatever  you  want."  And  wi 
these  words  lio  half  forced  the  money  ii 
Cherry's  fin^em. 

Forsyth  went  on,  not  reading  his  lette 
more  impressed  than  one,  knowing  Ihe  ml 
pachydermatous  natore  of  Ihe  maui  wonld  h> 
conceived  possible. 

"What  an  old  hnmbog  this  world  wsi 
went  the  man's  thought.  "  T<»  think  of  Squi 
.Buttei€eld  with  his  wealth  and  reapectabili 
and  his  granddaughter  coming  down  li 
that  I" 

As  for  Cherry's  mother,  he  had  acaroely  sc 
her  after  that  night  when  she  floated  like 
ai^  into  ihe  gloom  and  need  of  hia  boyhoo 
for,  though  he  remained  working  n  ooople 


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DUST  IN    THE    EYE. 


279 


nootbt  on  the  manheB,  the  girl  went  away  with 
di«  Mit  of  the  fiunU/^  and  did  not  retora  vntii 
Ihebqyhadleit 

In  the  rush  and  «trala  of  hia  citjr  life^  Forsyth 
bad  kept  little  Uack  of  old  names  and  aoquaiot- 
ancee;  but  he  recalled  now  boating  rumors 
,«iuch  had  reached  him  that  the  squire's  hand- 
iQiie  eon-in-law  had  oome  to  grief^  breaking 
ivro  with  diink  and  misfortune,  dying  and- 
^7  at  the  last,  leaving  his  wife  a  mere  wreck 
^  her  father's  oomfortable  fortune. 

"Well,  folks  went  up  and  down  curiously 
with  this  rolling  of  old  Foxtune'R  wheel  T*  For- 
i^rlh  mottered  to  himself. 

He  wondered  vaguely  how  the  iamily  bad 
diifted  up  into  ThoraJey,  Squire  Butterfield's 
dd  home  being  at  least  thijrty  miles  away. 

''The  girl  must  have  oome  down  to  pretty 
hud^re,  to  look  so  dombfomided  ojver  a  ten- 
doUirbUL'' 

He  thought  of  Cressy,  and  wished  he  had 
doubled  the  money ;  and  it  was  about  the  first 
lime  in  his  life  that  Bichard  Fon^ytk  had 
viihed  anything  of  that  sort. 

He  thought  of  JtaaNiey»  too,  ooeeaily,  re- 
aembering  Squire  Butterfield'a  son-in-'law-^ 
Meiiig  to  what  im  end  all  that  fair  promise  had 
««D&  Indeed,  Fonyth's  secret  uneasiness  with 
i^gird  to  his  eldest  bay  waa  growing  these  days. 
SHie  Utter  had  made  aome  cronies  in  an  a^ioin- 
ing  town—fiuit,  loose,  wild  yovmg  men,  whose 
CMQpaiiioBship  would  be  likely  to  work  mis- 
diief  in  the  hoy's  hot  blood. 

So  Bamsey's  youth  was  getting  to  he  a  prob- 
km  which  might  well  haw  perplexed  the  heart 
«Dd  brain  of  a  jodieious  parent.  Yet,  when  it 
ouDe  to  the  worst,  Bamaey  Fonsyth  would  find 
diat  his  father  waa  not  a  man  to  be  trified  witli. 
^ybody  could  have  tcfld  that»  looking  at  the 
■el  of  Foray  til's  jawa. 

Cherry  Uanes  went  home  with  one  hand  in 
W  pocket,  her  fingers  xiihbii^  the  bank-note 
n^y  every  few  moments  to  be  certain  it  was 
there.    She  stemed  to  walk  on  air, 

1^0  more  rent  to  think  about  for  nearly  a 
qoarterl  What  would  Prudy  aay?  It  must 
In  a  miracle  had  happened;  alUioiigh  that 
•tout,  aolid-hmking  stcai^gjer,  with  hia  grayiah 
^)«wd  and  hair,  had  auch  a  very  material  look, 
that  Cherry  could  not  for  oocf  set  him  down  as 
uaogeL 

But  the  little  girl  did  i|ot  auspect  that  the 
dead  mother'a  hand,  turning  to  dust,  had 
lifted  itself  out  of  the  grave  and  drawn 
^«a  this  blessing  Q(ppa  her  youog  daughterVi 
httd, 

(2b66«m^u0d.)  o'. 


DUST  IN  THE  EYE. 

(See  Engraving.) 

LOVING  bo  the  touch,  aad  tender, 
Which  would  dear  a  dnat-dimmed  eye. 
Skilful  be  the  aid  we  render, 
Prompt  the  sQceor  we  apply. 

What  ia  aU  eai«h'4  UoMa  aad  beaoiy^ 

Xvae  and  rirer,  sky  and  aaalB, 
If  tha  eye  fergoea  ite  dnty— » 

Crystal  window  of  the  brain. 

Splendors  of  the  starry  spaees 

Fade  iMfore  a  note  or  epcfek ; 
PfHarea,  beeka,  and  fMeadly  feoes 

M iagle  in  oae  mtely  wreck. 

But  Love's  firm  and  gentle  finger 

Clears  the  vision  with  a  touch : 
Love  will  never  fail  or  linger 

When  its  aid  avails  so  much. 

Ah !  there  is  a  deeper  bUadness, 
Dust  whiah  darkens  the  —uTm  eyes, 

Calling  loud  for  Christian  kindness. 
Skilful  help  and  patlenee  wise. 

What  is  all  Heaven's  matehless  glory 

Te  an  earth-beokmded  mtodr 
What  the  sweet  and  giaeieiia  stery 

Of  the  SavkMff  of  manUnd? 

Golden  street  or  pearly  portal 

Of  the  Kow  Jerusalem  ? 
Lustrous  crown  of  life  immortal, 

Starred  with  many  a  dazsling  gemf 

Graoe  aad  glory  both  are  hidden, 
Clouds  of  dust  09  all  sides  roll,  ^ 

'Till,  by  God  the  Spirit  bidden. 
Light  is  shed  upon  the  souL     ' 

Are  tiMte  some  wbom  we  love  deariy 

etopiag  darkly  at  aooiidayr 
Let  as  help  then  4o  see  elearly, 

Lei  as  bniih  earth's  dust  away. 

Faithhil  be  our  words,  and  tender, 

Ceaselet s  let  our  prayers  arise, 
•Till  the  dawn  of  Heaven's  own  splendor 

Breaks  upon  their  wondering  eyes! 

I  AM  sent  to  the  ant  to  learn  industry ;  to  the 
dove  ta  learn  innocence ;  to  the  serpent  to  leain 
wisdom  •,  and  why  not  to  the  robin  red-breaat, 
who  chaunta  it  as  cheerftiHy  in  winter  as  in 
Btimmer,  to  learn  eqnanimlty  and  patience? 

Hs  who  can  wait  for  what  he  desires,  takes 
the  oourae  not  to  be  ezeeediDgly  grieved  if  he 
iaiU  of  iL  He,  on  the  contrary,  who  labon 
after  a  ilung  too  impataeally,  thinks  the  success, 
when  it  comes,  is  not  a  recompense  equal  to  all 
the  paina  be  has  been  at  abottklt. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


K'*! 


A  TRUE  STORY. 


THE  following  is  from  the  pen  of  Rer.  T.  K. 
Beecher : 

In  the  field  hack  of  mj  houee,  and  np  the 
hill,  are  two  nice  springs.  From  one  I  draw 
water  to  my  house  through  pipes,  white  the 
water  from  the  other  goes  to  my  bam  and  my 
neighbor's  house.  The  water  nuia  verf  swiftly, 
because  it  is  running  down  hil).  It  isfkr  easier 
to  run  down  hill  than  it  is  to  run  np. 

The  pipe  enters  this  spring,  not  at  the  top  of 
the  water,  nor  at  the  bottom  either.  If  it  were 
at  the  top,  the  soom  would  get  into  the  pipe, 
and  a  floating  hog  now  and  then.  If  it  were  at 
the  bottom,  dregs  and  sediment  would  get  in. 
So  the  pipe  goes  in  about  six  inches  below  the 
top  of  the  water. 

When  we  are  drawing  water  at  the  bam  for 
the  horses,  and  my  neighbor  draws  water  at 
the  same  time  for  her  washing^iay,  the  pipe 
sucks  at  a  great  rate.  But  it  draws  in  nothing 
but  pure  water,  if  all  floating  things^  keep  at 
the  top,  and  all  heavy  things  lie  still  at  the 
bottom.    Now  for  my  story. 

One  morning  there  was  a  gay  yoong  frog 
about  as  big  as  half  my  thBmb---too  big  for  a 
tadpole,  too  small  for  a  wiM  Irog.  He  could 
go  just  where  he  pleased.  He  did  not  have  to 
float  with  the  bugs,  for  he  knew  how  to  dive. 
He  did  not  have  to  stay  at  the  bottom  with  the 
dregs,  for  he  knew  how  to  swim.  So  he  kicked 
out  his  little  hind  legs  and  swam  all  around 
the  spring,  doing  very  much  as  he  pleased. 

One  day  he  saw  the  little,  rotund  black  hole 
of  the  pipe,  where  the  water  was  mnning  in 
quite  freely.  He  wondered  where  it  led  to. 
He  put  his  nose  in  and  felt  the  watar  pull,  and 
was  a  little  scared,  and  banked  oat.  Bat  it  was 
such  a  funny  feeling  to  be  encked  that  way ;  it 
felt  kind  of  good  round  his  nose,  and  he  swam 
up  and  looked  in  again.  He  went  in  as  much 
as  half  an  inch,  and  then  the  water  got  behind 
him  and  he  was  drawn  all  in.  "Here goes T' 
said  he;  "I  shall  see  what  I  shall  seel" .  And 
along  he  went  with  the  water,  till  he  came  to 
where  the  pipe  makes  a  bend  for  my  barn — a 
sharp  bend,  straight  up.  As  the  water  was 
quiet  there,  he  gave  a  little  kiek  and  got  up 
into  a  still,  dark  place,  close  by  the  barrel 
where  the  horse  drinks.  "Well,"  said  he, 
"  it's  a  snug  place  here,  but  rather  lonely  and 
dark," 

Now  and  then  he  tboogfat  oi  the  spring,  and 
the  Hght,  and  the  beautiful  room  he  used  to 
have  to  swim  in,  and  he  tried  to  swim  back 
against  the  stream.  But  the  water  was  on  him, 
or  running  by  him  swifUy,  and  he  had  no  room 
(280) 


to  kick  in  the  pipe.  So  eretj  time  he  star 
to  go  back  to  the  spring  he  would  work  hi 
fbr  a  few  minutes,  then  get  tired  and  slip  h 
into  the  dark  place  by  the  barrel. 

By  and  by  he  grew  contented  there.  ^ 
water  brought  him  enough  to  eat  He  shot 
eyes  and  grew  stupid,  stopped  exercising  and 
fat ;  and  as  he  had  no  room  to  grow  very  bif 
the  pipe,  he  had  to  grow  all  long,  and  no  brci 
But  he  grew  as  big  as  he  could,  till  at  last 
stopped  up  the  pipe. 

Then  I  had  to  go  out  and  see  what  was 
matter,  for  the  horse  had  nothing  to  drink. 
(  jerked  away  the  barrel,  pulled  out  the  li 
plug,  and  pat  a  nunrod  down ;  felt  a  pprin 
leatheiy  something,  and,  pushing,  down 
went,  and  out  gushed  the  water.  '*  What  y 
thatr  I  thought  So  I  palled  out  the 
plug,  and  put  down  an  iron  ramrod  f 
churned  it  two  or  three  times,  and  then  let  i 
water  run,  and  out  came  a  great,  long,  rednu 
white,  and  bleeding  frog. 

I  couldn't  put  him  together  again.  Ai 
thing  that  gets  sucked  into  tlie  pipe  and  gn 
up  in  those  dark  plaees,  has  to  oome  out  d€ 
and  all  in  pieces.  I  wondered  how  such  a 
frog  could  ever  have  got  into  so  small  a  pi 
Then  a  wise  lady  in  my  house  told  me.  "  Wi 
he  went  in  when  he  waa  little  and  foolish,  i 
grew  up  in  there!" 

I  cannot  get  that  poor  frog  out  of  my  mil 
He  was  so  like  some  yomig  folks  that  I  hi 
seen.  They  froHeked  op  to  the  door  ol 
theatre,  or  they  stood  and  looked  into  a  b 
room,  or  they  just  wanted  to  go  to  one  ball, 
got  ont  behind  the  bam  to  vmoke  a  pipe, 
went  off  sleigh-ridtng  with  some  gay  yov 
man  without  asking  leate^-or  some  way  ] 
their  foolish  noses  into  a  dark  bole  thatl 
frmny,  and  led  they  didn^t  know  where.  FN 
soon,  in  they  go.  When  they  want  to  get  bi 
they  can't ;  and  they  grow  bigger^  and  wicked 
and  all  out  of  shape  in  that  dark  place, 
they  come  out  at  last,  they  are  all  jammed  ^ 
knocked  to  pieces,  sick,  or  dying,  or  de 
When  I  see  them  in  their  coffins,  I  hear  lb 
ask :  "  How  came  be  to  throw  himself  an 
sor  ''What  made  hfan  drink  himself 
death f  ''How  happened  she  to  go  off 
infamy  ?"    '*  How  came  he  to  be  a  gambler  I 

Then  I  shall  audwer  as  the  wise  lady  U 
me  aboot  the  £mg:  *'They  went  in  when  th 
were  little  and  foolish,  and  grew  np  there. 
bad  habit  hugs  a  man  tigkter,  and  jams  bi 
out  of  shape  worse,  than  my  pipes  did  tl 
poor  frog. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BT  FIF8XS81WAT  wm. 


IJo.  lU. 


IT  was  a  darling  little  window  into  which  I 
peeped  lately.  It  did  me  real  good.  It  is 
a  long  story,  but  I  will  make  it  short. 

The  Ladies'  Benevolent  Bewing  Society  met 
at  Brother  Jinkins's,  oar  pastor'By  and  while  we 
women  were  all  talking  together,  cross  fire,  I 
heard  old  Mrs.  Gambril  say  to  a  little  qoiet 
woman  who  sat  on  Susy  Jinkins's  low  chair 
beside  her ;  ''Well,  I  believft,  takin'  as  a  class, 
that  step-mothers  are  better  and  kinder  than 
they  get  credit  for.  Yon  always  seem  to  get 
along  yery  well  with  your  step-children.  I 
Botfeed  the  night  of  our  last  parin'-bee,  that 
^cn  the  cake  was  passed  round,  that  Byron 
wrapped  his  up  in  a  piece  of  paper,  and  said 
he'd  rather  take  it  home  to  his  mother  than  to 
eat  it  himself." 

The  fkce  of  the  little  woman,  Mra.  Bntler, 
grew  radiant,  bright,  beautifal,  at  these  words, 

Cil  I  so  longed  to  hear  what  the  glad  little 
p-mother  would  reply,  that  I  dropped  my 
thimble  to  roll  in  that  direction,  so  that  I  might 
get  nearer.  It  rolled  under  her  chair,  and 
when  I  followed  and  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  J 
was  so  low  down  that  I  just  sat  still  on  the  car- 
pet beride  her,  and  pretended  to  be  intent  on 
"gavet,  and  seam,  and  band.** 

**  When  I  firat  married  Mr.  Batter,''  she  said, 
I  used  to  hear  so  many  people  say,  '^  She'll 
nerer  manage  Byron."  Instead  of  making  m#  { 
kmt  or  dislifca  the  poor  boy,  it  only  dtew  me 
nearer  to  him.  He'd  been  a  sickly  baby  and 
had  been  petted,  and  spoiled,  and  allowed  to 
have  his  own  way ;  then  for  two  years  before 
his  mother  died  she  had  been  sick,  and  weak, 
aad  leeble  aeariy  ail  the  time,  and  he'd  been  left 
to  the  care  of  thonghtleas  hired  girls^  who  cared 
Dothing  for  him  only  to  keep  him  still  or  get  him 
eat  of  the  way.  He  felt  kind  of  desperate  as 
though  nobody  loved  him  or  cared  for  him, 
just  as  all  bad  boys  do. 

^'Thers^s  a  key  to  every  boy's  heart,  and  the 
fast  thing  I  did  was  to  search  for  the  right  key. 
It  did  not  take  me  very  long  to  find  it.  Byron 
tned  to  adasire  my  long  hair,  and  say  that 
when  I  shook  it  down  it  was  foil  of  ripples,  just 
like  water  when  the  winds  blow  softly  over  it. 
I  woold  let  him  comb  it  for  me,  and  fuss  over 
it,  and  pot  it  ap  the  ways  he  liked  best ;  then 
I  would  oonb  his  into  pretty  ways^  and  take  a 


bit  of  sponge^  and  toilet  soap,  and  warm  water, 
and  wash  his  neck,  and  ears,  and  forehead,  and 
I  always  ended  by  kissibg  hit^<dean  fooe,  and 
telling  him  I  knew  he  would  grow  into  a  good, 
loving,  true  man. 

**  I  Qsed  to  do  little  things  that  I  knew  would 
please  him.  Now  I  never  saw  a  boy  yet  who 
didn't  like  gravy>  of  most  any  kind.  That's  a 
boy's  weak  place.  When  we  hadn't  cbieken, 
or  veal,  or  fresh  beef,  I  would  put  a  bit  of  butter 
in  the  spider  and  let  it  melt  and  get  a  little  hot. 
Then  I  would  dredge  in  a  coople  of  spoonsful 
of  floor,  and  stir  it  until  it  wss  brown,  then  I 
would  poor  in  gradually  nearly  a  pint  of 
creamy,  unskimmed  milli^  and  is  soon  as  it 
began  to  bubble  and  cook,  it  was  done.  He 
called  it  'ma's  cream  gr»vy,'  and  he  was  very 
fond  of  it  Be  sare  it  took  a  little  time,  hot 
what  was  that  compared  to  the  life,  and  happi- 
ness,  and  character  that  all  lay  in  ray  own 
hands.  The  little  boy  would  grow  to  man- 
hood, and  that  manhood  would  be  just  what  I 
had  made  it, 

''Again,  no  one  ever  saw  a  ten-year-old  boy 
who  did  not  like  tarts,  and  tumoven,  and  little 
patty^pan  pies.  On  baking  days  I  always  man- 
aged to  have  a  bit  of  pie  crust  left  or  btscoit 
doogh,  so  that  he  was  made  glad  by  a  little  pie 
or  cake. 

^  In  the  evenings  when  I  would  be  washing 
dishes,  he  would  put  on  one  of  my  long  aprons, 
and  take  a  dish-towel  and  wipe  and  set  away 
the  dishes  as  neatly  as  any  girl  could,  then  he 
would  draw  my  little  rocking-chair  ap  to  the 
stand  and  sit  down  beside  me,  and  lay  his  head 
in  my  lap  and  say :  '  Now  tell  us  one  of  your 
good  stories,  mother.' 

^I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  carried 
Byron's  case  to  Qod  in  prayer.  I  was  so  anz- 
ioos  to  make  a  good  boy  of  him,  and  to  do  my 
whole  doty,  that  I  was  willing  to  do  anything 
in  the  world  that  was  right.  I  cried  like  a 
baby  when  he  first  called  me '  mother.'  I  often 
heard  him  talking  to  the  other  children  after 
they  had  gone  to  bed,  and  once  I  heud  him 
say,  'I  don't  believe  there's  another  woman  in 
this  State  as  good  as  oar  little  mother  is,  aod 
we  most  try  and  do  everything  thai  will  make 
her  glad.; 

**  Batler  often  laughs  and  says  I  never  ooald 
,.(281) 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ARTHUR'S    LADT8    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


have  mftnaged  Bjron  if  I  hadn't  hit  on  the 
ta mover  plan ;  but  I  tell  him  that  there  never 
was  a  boj  yet  bo  stubborn,  or  iU^natttred,  or 
selfish,  or  ugly,  but  that  he  had  a  kind  heart  if 
one  could  only  find  the  key  to  iL  My  optnios 
is  that  there  are  too  often  Aunt  liarys,  and 
Aunt  Hanners,  and  meddlesome  relations  thai 
make  mischief  between  second  moiheft  and  the 
poor  little  bewildered,  bereft  ehildreni  ^ho 
know  not  wb^pein  lies  doty,  and  justice^  aad 
respect" 

I  was  sorry  when  the  suljeet  changed,  and 
the  women  went  to  talking  of  aomething  else. 
I  had  been  edified  fiur  more  than  though  I  had 
listened  to  one  of  Brother  Jinkijis^s  long  ser- 
mons, extending  even  to  the  usaal  "  and  sav- 
entbly,  and  lastly." 

My  heart  wanned,  I  am  free  to  ooafett,  to- 
ward the  seven  motherless  children  of  poor, 
lone^  lorn.  Deacon  Skiles!  I  thonglit  if  the 
Lord  in  his  wisdom  did  give  me  that  woi^  to 
do,  1  woaM  try  the  little  woman's  turnover 
plan. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Jones  pulled  up  her  white 
stockings,  at  the  same  time  saying:  '*  You  must 
excuse  me,  ladies,  bat  I  feel  miserable  all  day 
with  these  shrunken  stockings  creeping  down 
all  the  time.  This  is  only  the  third  tioae  I 
ever  wore  them,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  never 
wear  them  again.  They  have  only  been  washed 
twice,  and  they  have  shrunken  so  that  I  shall 
have  to  give  them  to  one  of  my  girla»  I  do 
wonder  what  is  the  reason — ^I'm  sore  I  knit  them 
large  enough  P' 

Then  the  whole  sisterhood  set  up  a  cackle 
full  of  information.  One  said  do  this^  and 
another  said  do  that,  and  another  said  she 
always  did  so-and-sa 

I,  Pipny  Potu,  didn't  say  a  word ;  I  was  a 
little  ashamed  to  let  the  women  know  that  I 
could  gather  up  quite  an  armful  of  white  home- 
knit  woollen  hose  at  home,  too  amall  to  fit  any 
of  the  family  with  any  d^ree  of  oomibrt.  So 
I  kept  still  and  listened. 

One  woman  Miid  wash  your  stockings  io  suds 
just  as  hot  as  you  can  bear  to  put  your  bands 
in ;  one  said  rinse  in  hot  suds,  and  another  said 
in  eold  water,  and  another  said  don't  rinse  at 
all.  Each  one  thought  her  own  way  best,  but 
I  had  tried  all  of  them  and  found  none  to  be 
good. 

"Here,"  said  Granny  Graham,  lifting  the 
hem  of  her  btown  calico  drem,  is  a  pair  of 
stockings  that  have  been  in  wear  for  over  thne 
years,  and  they  are  as  kHig;  and  wide,  and 
roomy,  and  as  soft  as  when  I  first  knit  them. 
They  never  shrank  one  bi^  and  I  did  just  what 


my  mother  taught  me  down  in  York,  Pennsyl- 
vania, more  than  fifty  years  ago.  She  alwtyi 
MM  her  white  woollen  yam  a  minute  or  two 
before  she  washed  it  the  first  time.  If  yoa  do 
that,  ladies,  you  will  never  be  troubled  with 
your  white  stockings  shrinking  and  beccMning 
too  small.  Don't  ever  knit  white  yam  until 
you  have  boiled  it." 

I  was  very  glad  to  find  out  this  secret  tkat 
has  baffled  me  all  through  my  life— lain  some- 
how hidden  or  out  of  my  reach.  Why  there 
is  hardly  a  day  passes  in  which  I  do  not  letjn 
something  new  1  Kow,  only  last  week,  I  foosd 
out  something  that  has  troubled  and  peiplezfd 
me  for  years. 

I  am  obliged  to  study  economy  in  time, 
strength,  health,  in  means,  and  in  food  and 
clothes  for  the  deacon's  family,  and  in  all  mat- 
ters pertaining  to  the  household  of  a  farmer  in 
comfortable  circumstances.  I  thought  a  £bv 
years  ago,  when  we  killed  a  fat  cow  late  in  the 
fall,  that  by  saving  the  tallow  every  time  I 
boiled  a  piece  of  bee(  I  wcold  accumulate 
enough  to  keep  us  in  candles.  When  I  had  a 
crock  full  I  put  it  in  a  kettle  of  water,  heated 
It,  let  it  sUnd  until  it  was  cold,  then  took  it  off 
oleauy  and  whiter  and  nice  as  any  talh)W.  I 
made  a  dcaei  candle^  and  they  were  soft  adP 
oily,  and  would  not  do  at  all.  I  did  not  know 
what  was  the  reaaon,  so  I  went  about  hardao- 
ing  the  tallow  after  the  proceM  by  which  laid 
is  made  into  candles,  with  alum  and  saltpiCre, 
and  something  else,  bitt  that  did  no  good.  I 
experimented  with  that  potful  of  stufi'aU  win- 
ter, and  at  last  when  it  was  Strang  and  gresajr, 
and  as  brown  as  dead  leaves^  I  gave  up  and  pot 
Ut  into  the  soap-grease. 

Jiwt  last  week  I  fbuad  out  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. The  skim  from  a  pot  oT  boiled  beef  is  tal- 
low, and  will  do  to  use  aa  such,  while  that  from 
bony  boiled  pieces  is  marrowy,  and  should  he 
used  in  cooking  hash,  and  frying  hee(  warm- 
ing over  potatoes,  and  in  any  kind  of  cooking 
is  very  good  to  mix  in  with  butter  or  lanL  It 
is  fine  and  nutritious,  and  should  be  kept  in  a 
crock  by  Itself  for  cooking  purposes.  I  mf' 
pooe  there  is  no  process  by  which  rich  marrowy 
skimmings  can  be  hardened  into  tallow,  and  in 
fact  there  should  not  be,  for  the  cook  woald 
be  deprived  of  one  of  her  most  useful  aaxll* 
iaries. 

Tlie  carpet  in  the  sitting-ioom  at  the  par 
sonage  was  getting  shabby,  and  the  warp  giviag 
way  in  places  all  over  the  floor.  Sister  Jinkiaa 
had  mended  it  and  denied  it,  and  kept  it  re- 
spectable as  long  as  she  oonld«  Before  we  le^ 
we  women  agreed  to  meet  at  my  hottse  the  next 


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OTHBB    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS. 


TliiindaT,  tnd  bring  in  til  the  nice  rtfgs  we 
had,  and  fill  to  worii  and  make  her  «  new 
web,  and  have  it  finished  \j  her  birtbdajr. 

The  dcKStor's  wife,  and  the  profeaaor^a,  and 
the  lawver'a  who  live  in  the  village  will  con- 
tribnte  money  enough  to  buy  nice  red-and«green 
varp ;  siater  Bogga  haa  a  loom,  and  ahe  will 
cheerftilly  weave  it,  while  we  women  with  big 
&milica  and  plenty  of  worn  garment,  will  find 
and  prepare  the  filling.  Within  aeven  years  I 
have  #uide,  with  the  assistance  of  the  little 
FottBeaone  hundred  and  seventy  yards,  and 
eveiT  laat  web  is  the  nicest.  Home-made  cai^ 
pet  18  80  suitable  tooonntry  homes,  and  harmo- 
Diiea  well  with  everything  else. 

We  will  make  this  piece  red  and  green,  and 
the  filling  will  be  nearly  all  shades  of  brown, 
ranging  fit>m  a  dark  rich  maroon,  down  to 
the  pale,  beautiful  tint  of  dead  chestnut-leavea. 

When  the  women  brought  in  their  old  gar- 
mmta  to  rip  and  tear  in  narrow  strips,  I  was 
Binick  with  the  economy  displayed  in  the  patch* 
iDg  on  thoae  brought  by  Mrs.  Mowers.  Every 
patch  was  set  on  the  outside,  and  the  thin  place 
covered  over,  instead  of  cot  oat,  the  way  such 
vork  ia  usually  done.  Then,  if  the  patch  was 
on  the  knee  of  an  old  pair  of  pantaloons,  ail  she 
bad  to  do  was  to  rip  It  o%  and  the  ^rhole  leg 
of  the  garment  coilld  be  torn  into  strips  of  the 
right  width  ibr  carpet  fil ling.  This  was  a  great 
nving.  She  said  she  learned  how  to  sew  on 
patcfaea  that  way  from  her  uncle^  who  was  an 
old  seanaiptain  and  alwayadid  his  own  patch- 
ing- 

When  Jonathan  went  away  to  college,  two 
jeara  ago,  one  of  hia  best  'pairs  of  pantaloons 
were  quite  worn  out  with  sitting  so  much-— he 
had  been  a  student  three  years.  I  ripped  the 
seam  down  behind,  and  cut  out  the  worn  places 
iato  shapely  pieees  as*!  could,  and  took  them 
for  measorea  for  new  patchea,  that  I  cut  and 
titled  in,  sewing  in  a  seam  all  round,  which  I 
dampened^  and  pressed,  and  made  to  look 
almost  as  freah  aa  new.  They  didn't  look  like 
poiehed  clothea  at  all.  I  told  him  if  they 
seemed  patchy  and  poor  to  him,  he  must  con- 
sole and  cheer  himself  by  the  winy  old  words 
of: 

"  Honor  and  shame  from  no  oondifcloa  rise, 
Act  well  yoar  part,  thfere  all  the  honor  lies." 

Ida  met  me  when  I  came  in  from  the  office 
last  nighty  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up^  her  hair 
poshed  away  back,  a  big  apron  on,  and  her 
eyes  were  die  gladdest  I  have  looked  into  for 
msny  months. 

"I  oooldnH  stand  it  any  longer,''  she  said  ,* 


"it  was  no  use  to  try  to  keep  the  bed-room  in 
order  with  all  our  shoes,  and  rubbess,  and  gait- 
era,  and  slippeis  to  move  every  time  X  swept 
the  floor.  It  was  quite  like  a  shoe-shop,  with. 
all  yours,  and  Lily's,  and  mine,  sod  sometimea 
an  odd  pair  of  grandma's,  or  the  school-ma'am's. 
Come  and  see  what  Fve  done,"  and  she  marched 
ofi'into  our  pretty  bedroom. 

By  an  ingenious  contrivance  she  had  fitted  in, 
behind  the  bedroom  door,  a  strip  of  narrow  win- 
dow casing,  a  reminiscence  of  the  old  Sylvan  Dell 
baptist  ehoTch,  about  eight  inches  from  the 
door  frame.  Then  she  had  taken  a  strip  of  old 
doth  about  six  feet  long,  and  sewed  square 
pockets  on  all  the  length  of  it,  and  tacked  the 
two  sides  of  the  row  of  pockets  on  the  door  frame 
and  the  window  casing,  and  made  it  secure 
and  neat.  It  waa  a  very  nice  job  and  well 
done. 

From  the  highest  and  upper  pockets  peeped 
out  my  gaiter  boots  and  alippera,  becaoae  I  was 
the  talleat ;  then  came  hen^  and  loweat  down 
were  Lily's  little  bright  ooqoettiah  tips  peeping 
out  like  eunnf ng  eyes.  A  couple  of  stout  loops 
held  the  common  paraaoli^  and  a  long  scab- 
baidy  side<pocket  contained  my  big  blue  cotton 
umbrella.  It  stood  up  as  dignified  as  though 
it  were  a  field-marshal  out  on  doty. 

When  the  door  was  open  no  one  would  sus- 
pect the  wise  arrangement  lurking  behind  it, 
and  when  it  waa  closed  no  one  would  suspect 
it  then,  for  the  deacon's  serviceable  blue  camlet 
cloak  hung  down  so  aa  to  hide  it. 

I  can  most  cordially  recommend  thia  kind  of 
a  shoe-case — ^it  is  so  much  neater  than  to  put 
one's  shoes  under  the  bed,  or  behind  the  door, 
or  to  throw  tliem  into  a  doaeL  One  cannot 
consdentiously  then  put  her  shoes  away  dirty, 
or  wet,  or  muddy,  as  she  might  be  tempted  to 
do  otherwise. 

We  have  three  windows  in  our  bedroom  that 
in  moderate  weather  we  leave  open,  as  well  aa 
the  door  which  opens  into  the  family  sitting- 
room.  One  of  the  windows  is  thickly  covered 
by  the  tangles  of  a  luxuriant  mnltiflora — the 
other  has  a  rose  trained  over  it,  and  the  third 
is  beautified  by  the  branches  of  a  young  maple^ 
and  embroidered  around  the  sides  and  top  with 
a  pinking  of  honeysuckle  vines. 

I  was  leaning  out  of  this  last  named  window, 
looking  away  to  the  western  hills  that  the  set- 
ting son  was  throwing  half  in  shine  and  half 
in  deep'ning  shadow,  when  Jonathan  came  up 
from  the  post<K>ffice  with  the  "  Baptist  Banner," 
and  the  minutes  of  a  late  associational  meeting, 
sticking  out  of  his  side  pocket. 

He  tossed  them  up  tome  and  said:  "Pip, 


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284 


ARTHUB'a   LALT8    SOME    MAGAZINE. 


yon  mnst  look  intide  of  the  BaoDer,  if  you 
Wftnt  to  nee  what  yoo*ll  see." 

I  opened  it  carefully,  and  ooi  lell  a  letter, 
directed,  in  a  big,  wjuare,  broad  hand,  to  ''  If  im 
PipBisaiway  Potts,  Poftoville,  Ohio^  care  of 
Deacon  Adon^'ah  Potta." 

I  knew  the  writing,  and  to  whom  it  belonged. 
It  was  the  careful  penmanahip  of  Deacon  Skilea. 
My  heart  beat  faster  as  I  read  its  oootenU.  It 
was  an  offer  of  marriage. 

After  setting  forth,  in  glowing  colors,  the  state 
of  his  broken  heart  and  lonely  household,  he 
told  me  he  had  a  number  one  Grover  and  Baker 
sewing  machine;  that  he  kept  eight  good  milch 
oows  of  the  celebrated  Aldernej  breed,  and  his 
hotter  commanded  a  better  price  than  any  other 
man's ;  tliat  he  allowed  his  wife  half  tlie  money 
made  from  the  sale  of  the  butter  and  eggs,  and 
that  he  would  do  the  same  by  me.  He  said  he 
always  assisted  in  milking  and  carrying  the 
pails  to  the  lionse,  in  bad  or  rainy  weather* 
He  further  stated  that  his  children  were  bid- 
able;  also,  that  they  were  vegetarians  in  their 
household— never  ate  meat  or  butter,  or  drank 
tea  or  oofiee,  for  reittNis  he  deemed  advisable; 
that  he  was  what  is  called  a  good  provider, 
always  had  plenty  of  turnips,  beets,  cabbages, 
apples,  and  such  things  in  the  winter,  and  abun- 
dance of  green  truck  and  garden  sauce  in  the 
summer. 

He  did  not  believe  in  sending  children  to 
school  too  young ;  that  the  mother  should  su- 
perintend their  education  at  home  until  they 
were  nine  years  old,  anyhow. 

He  thought  it  was  lolly  for  folks  as  old  as 
we  were  to  be  sentimental  during  courtship; 
that  he  preferred  managing  such  matters  in  a 
business-like  style,  openly  and  honestly.  He 
said  he  was  practical— didn't  believe  in  any  of  \ 
the  modern  nonsense ;  that  he  had  never  kissed 
a  woman  in  his  life,  except  jusC  before  his  wife 
died,  when  she  commended  the  children  to  his 
special  care,  and  bade  him  farewell,  and  osAed 
him  to  kiss  her. 

In  the  postscript  of  his  lengthy  letter  he  said 
he  would  call  for  an  answer  sometime  within  a 
month,  on  his  way  over  to  Bloom,  where  he 
was  going  to  buy  a  monument  for  his  departed 
consort :  the  firm  at  that  place  sold  twenty  per 
cent,  cheaper  than  they  did  where  be  lived. 

My  cop  was  dashed  to  tbe  ground  I  I  com- 
pressed my  lips  firmly,  smoothed  my  hair,  felt 
in  my  pocket  and  toyed  with  my  silver  thim- 
ble, and  shook  my  head,  as  I  said  aloud :  ''The 
old  noodle  I  He  must  estimate  me  about  as  he 
does  his  calves  or  colts->not  so  highly  as  one  of 
his  cows  of  the  Aldeney  breed  1    The  old,  old 


virago  I  Seven  children,  with  fooHeen  £Bbt  tnd 
fourteen  bands  all  to  be  dad  in  stockings  and 
mittens  knit  at  home^  and  /,  Pipsey  Potts,  don't 
know  how  to  knit  1  Eight  greatruddered  cows 
of  a  rare  breed,  and  1  don't  know  how  to  milk  I 
Vegetarians!  and  /  can't  live  withoot  my 
good  tea,  and  butter  on  my  bread ;  and  I  ds 
1  i ke  a  hi t  of  nice  beefsteak  occasional  ly !  Seven 
children,  sitting  in  seven  chairs  at  home,  all  the 
time  bending  down  over  their  seven  readen^ 
and  spellers,  and  primers,  and  catecbisu^  and 
/the  teacher  I  I  never  did  like  mathematics, 
and  machinery,  and  things  complicated,  and 
don't  want  to  become  acquainted  with  the  cud- 
ning  bewitchments  of  anybody's  Grover  and 
Baker,  much  less  old,  ugly,  stingy  Deacon 
Skiles'sl''  And  patdng  my  feet  on  tbe  carpet, 
half  in  anger,  I  rose  and  walked  two  or  thiee 
times  across  the  bedroom. 

I  happened  to  see  in  the  little  oval  glass  be- 
side the  window,  my  own  fiioe,  and  I  never  saw 
it  look  so  before.  My  gray  eyes  were  black— 
the  blue-black  of  a  summer  storm-cloud— my 
pale  cheeks  were  as  red  as  a  blooming  milk- 
maid's^ and  my  month  no  larger  than  a  babj*s 
—my  very  ears  were  the  purple-red  of  the 
autumn  asters. 

Really,  I  was  a  little  ashamed.  I  said :  <' Why, 
Pipsey  Potts,  you  old  gal,  ts  there  a  sunny, 
warm  comer  in  your  dry  old  heart,  so  womanly 
yet,  after  all  these  quiet  years  of  your  hum- 
drum life?"  and  with  a  bitter  laugh  I  lesned 
over  and  kissed  the  woman's  face  in  tbe  cold 
glass  before  me,  while  the  dew  of  tears  dimmed 
my  eyes. 

That  castigation  did  me  good.  It  was  like 
a  bath  in  the  salt,  salt  sea,  with  the  mad  waves 
dashing  over  my  head.  I  was  full  of  the  in- 
spiration of  a  new  life.  I  suppose  I  felt  a  little 
like  a  brave,  strong  wotban  does  when  she  is 
jilted — when  he  whom  she  loved  has  gone  off 
and  married  another  and  a  handsomer  woman. 

Dear  me!  it  swung  me  back  more  than 
twenty  years  ago,  to  the  time  that  young  Pro- 
fessor O.  Howe  Greene,  the  country  singing- 
school  teacher,  for  one  whole  winter  drove  up 
to  Deacon  Potts's  stile,  and  hitched  his  hone 
and  turned  the  robe  over,  and  ran  up  the  steps, 
and  stayed  until  I  could  get  ready  for  singing 
school;  and  then,  after  all,  went  and  mar- 
ried poor  little  warty-nozed,  red-headed  Chick 
Charles! 

Chick's  aunt  had  died  and  left  her  a  thou- 
sand dollars  and  three  spick  span  new  feather 
beds,  bolsters,  pillows,  sheets,  coverlets,  and  all. 

I  remember  now  how  I  tried  to  foiigfct  it  then, 
and  to  hide  the  hurt  from  the  gase  of  piyiog 


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OTMER    PEOFImE'8    WINDOWS, 


285 


9f9L  I  fluig  tenor  loader  and  shriller  thita 
ercr  befoi«;  wore  my  hfur  U  UtUe  qoaking 
cnrlBall  owermy  head;  laughed. aa  mneically. 
■B I  ooold  make  it  sound ;  donned  crimson^ 
ud  iearlet,  and  hlue^  and  hlazed  and  glittered 
in  cheap  jewelry,  and  bowa,  and  puflfa^  and 
latleringribbona;  and  in  shameful  coBmetics, 
ud  chaiosy  and  rings,  and  foolish  ornamentSy 
■Mt  have  made  me  appear  very  frivolous. . 

But  my  revenge  was  sweet  when  I  used  to 
M  the  profeaeor's  sad  eyes  fixed  on  me  so 
■ooraliaUy,  as  though  they  would  absorb  me, 
aod  then  turn  away  and  rest  on  .Chick,  the  lit- 
tle wheezy  creature,  with  her  sleepy,  yellow, 
vixen  face. 

She  could  nol  aing,  and  she  would  sit  by  the 
ito?e  with  her  feet  up  on  the  hearth,  a  little, 
thapeJesB,  bunchy  thing  in  her  close  hood,  with 
akciVY,  gray  woollen  shawl,  pinned  close  up 
mder  her  chin  with  a  darning-needle—his 

lo  singing,  he  would  -often  stand  beside  me^ 
ad  onr  voices  won  Id  join  so  sweetly  together, 
nd  flow  as  one. 

Once,  when  he  was  sick  unto  death,  he  sent 
^  Jpe  to  Tif$it  him*  A  portfolio  lay  beside  him 
on  fiu  pillow ;  with  cold,  shaky  hands  he  ftim- 
M  tronnd  in  it,  and  drew  forth  a  carefully 
kept,  folded  paper,  containing  some  of  my  silly 
▼enes,  written  during  the  memorable  winter  of 
tbich  I  spoke.  They  were  called  **  Listening 
fer  his  step." 

He  handed  them  to  me.  I  glaneed  over 
Ihem,  ind  toesed  them  back  with  a  langh,  say* 
^:  *'I  can  hardly  believe  thai  /  ever  wrote 
Mch  silly  twaddle ;  they  are  the  merest  noa* 
sense!" 

The  blood  mounted  to  his  white  forehead ; 
I  had  Mmek  one  shaft  home. 

I  never  saw  P^fessor  Greene  afterward.  He 
vent  to  Michigan  the  next  fall.  His  whee^ 
vife  18  the  mother  of  eight  little  wheesers,  and 
I  have  heard  they  all  inherit  the  musical  gifts 
of  Iheir  father. 

Loa  and  I  were  talking  the  other  day,  when 
^  were  out  riding,  about  homes,  and  houses, 
*nd  wivefl,  and  ftmiilies,  and  all  these  things 
^«t  women  can  talk,  and  think,  and  write 
*Wt  and  never  wear  out  the  theme.  We 
vere  laughing  over  a  little  incident  that  had 
tnnspired  at  her  home  the  day  before. 

It  was  Friday,  and,  to  make  her  Saturday's 
work  lighter,  she  was  doing  a  part  of  her  baking 
^  day.  She  said  she  had  hoped  to  be  alone, 
"0  the  eoold  get  a  good  day's  work  done ;  but 
when  the  seven  o'clock  train  came  in,  a  middle- 


aged  woman  and  a  fourteen-year-old  boy  got 
ofl^  and  the  friends  who  were  to  meet  them 
with  a  conveyance  from  three  miles  out  in  the 
country  disappointed  them. 

The  woman  sent  the  boy  on  foot  out  into  the 
Qountry  for  the  promised  carriage,  and  then 
stopped  at  Lua's  home  to  wait  until  his  return. 

3he  proved  to  be  one  of  those  tiresome  talka- 
tive women,  with  quick,  birdy,  i\&x\k  eyes,  that 
see  everything  around  them,  especially  what 
one  would  rather  not  have  seen.  Lua  does  her 
own  work ;  and  any  housewife  can  imagine  the 
trial  she  had  that  whole  day  with  the  stranger — 
a  woman  who  knew  nothing,  saw  everything, 
talked  all  the  time,  and  knew  more  than  any- 
body else.  Oh  I  one  of  those  bores  who  can't 
l>e  beguiled  Into  reading  the  last  papers  or  the 
mi^zines,  who  don't  feel  interested  in  pictures 
or  photographs,  whose  attention  is  drawn  every- 
where and  by  everything,  who  talks  of  my  hus- 
band Mr.  Smith,  my  other  son-in-law,  and  my 
son  the  provision  dealer,  and  our  property  in 
town,  and  our  estate  out  in  the  country,  of  our 
furniture,  our  connections,  our  new  cistern,  my 
brother-in-law  the  preacher,  my  health,  my 
cough,  my  uloer,  my  affection  of  the  lungs,  my 
little  son  who  is  a  better  linguist  than  the 
teacher,  all  the  time  wrinkling  her  skinny  nose 
and  yellow  forehead  in  a  sort  of  half  disgust 
with  other  people  and  their  ways  and  notions. 

Only  think  of  the  calamity  of  having  such  a 
woman  quartered  on  your  generosity  all  day, 
watching  every  movement,  scanning  every 
motion,  until  the  poor  victim  would  feel  like 
crying  out,  in  a  state  far  worse  than  utter  stag- 
nation of  the  blood  would  produce. 

At  dinner  she  smacked  noisily  over  the  tea, 
and  took  great  crescent  bites  of  pumpkin  pie, 
and  declared  she  never  ate  such  roast  beef  be- 
fore.   Ugh  I  repulsive  as  a  gorilla. 

Lua's  head  began  to  pain,  aod  her  heart 
sickened  at  the  woman's  repulsive  garrulity, 
and  the  pain  grew  worse  and  worse.  Toward 
evening  a  boy  came  with  a  carriage,  and  the 
stranger  thanked  Lua  for  the  good  visit  she'd 
had,  and  shook  hands,  with  many  compli- 
mentary phrases,  inviting  her  to  call  and  see 
her,  and  saying  she  had  never  spent  a  day  so 
pleasantly  in  her  whole  life. 

Lua  smiled  a  sickly  smile,  and  as  the  woman 
seated  herself  in  the  carriage  she  heard  her  say 
distinctly :  *'0  Charlie,  I'm  so  glad  you  came ! 
This  day  has  seemed  as  long  as  forty  years." 

Lua  was  sick  all  night  with  nervous  head- 
ache ;  her  husband  said  she  would  start  up  out 
of  a  broken  doze  and  cry  out  piteously ;  "Oh, 
take  her  away!  take  her  away!  her  snaky 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


ejrefl  follow  me  all  the  time,  they  do  hurt  me 
80  !" 

The  next  daj,  worn  and  flnnken  ejed,  and 
harassed,  Lna  asked  me  to  go  oat  riding  with 
her — that  was  her  care,  the  tonic  that  would 
do  her  good ;  but  this  worse  than  nightmare  of 
which  I  have  told  you,  was  the  price  of  her 
ride.  I  laaghe<l  and  told  Lua  I  would  have 
her  case  fixed  somehow  in  the  form  of  a  peti- 
tion, and  laid  before  the  legislature  next  win- 
ter. It  is  too  bad  I  Half  the  sick  spells  I 
have  are  caused  thus,  hy  being  thrown  into 
close  proximity  with  people  who  are  entire 
strangers  to  me,  Pipsey  Poits — in  every  sense  of 
tlie  term  stranger.  And  if  I,  in  my  quiet  be- 
loved country  home,  am  thus  subjected  to  the 
rasping,  and  galling,  and  hurting,  and  odious 
companionship  frequently,  of  those  whose  in- 
terests are  far  from  mine,  whose  likes  and  dis- 
likes are  the  very  antipodes  of  mine,  whose 
manners  are  coarse  and  repulsive,  and  whose 
touch,  and  voice,  and  presence  outrage  me, 
what  must  thd  annoyance  be  to  more  refined 
women  whose  homes  are  in  Tillages,  and 
cities,  and  in  more  public  places.  My  warmest 
sympathies  go  out  to  such,  cordially,  kindly, 
lovingly. 

Among  the  beautiful  sights  that  Lua  and  I 
saw,  was  one  that  I  must  mention.  I  will 
throw  this  in  as  a  suggestion  to  those  who  love 
the  beautiful — some  one  may  profit  by  it. 

Twenty  years  ago,  in  visiting  the  historic 
places  of  our  own  county  of  Ashland,  we  stopped 
for  dinner  at  the  home  of  a  distant  relative. 
A  fine  running  pump  stood  in  his  yard,  that 
was  my  special  admiration. 

When  we,  Lua  and  I,  called  there  lately,  in- 
stead of  the  bare  wooden  pump  with  the  musi- 
cal stream  running  from  it  all  the  days  and 
nights,  was  a  living  tree,  a  weeping-willow,  in- 
stead, and  about  three  feet  up  the  tree  from 
the  ground  the  living  stream  came  pouring 
out. 

The  tree  was  a  magnificent  specimen  of  that 
kind — its  long,  sweeping  branches  drooped  and 
swayed  in  the  soft  October  airs,  just  as  proudly 
and  grandly  as  though  its  gray  trunk  was  a 
human  being,  pulsing  with  life  and  strength 
and  all  the  pride  of  humanity.  I  just  touched 
it  as  though  it  could  understand  me,  when  I 
said :  "  Oh,  you  marvel  of  beauty !" 

The  owner  of  the  fountain  was  a  commou, 
illiterate,  good  sort  of  a  man,  and  it  was  through 
no  forethought  or  ingenuity  of  his  that  the 
fountain  had  come  to  him  in  this  singularly 
beautiful  way.  When,  a  few  years  before,  the 
old  pump  logs  had  worn  out,  he  took  the  trunk 


of  a  willow,  and  bored  a  hole  of  a  suhable  ibs 
in  the  btert  of  it,  and  set  it  in  the  grooiid  fvr 
the  water  to  ran  through,  the  flame  as  it  hsd 
through  the  old  pump. 

Everybody  knows  a  willow  stick  or  bough, 
thrust  into  the  ground  in  a  wet  place,  will 
almost  in  variably  take  rocft  and  grow,  and  be- 
come a  tree,  as  it  did  in  this  case. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  day  loget^r,  Lm 
and  L  We  gathered  mosses,  datk,  and  gften, 
and  dripping  with  the  moisture  that  lay  mi 
them  all  day  in  the  oool,  unsunned  ravines 
that  they  had  cushioned  and  madertigal  lo  the 
beauty  that  nature  so  loves. 

GOLDEN  WORDS  FOR  THE  TOUNG. 

'^  It  is  safer  lor  me  to  afaatain,  said  Govenor 
Buckingham,  than  to  drink.  If  I  shoald  ia- 
dnlge  in  driak^  I  an  afnaid  I  should  not  stop 
at  the  line  which  many  call  temperanesi  but 
shoald  become  a  slave  to  the  habit,  and  with 
otliers  of  atronger  neire  and  firmer  purpossi  go 
down  to  a  dronkard's  grav«.  If  I  indulfe^  I 
am  not  safe.  If  I  afastaio,  my  child  will  not  be 
cursed  with  a  dxunkeft  father.  We  talk  of  the 
purity  and  dignity  of  humao  nature^  and  of 
relying  upon  our  self-respeot  for  eeourlty;  bat 
there  ia  no  degradation  so  low  that  a  man  will 
not  sink  into,  and  no  crime  so  dreadful  that  be 
will  noteommit,  wiien  he  ia  drunk.  There  iiDO- 
thiag  ao  base,  so  impure,  so  mean,  so  dishoneit, 
ao  «arrapt,  that  a  maa  will  not  do  when  under 
the  law  of  appetite.  Safety  ia  to  be  fbond  Id 
not  yielding  ourselves  to  that  law.  Bat  if  it 
ooold  be  proved  oOAcl«sively  to  my  own  mind 
that  I  could  drink  and  never  be  iigared,  yet 
with  my  views  on  the  aobject  it  would  be  mj 
duty  to  abstain.  I  could  not  be  certain  but 
otJiei%  aeeing  me  drink,  might  be  influenced  to 
drink  alaoy  and  being  unable  to  stop,  pass  on 
in  the  path  of  the  drunkard.  My  example 
would,  in  that  case,  be  evil.  But,  I  ask,  am  I 
my  brother's  keeper?  Yes,  I  am  responsible 
for  my  influence,  and  leat  it  shall  be  evil,  I  «ib 
under  a  high  vkonX  and  religious  obligation  to 
deny  myself  that  which  may  not  injure  me, 
but  will  iiyuie  him.  If  I  neither  taste^  nor 
touch,  nor  handle,  nor  countenance,  then  raj 
example  will  not  lead  others  to  become  drunk- 
ards." 

The  IMms  are  a  jewel-cluster  made  up  «f 
the  gold  of  doctrine,  the  pearls  of  comfert,  aad 
the  gem  of  prayer. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  PASSING  CLOUD. 
A  LIFE  SKETCH. 


'  TY^  ^^°  ^'^^  ^^  ^  ^^  an jtliing  for  jou  in 

V  town?" 

Andrew  Thurston  spoke  veiy  calmlj,  and  a 
chance  listener  might  have  thought  that  be 
Bpoke  kindly.  He  certainly  spoke  deferen- 
tially; but  his  lips  were  oompressed,  and  there 
were  lines  upon  his  brow  which  were  not  usual. 
Ordinarily  he  would  haye  said,  as  he  drew  on 
his  glove :  "  Now,  my  love,  what  can  I  get  for 
70Q  in  town  ?"  and  he  would  have  spoken  gayly 
and  frankly,  with  sprightliness  and  sparkle ; 
kft  they  had  been  married  not  a  year  yet;  and 
ooly  the  day  before  Andrew  had  declared  that 
tlie7  would  never  outlive  their  honeymoon. 
"EUie,"  he  said,  with  a  kiss,  **  when  we  cease 
to  love,  we  shall  have  ceased  to  live ;  for  life 
ooold  be  nothing  without  love." 

But  now  a  cloud  had  come — very  small  at 
first— not  bigger  than  a  man's  hand — but  yet  a 
cload,  EUie  had  never  complained  of  fatigue 
or  weariness,  and  yet  she  was  far  from  robust 
On  this  particular  morning  she  had  arisen  with 
M  aching  head,  bat  she  did  not  mention  it. 
She  did  not  smile  as  was  her  wont,  and  her 
kosband  asked  her  what  was  the  matter.  His 
queBtion  seemed  to  imply  that  her  manner  had 
fretted  him — there  was  almost  an  accusation 
in  it— and  she  replied,  rather  shortly :  "  Noth- 
ing." 

"Bat  there  must  be  something,"  said  he. 
"What  is  it?** 

This,  to  his  wife,  rendered  over-susceptible 
l>7  her  headache,  seemed  a  disputing  of  her 
word,  and  she  answered:  "I  tell  you— noth- 
ing." 

"Bat,  Ellie,"  he  said,  "you  wouldn't  act  so, 
if  there  was  nothing  the  matter." 

'*Act  how?"  demanded  his  wife,  flushing 
nnder  this  direct  charge.  "What  have  I 
done?" 

What  could  her  husband  reply  to  this? 
What  single  act  of  hers — what  word,  even, 
could  he  point  out  ?  Something  in  her  numner 
W  jarred  upon  the  sensitive  chords  of  his 
heart,  and  a  cloud  had  come  between  them; 
hat  how  oonld  he  tell  it?  How  could  he  give 
to  another  an  idea  of  that  which  had  no  form 
nor  substance,  and  which  he  had  only  per- 
ceived because  it  dropped  a  discord  into  the 
exquisite  harmony  of  his  jealous  love  ?  He 
could  make  no  plausible  answer,  and  this  fretted 
hin  still  more. 

▼OL.  ZXXYIL— 20. 


"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,"  he  said,  drawing 
back.  "  If  you  don't  choose  to  confide  in  me, 
all  right." 

His  wife's  eyes  flashed  now,  and  she  spoke 
quickly — spoke  so  quickly,  and  so  feelingly, 
that  her  husband  was,  in  turn,  ofiended ;  and, 
with  a  hasty  word  upon  his  lips,  he  went  out 
into  the  hall,  and  made  ready  for  the  city, 
which  was  but  a  few  miles  distant  from  his 
suburban  residence. 

When  Andrew  Thurston  re-entered  the  sit- 
ting room,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  asked 
the  question  we  have  already  heard,  "  Do  you 
want  me  to  get  anything  for  you  in  town  ?" 

How  cold  his  voice  sounded  to  his  wife,  who 
sat,  with  bowed  and  aching,  head,  by  the  cur- 
tained window.  It  did  not  sound  like  the 
voice  of  her  husband,  and  she  did  not  look  up. 
She  would  wait  until  he  came  to  kiss  her,  as 
he  always  did  before  he  went  away,  and  then 
she  might  be  able  to  speak — to  speak  upon  his 
bosom,  where  she  could  hide  her  face — but  she 
dared  not  trust  her  voice  now.  She  knew  she 
should  cry  if  she  spoke,  and  she  would  not 
have  her  husband  see  her  do  that  if  he  were 
angry  with  her.  But  he  did  not  come  to  her. 
He  turned  away  without  another  word,  and  was 
gone. 

Andrew  Thurston  knew  that  his  wife  must 
have  heard  his  question^  and  as  she  did  n«c 
inunediately  answer^  he  allowed  his  anger  to 
express  itself  in  a  slam  of  the  door  as  he  went 
out.  He  pulled  on  his  gloves  very  vigorously, 
and  stepped  off  with  measured  strides.  But 
not  long  so.  The  fresh  morning  air  fanned  his 
brow  with  a  cooling  influence,  and  he  b^gan  to 
think.  He  missed  something.  For  the  first 
time  since  he  had  been  married  he  was  going 
away  from  home  without  his  wife's  kiss.  Surely 
a  cloud  had  arisen  upon  the  domestic  horixon, 
and  something  very  much  like  a  storm  had 
come  upon  their  peace.  He  was  unhappy ;  and 
the  noore  he  meditated,  the  nooie  unhappy  he 
became. 

"EUie  was  to  blame^"  he  said  to  himself. 
But  this  did  not  heal  his  wound.  "I  may 
have  been  hasty,"  he  acknowledged,  after 
further  reflection.  "  But  stUl,"  he  assured  him- 
self, "  she  irritated  me." 

Thus  he  reached  a  point  very  fiir  from  sooth- 
ing or  satisfactory  in  its  influ^iee.  He  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  allowed 


Digitized  by 


G^tgle 


ARTEUn^a   LADY'S   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


himself,  in  a  moment  of  irritation,  to  speak 
hastily  and  unkindly.  When  he  entered  the 
train  he  took  his  seat  in  a  comer,  and  palled  \ 
his  hat  down  over  his  eyes.  He  did  not  wish 
to  conyerse.  When  he  reached  his  office  he 
was  moody  and  tacitam — very  unlike  the  An- 
drew Thurston  whose  custom  it  was  to  come  in 
with  smiles  and  cheerful  salutation. 

A  little  thing  it  was,  to  he  sure,  but  it  gave 
him  great  pain.  A  mote  is  a  tiny  particle,  but 
it  becomes  a  thing  of  painful  moment  when  it 
is  lodged  in  the  eye;  and  the  heart  that  is 
made  tender  with  a  devoted,  living  love,  is  as 
sensitive  to  motes  as  is  the  eye.  Hitherto  the 
current  of  Andrew's  love  had  flowed  on  un- 
broken and  untroubled,  but  this  incoming  of 
obstruction  had  produced  a  turbulence,  as  de- 
structive of  peace  and  happiness,  for  the  time, 
as  though  the  very  fountain  of  love  itself  had 
been  broken  up.  In  short,  he  was  brought  to 
the  self-confession  that  there  could  be  no  more 
joy  for  him  until  this  cloud  had  passed  away. 
And  how  should  that  be  done  ?  How  should 
the  sunlight  be  let  in  again  upon  his  hearth- 
stone 7  He  was  proud,  and  he  did  not  like  to 
make  confession  of  his  fault.  Would  his  wife 
make  the  first  acknowledgment?  He  hoped 
so ;  for  thus  the  evil  might  be  put  away. 

As  he  sat  alone  in  hia  office,  he  took  up  a 
paper,  and  sought  to  overcome  his  unhappy 
thoughts  by  reading.  He  could  not  fix  his 
mind  upon  the  thread  of  a  long  article,  so  he 
read  the  short  paragraphs ;  and  at  length  his 
eye  caught  the  following :  "  Where  there  has 
been  misunderstanding  between  near  and  dear 

•  friends,  resulting  in  mutual  unhappiness  and 
regret,  the  one  who  loves  most,  and  whose 
sense  of  right  and  duty  is  strongest,  will  nuike 
the  first  advance  toward  reconciliation." 

Andrew  Thurston  dropped  the  paper,  and 
rose  to  his  feet.    It  was  as  though  a  voice  from 

.  Heaven  had  spoken  to  him. 

''I  do  not  love  the  most,"  he  soliloquized; 

' "  but  I  am  the  strongest,  and  should  show  my 

,  love  by  my  works." 

He  looked  at  his  watch — ^it  was  almost  noon. 
It  was  not  his  custom  to  return  home  till  even- 
ing, but  he  could  not  remain  and  bear  the 
burden  through  the  other  hours  of  the  day. 

.  And  he  marvelled,  as  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
drew  on  his  gloves,  how  even  the  resolve  to  do 

rthifr  simple  thing  had  let  the  sunlight  into  his 

•soul. 

Ellie  Thurston,  when  she  knew  that  her 
husband  had  ^gone^had  gone  without  a  word 
or  a  kis8->had  sgone  without  giving  her  Ume 


to  recover  her  stricken  senses — sank  down  and 
wept ;  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she  could 
deariy  think  or  reflect  Bhe  had  been  left 
alone— «lone  with  pain  and  sorrow,  and  she 
was  utterly  miserable.  She  blamed  herself 
for  not  having  called  her  husband  to  her ;  and 
she  blamed  him  for  not  having  come  of  his  own 
accord.  To  her  it  seemed  as  though  the  death 
of  joy  had  come.  She  had  never  known  such 
misery  before.  By  and  by,  when  she  could 
think,  she  wondered  if  her  husband  would 
smile  upon  her,  if  she  should  oflTer  him  the  first 
kiss,  and  speak  the  first  word  of  love.  She 
would  try  it.  It  would  be  terrible  if  he  should 
repulse  her;  but  she  could  not  live  so. 

The  hours  passed,  and  the  young  wife  sat 
like  one  disconBolate.  She  thought  not  of 
dinners-she  had  no  appetite.  Bhe  onlj 
thought  could  the  warm  sunshine  ever  come 
again?  Did  her  husband  love  her  less  than 
she  had  thought  ? 

Thus  she  sat  with  pale  cheeks  and  swollen 
eyes,  when  she  heard  the  outer  door  opened, 
and  a  step  in  the  hall.  She  started  up  to  lis- 
ten, thinking  that  her  senses  might  have  de- 
ceived her,  when  the  door  of  the  sitting-room 
was  opened,  and  her  husband  entered.  His 
eyes  filled  with  tears  when  he  saw  how  pale  and 
grief-«tricken  his  wife  looked,  and  with  open 
arms  he  went  toward  her.  **  EUie,  my  darling, 
don't  let  us  be  unhappy  any  more  I" 

He  had  been  thinking,  on  his  way  home, 
what  he  should  say  when  he  met  her;  and  he 
had  framed  in  his  mind  a  speech  of  confessioD 
which  he  would  make;  but  he  forgot  it  all 
when  he  saw  her,  and  his  heart  spoke  u  it 
would.  The  words  burst  from  his  lipe,  lov- 
^^^Ji  prayerfully,  beseediingly,  "Ellie,  my 
darling,  don't  let  us  be  unhappy  any  more!" 

She  came  to  his  bosom,  and  twined  her  arms 
about  his  neck;  and  for  the  kiss  that  was 
missed  in  the  morning  they  took  many  kisses 
now ;  and  they  wept  no  more  apart,  but  wept 
together. 

That  was  all.  The  doud  had  passed;  and 
they  experienced  the  exquisite  thrill  which 
all  true  hearts  feel  when  a  wrong  has  heen 
made  right,  and  when  the  warm  joy-heams 
drive  away  the  dark  shadows  of  sorrow  and 
regret  It  was  a  life- lesson  to  them  both ;  and 
they  promised  themselves  that  they  would 
never  forget  its  teaching. 


Knn>K£ss  is  the  music  of  good  will  \o  men ;  | 
and  on  this  harp  the  smallest  fingers  may  play 
Heaven's  sweetest  tunes  on  earth. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


MOTHERS'  DEI>A.IlTMElSrT, 


BABY-CULTURE, 

BT  FAITH  BOCHMTHB. 

rrhla  admlraMy  saggestire  article  is  taken  from  a 
neeat  rnimber  of  The  Christian  VnUm,  It  will  be  fonnd 
NMI  VDrthy  the  perasAl  of  mothers  and  all  who  have 
4toeare  of  UMto  ehikhren.] 

HERB  is  a  •'Little  Book  for  Motkers,"  wkiok  I 
hare  prooured  firom  the  publiahor,  J.  L.  Ham- 
met,  BratUe  Street,  Boston.  It  coat  twelve  and  a 
Ulf  cents,  and  is  meant  to  aeeompany  Frtibel's 
fnt  gift  for  babies.  This  gift  consists  of  six  col- 
ored rubber  balls ;  of  the  three  primary  colors,  red, 
Mne,  and  yellow;  and  three  secondary  colors, 
Tttrple,  green  and  orange. 

I  am  sorry  there  are  so  many  people  who  seem 
\i  loppose  that  the  mere  maternal  instinct  is  a 
nfident  guide  for  a  mother  in  her  important 
*rtiM.  This  little  book  truly  says:  "Love  is  not 
wWomj  but  love  must  act  according  to  wisdom, 
fa  order  to  succeed."  Mothers  and  nurses,  how- 
•▼w  trader  and  kind-hearted,  may,  and  often  do, 
wwy  and  vex  the  nerves  of  children.  In  well- 
Meant  efforts  to  amuse,  and  weary  themselves  the 
^^t,  FrSbel's  exercises,  founded  on  observa- 
ttoM  of  intelligent  tenaibilitif,  are  intended  to 
•muse  without  wearying;  and  the  chfld  is  edu- 
eated  thereby,  and  is  not  puzzled  or  vexed. 

Only  very  thoughtless  persons  will  laugh  at  the 
Met  of  aJafty'.  "education!"  Education  means 
drawing  out— development  and  discipline.  The 
aew-bom  babe  has  not  even  the  use  of  its  senses  ; 
tkeseare  to  be  "drawn  out"  gradually  and  ten- 
^^r»  so  as  never  to  weary  or  confuse.  Most  of 
w  grown-up  people  have  senses  imperfeotly  de- 
^P«i;  and  we  littie  know  what  delights  we  lose 
••««we  our  senses  are  so  uncultivated;  in  the 
'••la  of  art,  for  instance,  and  in  music  I  The 
•«««s,  properly  educated,  are  blessed  ministers  to 
tke  sours  advantage.  What  a  pity  that,  from  their 
••Hiest  efforts,  they  do  not  have  reasonable  and 
citable  culture  I  Let  me  quote  again  firom  this 
fittle  book  for  mothers: 

"Pr3bel  deveted  long  yoBn  of  his  rich,  emlneBt 
Ml  to  the  eareftil  study  of  these  little  ones,  and  of 
«e  best  means  of  developing  them  harmoniously, 
^^  pleasure  to  themselves;  at  the  same  time 
''^••rHng  tk*  iBdlvidnality  of  each,  which  he 
""^i^y  nspeeted.  Ft«bel  realized  the  inflneBoe, 
^  the  whole  alter  U«b»  of  the^one  and  bent  given 
»  their  earlier  years;  and  he  sought,  by  all  his 
**''*'«v  gUMS  and  exeroises,  not  only  to  develop 
Wy  eaah  nusele  of  the  body,  every  power  of  the 
"^^  but  also  to  inouloate  love  and  service  to 
•*««i  vtverenee  and  modesty,  free  obedienee  and 
■^vtoal  helpfiiiDesi,  aa  the  gteatest  happiness  as 
T^^MgmUeiigood.    The  ehild  Is  not  mada  tha 


prominent  point,  the  centre  of  all  things,  but  sees 
himself  as  part  of  the  whole ;  he  becomes  conscious 
of  persons  and  things  in  their  relations  to  each 
other  and  to  himself,  and  escapes  that  terrible  self- 
consciousness  which  so  injures  and  disfigures  '  fast 
Toung  America'  of  both  sexes." 

Poor  Toung  America!  My  heart  aches  daily 
when  I  see  how  persistently  this  self-conscious- 
ness is  drilled  into  children  who  are  naturally 
sweet  and  modest  Beginning  with  the  baby,  its 
mistaken  friends  amuse  it  by  nodding  to  it  and 
"noticing"  it  in  a  flattering  way,  talking  to  it  the 
most  exaggerated  praise  and  condolence.  The 
tonee  come  to  bo  understood  long  before  any  words 
are  comprehended,  and  these  have  their  pernicious 
influence.  Tones  of  cheerfulness  and  love  are  best 
for  baby-culture.  I  know  some  warm-hearted  but 
unthinking  lovers  of  children,  who  usually  begin 
a  conversation  with  a  child  with  questions  and 
talk  about  the  ehild  itself.  They  make  some  start 
and  outcry  at  the  child's  appearance,  calculated  to 
heighten  its  sense  of  its  own  importance,  and  then 
exclaim:  "Why,  who  t«  this?  Let's  see,  your 
name  is — what  ie  your  name?"  This  subject  being 
disposed  ef,  then  follows  a  string  of  questions,  be- 
ginning, perhaps,  with  a  question  that  (I  think) 
ought  never  to  be  asked  a  child — "  Are  you  a  good 
little  baby  ?" — and  so  on.     It  is  such  a  pity! 

Children  need  intelligent  sympathy — ^not  pity 
nor  flattery.  Just  commendation  is  wholesome, 
and  encouragement  is  indispensable.  Too  many 
little  ones  are  either  disheartened  by  neglect  and 
by  criticisms  that  are  not  tenderly  given,  or  they 
acquire  an  undue  estimate  of  their  abilities  from 
over- praise.  They  are  observed  and  admired 
openly ;  and  so  this  desire  to  attract  attention  and 
create  an  impression  is  cultivated  even  in  little 
babes.  If,  instead  of  this  thoughtless  cruelty,  we 
can  only  "  be  converted  and  become  as  little  chil- 
dren "  in  spirit,  we  shall  enter  heartily  into  the 
OBJoyments,  wishes,  and  needs  of  the  little  ones  we 
train,  and  treat  them  with  "  love  that  is  according 
to  wisdom."  We  shall  not  play  to  them,  and  talk 
to  them,  but  voith  them,  Interesting  them  in  things 
outside  of  themselves. 

In  this  little  book  are  described  many  simple 
plays  for  infants,  from  the  time  when  they  first 
begin  to  notioe  and  grasp  playthings  till  the  time 
when  they  are  able  to  begin  combining  and  con- 
structing things  as  play.  But  mothers  are  cau- 
tioned to  remember  that  FrBbel  only  "  gives  these 
songs  and  movements  as  hinte  and  euggeeiioM,  to 
be  infinitely  varied  by  their  own  ingenuity,  and 
adapted  to  the  wants  and  tastes  of  eaeh  child." 

It  is  impossible  to  give  here  these  simple  plays 
in  detail,  but  it  would  be  wall  for  every  mother  to 
posMis  a  oopy  of  this  Uttte  book.    To  foUow  its 

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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


instrnetioDi  mooliaiiioally  would  ipoil  All.  Th« 
9pirit  of  FrSberi  initraotioiis-^ot  mtre^  tko  let- 
ter— is  what  we  ought  to  catch.  He  nys  that 
much  quiet  is  necessary  for  the  nerves  of  the  ohild 
during  the  first  year^  and  that  we  should  avoid 
confusing  it  by  presenting  too  many  playthings; 
that  accuracy  and  precision  of  movement  rest  and 
soothe  the  child;  that  when  the  little  one  (old 
enough  to  roll  the  ball  on  the  table)  drops  its  ball, 
it  should  be  bent  down  to  pick  it  up,  that  it  may 
early  be  accustomed  to  bear  the  consequences  of 
its  own  actions ;  that  very  early  children  should, 
if  possible,  have  playmates  of  their  own  age,  and 
learn  to  bear  with  and  help  each  other. 

I  do  not  know  who  edited  this  tiny  book,  but  it 
was  surely  some  person  of  loving  heart  and  clear 
understanding.  She  (it  must  be  a  woman)  says  in 
closing:  ** It  is  difficult  to  make  a  statement  which 
shall  not,  at  first  glance,  seem  formal,  of  what 
should  be  so  spontaneous,  life-full,  varied,  yet  not 
lavU99  or  dt9or<Urljf,  as  the  development  of  their 
little  ones.  If  mothers  realise  that  well-directed 
play  would  be  to  them  as  the  sun  and  fresh  air  to 
plants,  unconsciously  unfolding  and  feeding  them, 
saving  them  from  the  fatigue  and  «fiiiut  and  con- 
fusion too  often  resulting  from  our  present  methods,  ^) 
they  would  study  reverently  the  counsels  of  this 
good  man,  who  devoted  his  life  to  children." 

Blsewhere  she  says— and  I  think  our  national 
experiment  has  proceeded  far  enough  now  to  en- 
able intelligent  people  to  appreciate  the  remark — 
"  Organised  play  for  the  child,  and  oxganized  work 
for  the  man,  not  anarchy  and  license,  are  what  we 
need  for  the  development  of  that  trneliberty  which 
all  crave."  PriJbel's  first  principle  is  "  the  fulfil- 
ment of  duty  at  as  early  an  age  as  possible — 
that  fulfilment  a  pleasure  through  love  of  others." 

The  idea  is  not  uncommon  that  if  children  are 
not  interfered  with,  if  they  are  let  alone  as  much 
as  possible  during  the  first  half  dosen  years  of 
life — they  will  come  out  about  right;  that  nature 
will  pull  them  safely  through  the  perils  of  child- 
hood. But  a  little  eiperience  soon  shows  any 
observing  person  that  average  children  tend  to 


miiohief  as  easily  <*  as  the  sparks  to  fly  upward." 
The  baby  of  a  week  old  will  fasten  its  gase  npon 
the  lamp,  and  seriously  injare  its  organs  of  sight, 
if  left  to  its  own  inclination,  when  the  lamp  is  im- 
properly placed.  The  little  one  old  enough  to 
creep  into  misohief,  knows  no  better  than  to  grssp 
a  glittering  knife  with  whetted  edge.  A  chUd  wiU 
call  for  ''more,  more,"  when  wearied  out  with 
foolish  and  exciting  stories.  As  we  would  take  s 
ehUd's  hand  to  lead  it»  in  iU  first  aUempt  at  wslk- 
ing,  so  we  should  gently  guide  its  out-rsaohiag 
faculties,  saving  it  !h>m  self-iajniy  through  igae- 
ranoe,  and  doing  what  we  can  to  prevent  the  growth 
in  its  own  nature  of  the  evils  it  inherits. 

**  Emerson  says :  **  We  are  fired  with  the  hope  to 
reform  men.  After  many  experiments,  we  find 
that  we  must  begin  earlier—at  school.  But  tht 
boys  and  girls  are  not  docile ;  we  can  make  nothisg 
of  them.  We  decide  that  they  are  not  of  good 
stock.  We  must  begin  our  reform  earlier  stillr-st 
generation."  Bo  it  runs  back  and  back  and  back 
to  poor  old  Adam,  after  all.  Bay,  rather,  it  nui 
forward  and  forward — ^the  redemption  of  our  hnmsa 
nature  from  its  long  Adam  bondage  to  the  liberty 
of  the  sons  of  God  I  And  no  work  of  reform  ii  out 
of  place,  whether  of  the  aged,  the  middle-aged,  the 
youth,  or  of  little  children. 

But  the  earlier  you  can  begin  the  proper  oultuie 
of  a  human  being,  the  less  tindoing  and  refonniag 
will  have  to  be  done.  I  am  told  that  the  chsm* 
ing  little  book  by  Miss  Toumans — Firtt  LuwMi* 
Botany — comes  too  late  to  accomplish  its  inteoded 
mission :  **  to  develop  the  observing  facultisi  of 
children."  It  is  found  that  '*  half  the  children  an 
intellectnally  demoralized  at  seven  years  of  sge*" 
The  Kindergarten  is  needed  to  prepare  the  wsy. 
The  observing  faculties  begin  to  develop  even  in 
infancy,  and  they  cry  out  for  help  wheneyer  a 
child  asks:  "What  is  it?"  '"  What  is  it ?"  "How 
is  it  done  ?"  If,  at  this  early  sUge,  they  are  neg- 
lected or  improperly  nourished,  no  after  trainiog 
can  ftilly  atone  for  this  neglect  All  hail,  then,  to 
the  Kindergarten ! 


THE   HOME   OIROLE. 


EDITED  BT  A  I«ADT. 


THE  RIGHT  TRAINING  OF  OUR 
DAUGHTERS. 

ARE  we  training  our  daughters  up  to  usefulness, ' 
or  are  we  giving  them  only  a  superficial  edu- 
cation, and  allowing  them  to  acquire  habits  of  idle- 
ness, extravagance,  and  selfishness  ?  It  is  natu- 
ral that  every  mother  should  wish,  and  even  hope, 
for  her  daughter  an  exceptional  ftiture,  in  which 
everything  shall  be  imooth  and  bright,  with  no 


rough  places  to  tread  and  no  storms  to  terrifj  her; 
yet,  every  reasonable  mother  should  know  thst 
such  a  lot  is  onlyVithin  the  possibilities— not  st 
all  within  the  probabilities.  A  life  thus  launched, 
prepared  only  for  fair-weather  saaUng,  is  atasoit 
sure  to  be  shipwreoked.  Or  if  all  things  remain 
fair  to  outward  seeming,  the  young  girl  broagfat 
up  with  only  a  thought  of  herself,  aooa  developi 
into  the  worldly-wise  woman,  who  lives  oniy  Ar 
fashion  and  society,  and  who  knows  nothing  snd 


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TSE   HOME    CIRCLE. 


291 


MRi  nothing  aboai  ih«  Mrions  reaponslbiliUM  of 
Kft. 

A  writer  in  a  TMent  number  of  the  Revolution, 
iiM  article  enttaed  <'Pnilor  OmameiiU/'  giyei 
a  tanstndon  firom  li«r  own  ezperieBoe  of  the 
velesf  jonng  lady  of  to-daj.  We  make  an  ex- 
tnet: 

'''What  is  the  matter  new?'  inqnired  Mary, 
qrapathetieally.  *  Ob,  nothing  mere  than  uiual/ 
\  lire.  HintoDy  in  a  tone  of  enforced  resig- 
'only  Bell  has  been  invited  to  another 
lujge  party,  and  she  says  she  mnst  have  a  new 
dnn.  I  shonldn't  mind  the  expense  of  the  mate- 
lial  fo  mneh,  for  Bell  is  willing,  this  time,  to  put 
ip  with  some  thin  stnlF  like  illnsion  or  tarletane ; 
tat  it  is  the  tronble  of  making.  Snoh  a  costume 
Wt  look  like  anything  unlets  it  is  eoTered  with 
mebm  end  paffh ;  and  I  shall  haye  all  that  to  do 
njNir.  Miss  Betts,  the  dressmaker  we  psually 
mploy,  can  gvre  ns  only  one  day  next  week,  and 
it  km  seem  aa  thovgh  the  task  was  too  great  for 
■7  itrength.  That  kind  of  work,  yon  know,  re- 
.  qnnf  no  end  of  patience,  and  jnst  now  we  have 
nij  the  most  miserable  apology  for  a  girl  in  the 
kitehen,  so  that  I  am  obliged  to  attend  a  great 
M  to  honsehold  matters.  Bell  is  dreadfnlly  par- 
Mar,  and  I  get  so  nerrons  oyer  ripping  out  and 
Mng^  that  I  dream  about  it  at  night  This 
dsreiy  to  dress,  and  the  changes  in  the  fashions, 
take  away  my  peace  of  mind.  But  one  has  got  to 
anfonn  to  society  —  there's  no  use  contending 
iffiinat  it  A  girl's  fortune  may  be  made  or  mined 
Vy  little  things.  *  •  •  I  can  own  to  yon  that 
M'l  ehaneet  in  life  depend  yery  much  on  her 
kiepbg  in  the  set  to  which  she  now  belongs,  and 
«f  eonrse  I  am  obliged  to  make  some  sacrifices.' 

"'That  may  be,'  s^d  Mary,  trying  to  speak 
cilnly;  'but  to  my  mind  it  offers  no  good  reason 
br  allowing  girls  to  wear  out  their  mothers'  lives, 
^they  may  float  around  entirely  Aree  from  care. 
^7  don't  Bell  attend  to  her  own  wardrobe  ?  She 
ii  joung,  and  as  strong  as  you  are,  certainly;  for 
I  often  see  her  go  out  early  and  come  in  late,  and 
tko  nmad  of  parties  she  attends  in  a  single  month 
Uit  be  a  great  tax  on  physical  rigor.' 

"'Bell  tiyes  on  exoitement,'  returned  Mrs.  Hin- 
taa,  with  a  sigh.  '  She  can  dance  longer  than 
mjr  girl  I  ever  saw ;  but  when  she  takes  a  needle 
i>  her  hand  and  sits  down  to  sew,  it  brings  en  a 
■nrsas  headache  directly,  and  then  all  she  can 
4s  is  to  lie  en  the  sofa  and  direct  hew  things  shall 
W  data.  I  do  belieTje  Bell  could  keep  a  dozen 
vmMB  busy,  she  has  such  a  genius  for  planning. 
Ibera's  another  thing  about  it:  a  girl  has  to  be 
'liised  to  receive  company,  yon  know ;  and  if  she 
•tttmpti  to  do  anything,  it  is  the  same  as  labor 
iMt  I  often  think  It  is  better  and  easier  fbr  me 
to  do  an  the  work  myself  than  to  attempt  to  hare 
BoDhelp.' 

"'t  have  old-foshioned  notions,  perhaps,'  said 
)Ui7j  with  a  Uttle  asperity  in  herkind  voieei '  but 


it  seems  to  me  altogether  out  of  plaee  for  a  girl  to 
be  dressed  up,  reeeiviag  her  fk'lends  in  the  parlor, 
while  hpr  mother  is  toiling  over  her  finery  up 
stairs.  I  was  bfonght  up  to  think  that  mother 
nrast  be  considered  before  any  other  member  of 
the  family;  that  a  mother's  place  was,  in  faot»  at 
the  head  of  the  household;  and  the  present  fash- 
ion of  allowing  the  young  daughter  to  push  the 
mother  aside  and  usurp  her  station  at  the  very 
time  there  ought  to  be  some  dignify  and  repose  in 
the  mother's  Ufh,  is  pernicious.  She  is  made  the 
slave  of  all  the  caprices  of  frivolous  and  absurd 
dressing  that  a  thoughtless  girl's  fancy  can  invent ; 
and  I  am  determined  Oraee  shall  not  be  brought 
up  in  this  way,  if  she  lives  to  be  an  old  maid  fifty 


<"I  know  it  Is  wrong,'  sighed  Mrs.  Hinton, 
helplessly,  'but  what  can  one  do?  A  girl  like 
Bell  would  have  her  prospects  in  lifb  ruined  if  it 
was  suspected  that  she  worked.  Girls  have  got 
to  be  useless,  idle,  good-for-nothing  creatures,  to 
go  in  the  best  society,  and  secure  a  husband  in 
that  station.  Bell  is  stylish,  and  much  admired ; 
and  if  the  young  men  were  not  such  mercenary 
creatures,  always  on  the  watch  to  marry  money, 
I  should  have  some  hope  for  her  getting  settled 
to  her  mind.  She  has  a  great  taste  for  elegance. 
I  used  to  have  when  a  girl,  but  it  has  been  beaten 
out  of  me.  All  I  ask  now  is  to  get  into  some 
comer  and  rest' 

"  When  Mrs.  Hinton  had  left,  Mary  sighed,  and 
said : '  That  woman  is  th|  most  hopeless  case  I  ever 
saw.  Ton  may  preach  to  her  a  year,  and  she  will 
agree  to  everything  you  say,  and  then  go  on  in 
exactly  the  old  way.  I  should  get  out  of  patience 
with  her,  if  there  wasn't  something  so  pathetic  in 
the  sight  of  a  young  creature  like  Bell  nagging 
an  old  one  like  Mrs.  Hinton,  especially  when  the 
old  one  happens  to  be  her  mother.' " 

Does  this  sketch  seem  overdrawn  ?  Pause  for  a 
moment,  and  mn  over  the  list  of  your  acquaint- 
ances, and  see  if  you  cannot  find  its  counterpart 
in  real  life.  We  can  recall  a  mother  and  daughter 
who  might  have  sat  for  these  portraits,  so  faith- 
fully are  they  represented.  The  daughter  is  per- 
suaded she  "oannot  live"  without  the  most  expen- 
sive of  French  kid  gloves,  no  matter  if  the  mother 
goes  shoeless  that  they  may  be  bought  She  "  can- 
not live"  if  her  hat  is  not  of  the  very  latest  mode, 
and  yaried  as  often  as  the  whim  seises  her.  She 
"  cannot  live"  if  she  oannot  every  now  and  then 
have  an  expensive  dress,  of  which  perhaps  she  be- 
comes tired  almost  as  soon  as  it  is  made,  and  either 
abuses  and  misuses  it  so  that  it  is  spoiled  and 
worn  out  long  before  it  ought  to  have  been,  or  else 
is  thrown  away  altogether.  She  "cannot  live"  If 
she  is  not  allowed  to  stuff  herself  with  confec- 
tionery until  her  health  is  really  breaking  from  it 
She  "cannot  live^'  if  she  does  not  have  excite- 
ment, and  when  most  under  Its  Snfluenoe  she  is  a 
flretAil,   peevish,  diseonfeented   creature,  making 


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ARTHURS   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


ererybodj  miaerable  aVmt  h«r.  6b«  nqmlns  her 
moth«r  to  perform  the  duties  ef  waiting-maid  for 
her,  and  not  only  permit*  her  bat  expeote  her  to 
wear  heraelf  evt  over  the  makiag  of  finery  for 
her,  if  the  ezigenoiea  of  party  or  ball  demand  it» 
though  the  mother  la  a  oonilnned  inralid.  ^  Bui," 
sighei  the  woman,  when  remonstrated  with  as  to 
her  daughter's  oondnot:  ''She  most  have  her 
ohaoces  in  life ;"  while  the  girl  nnblnshin^  ae- 
knowledges  that  she  Is  looking  for  a  husband,  and 
oannot  afford  to  relax  a  single  effort  toward  seeur- 
ing  one. 

Snoh  things  disgnst  us.  Yet  there  is  only  one 
way  to  ayoid  a  tendenoy  toward  oondnot  like  this 
in  our  giris.  Let  them  be  edneated  to  feel  that 
their  chances  in  life  do  not  depend  solely  upon 
gettfaig  married.  Let  them  feel  that  there  are 
other  aims  possible  and  e?en  desirable,  other  am- 
bitions legitimate.  Learn  them  early  to  bear  the 
responsibilities  of  life^  and  then,  whererer  their 
station  and  whaterer  their  duties^  they  will  be 
fully  prepared  for  them. 


w 


HE  AND  I. 

BT  HX8TEB  A.  BBNEDICT. 
L 

r£  were  happiest  of  lorers. 
He  and  I— 

Long  ago, 
Walking  'mid  the  white  wild  rose% 
Where  the  beaeh  with  billow  closes, 
Where  delight  with  nforn  reposes. 
And  with  even ; 
Plighting  troth  with  coyest  kisses^ 
Wbisp'ring  shyly  of  the  blisses. 
Of  a  day  the  May-time  misse^ 

Not  below; 
Fond  and  foolish  lovers, 
He  and  I, 

That  sweet  even. 

II. 
Heaven  was  glad  when  we  were  wedded. 
He  and  I— 

This  we  know; 
For  there  swept  a  sweeter  splendor 
Over  all  the  valleys  tender — 
Over  all  the  poplars  slender, 

Down  the  way, 
When  we  whispered :  "  Should  there  sorrow 
G6me  with  coming  of  the  morrow. 
We  will  Hope  from  sweet  Love  borrow 

Ever;"  so, 
With  dear  love  we  wedded, 
He  and  I, 

That  dear  day. 

in. 

We  had  daintiest  of  blossoms, 
He  and  I, 

Longago* 
Ah,  we  sit  to-night  and  ponder. 


Why  it  lieth  ever  yonder, 

Where  the  birds  and  breeses  wander 

At  their  wlU; 
Why  so  fhr  away  the  forehead, 
And  the  breast  lUie  nwrble  molded; 
Why  two  little  hands  are  folded 

Down  w  low — 
How  death  found  our  bkasom— 
Ha  and  I 

Manrel  stilL 

IV. 
But  we  hold  eaoh  other  dearer, 
B»  and  I— 

Dearer  far. 
For  the  dark  of  days  fonakon. 
For  the  dream  that  death  has  taken. 
From  onr  souls  of  sorrow  shaken 

As  a  pall; 
For  the  chill  of  wintiy  weather. 
For  the  storm  we've  braved  together. 
For  the  low  grave  where  the  heathar 

Blossoms  are; 
Know  eaoh  other  dearer— 
He  and  I, 

For  them  alL 

V. 

We  shall  wake  some  blessed  morning, 
He  and  I, 

Happy  wake, 
Glad  for  all  the  lonely  gleaning. 
In  the  land  to  darkness  leaning — 
Wake— and  sorrow's  mystic  meaning 

Understand, 
And,  in  that  thrice-blessed  hour, 
God  will  give  us  back  the  flower. 
Kept  alive  in  Eden-bower, 

For  oar  sake. 
So,  we  wait  for  morning. 
He  and  I^ 

Hand  in  hand. 


<<WoifBN,"  says  Charlotte  Bronte,  ''aie  isp- 
posed  to  be  rery  ealm,  generaliy,  but  they  ftsl  jut  I 
as  men  fbel ;  t^ey  need  exercise  for  their  fiwaltiMi 
and  m  ield  for  their  efforts,  as  much  as  their  broUint 
do,  and  It  is  narrow-minded  in  their  more  prin*  , 
leged  fellow-ereatures  to  say  thai  thny  oi^t  t»  { 
confine  themselves  to  maUng  puddings  and  kail-  i 
ting  stockings,  to  playing  on  the  piano  aadtn- 
broidering  bags." 


The  IiTFLiTBHCH  OF  OxB  AcT. — One  pound  of 
gold  may  be  drawn  into  a  wire  that  would  extta^ 
around  the  globe.  So  one  good  deed  may  be  fel^ 
through  all  time,  and  cast  its  influence  into  eterni^* 
Though  done  in  the  first  flash  of  youth,  it  msj  g^ 
the  la^t  of  a  long  lifoi  and  form  the  brtgl^testaDd 
most  glorious  spot  in  it 

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EVENIlSrOS   T^TITH   THIS   POETS. 


THE  DAISY  SEEKEES. 

BT  W.  X.  X..  JAT. 

«  n  0 !"  Mid  the  King  to  bis  serrants, 
VJ  "  Gather  me  daisies  white, 
Gather  them  out  of  the  sanshine. 

Oat  of  tlw  gloom  of  night.    - 
Ton  will  find  them  in  all  the  plaees 

That  are  tvedden  by  hnman  feet. 
Lifting  their  mildt  white  &oe« 

Close  to  the  dusty  street. 
Climbing  the  side  of  the  moontaiOf 

Tro^i^  aeroae  the  pUin* 
Smiling  down  into  the  foantain> 

That  up  to  them  smUeth  again ! 
They  dwell  in  the  lowliest  Talleys, 

By  the  humblest  threshold  they  meet, 
In  the  ronghest  and  thorniest  places 

They  feftrlessly  set  their  feet ; 
They  steal  o'er  the  hedge  of  the  desert. 

They  spring  from  the  loneliest  grave, 
'Mid  the  smoke  and  the  thunder  of  battle 

Their  burners  of  peaee  they  wave. 
<      Ton  will  ftnd  them  whererer  yon  seek  them, 

And  ae  f ares  yen  ehoose  to  roam, 
Tet  they  Ueesom  foU  fair  in  the  qniet, 

And  under  the  ehndew  of  homob 
The  proud  onee  may  trample  them  under. 

The  earelees  mi^  pMS  them  by, 
But  their  Iheef  so  mild  and  so  tender 

Are  the  veiy  deUght  of  my  eye. 
And  he  that  shall  bring  me  the  whitest 

Shall  sit  at  my  ftast  tonight, 
In  a  orown  of  Jewels  the  brightest. 

And  in  ridment  of  starry  white. 
He  shall  thrill  to  the  song  and  the  story 

That  eeho  through  mansions  abore. 
He  shall  bask  in  the  shine  of  my  glory, 

And  drink  of  the  wine  of  my  love." 

Then  the  hearts  of  the  serranU  within  them 

Beat  high  witk  hope  sAd^deHght, 
And  fast  through  the  shade  and  the  shining 

Thej  went  for  the  daUies  white. 
Some  bore  with  Ihem  veisels  olden. 

Some  baskets  of  willew  strands,     • 
These,  Tases  raie^esreUed  and  golden, 

These,  nought  but  ^o,  Willing  handl. 
And  on  the  steep  slopes  of  the  highlands. 

By  the  stream's  Imperoeptible  lapse,   , 
In  the  sUenee  of  wsnre-prisoned  Islands, 

Through  the  sunshiny  woodland  gaps, 
'Mid  the  jar  tad  diaagor  of  labor, 

'Mid  the  smoke  and  the  carnage  ef  strife. 
Where  neighbor  lirowned  dsirkly  on  neighbor, 

Where  love  was  the  tweet  law  ef  lift. 
In  pathwayt  whsM  stem  duty  bound  them, 


In  home  thades  moot  stiU  and  moot  fair- 
Wherever  they  sought  them  they  found  them, 

For  the  daisies  grew  everywhere  I 
Some  gathered  with  earols  of  gladness, 

Some  mused  on  the  words  of  the  King, 
Seme  trembled  with  doubt  or  with  sadness, 

While  others  went  wandering 
Down  in  the  gardens  of  pleasure, 

Where  the  rose's  blushes  bright 
And  the  tulip's  scarlet  treasure 

Daxzled  and  charmed  their  sight; 
And  they  heaped  up  their  baskets  and  vases 

With  crimson  and  purple  and  red, 
Unheeding  the  mild^  white  faces 

Of  the  daisies  under  their  tfead ; 
Or  they  climbed  to  the  narrow  ledges, 

Where,  'twixt  the  eternal  snows 
And  the  sheer  cliff's  dizzy  edges, 

The  tempting  rhodora  grows ; 
And  they  wreathed  their  pale  brows  with 
splendor,  ' 

And  starred  their  ehUl  l^reasts  with  its  glow, 
While  the  daisies  so  white  and  so  tender 

Were  left  on  the  green  slopes  below ! 

But  a  boy  that  was  laid  in  the  shadow. 

With  two  small  crutches  at  hand, 
Looked  forth  o'er  the  sunshiny  meadow 

After  the  vanishing  band ; 
Saw  how  their  swift  feet  when  climbing 

Cliff-side  and  hill-top  bright. 
Heard  their  glad  voioes,  far  chiming. 

When  bending  boughs  bid  them  from  sight; 
And  murmurs :  "  Ah !  why  must  I  only 

Be  left  in  the  shadows  behind. 
Condemned  to  lie  idle  and  lonely, 

While  others  may  seek  and  may  find  ? 
Oh,  for  the  slopes  of  the  mounUin, 

The  hill-tops'  greenness  and  glow. 
The  diamonded  edge  of  the  founUin— 

All  spots  where  the  daisies  do  grow  I 
Oh,  for  the  paths  widest  roaming  I 

For  feet  that  can  climb  and  can  ding ! 
Oh,  to  come  baok  in  the  gloaming. 

Bearing  white  spoils  to  the  King ! 
Ah!  why  doth  he  leave  me  so  lonely, 

With  a  heart  fbr  his  serviee  so  fain, 
But  with  feet  that  will  earry  me  only 

To  the  near,  dim  Vallty  of  Pain  ?" 
Then,  low !  oame  a  hush,  and  a  brightness 

Slow  rounding  to  luminous  sphere. 
And  a  wing  of  the  soft,  soft  whiteness 

Of  fleeee-clonds  hi  summer  nights  elear. 
And  a  voice  through  the  hushed  air  ringing 

More  sweetly  and  salemaly 
Than  thn*  sound  of  bells,  fax  swinging. 

Over  a  twilight  itni 


its 


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AETEUH'S   LADY'8   HOUE   MAGAZINE. 


'*  Take  heart :  the  King  hath  <nu  maatare 

For  the  seirice  of  feet  that  ran. 
And  of  feet  that  wait  His  pleaenre. 

Till  all  His  deep  will  is  done. 
And  though  daisioa  are^nowy  and  many 

On  hill-top*,  and  meadow,  and  i^ain^ 
Yet  ai  mild  and  ae  white  ones  ai  aa  j 

Grow  down  In  the  Valley  of  Pain." 

Then  slow,  while  the  sanset  was  painting 

Its  wonderfal  pictures  of  light, 
The  cripple  arore,  and,  half-  fainting. 

Went  seeking  the  daisies  white. 
Wandering  wearj  and  lonely, 

Wandering  slow  and  forlorn, 
He  gathered  them  out  of  the  roek- cleft, 

He  gathered  them  out  of  the  thorn. 
In  harren  and  desolate  places 

They  grew,  but  more  starlike  and  mild, 
And  he  gased  in  their  pure  shining  faces. 

Soft  smiling,  nor  knew  that  he  smiled ; 
Or  he  wet  them  with  tears  slow  falRng, 

Nor  saw  how  it  washed  tbem  white^ 
Till  he  heard  the  King's  roice  calling 

Soft  through  the  Valley's  night : 
'*  Come  quickly,  for  all  things  are  ready, 

And  the  shadows  between  yon  and  home 
Grow  ever  more  sombre  and  steady ; 

And  I  wait  for  the  daisies— Come !" 

And  they  came  I    From  the  hill  and  the  forest— 

From  the  great  city's  hurry  and  moil — 
From  the  field  where  the  conflict  was  sorest — 

From  brown,  fertile  ftirrows  of  toil — 
From  islands  wave-guarded  that  slumbered — 

From  sands  that  were  scorched  m  with  flame — 
An  army  whom  no  man  hath  numbered — 

Swift  rank  upon  rank — they  came. 
Up  from  the  darkening  spaces, 

Hushed  under  twilight's  gray  wing ; 
And  they  heaped  up  the  white  shining  dalsiea 

High  at  the  feet  of  the  King  I 
The  daisies  so  winsome  and  tender. 

The  daisies  so  fearless  and  bright, 
Kin  to  earth  by  a  stem  so  slender, 

To  the  stars  by  coronas  so  white. 
Mild  with  the  touches  of  many 

Long  days  of  the  sun  and  the  rain  ! — 
But  the  wkiUtt  and  mildett  of  any 

Were  ihoet/rom  tht  ValUy  of  Pain  I 

80  the  King  sent  His  swift»  stiU  angel. 

And  we  robed  onr  pale  boy  in  white, 
And  out  through  the  dmik  of  the  erening 

He  went  ttom.  onr  lingering  sight. 
We  know  not  what  pathway  of  brightneas, 

What  silTary  pavement  of  stav% 
He  climbed  to  the  elear  shining  whiteneaa 

Of  the  pearly  and  wide*open  bars ; 
We  bnt  know  in  some  lolt,  far  aamre. 

That  needeth  no  foa  for  iti  light. 
In  the  eonrt  of  the  King't  high  pleamir^ 

He  sits  at  the  feaa t  to-night-*f%«  OkmnimoM. 


FALLEN  ASLEEP  IN  HIS  CHAIE. 

NIGHT  had  let  her  sable  ourtaiA 
Down  upon  the  hill-tops  fall. 
And  it  rested  in  the  valley 

Like  a  dark,  funereal  pall; 
Like  wild  beaat  tbeir  prey  pursuing. 
Howled  the  winds  among  the  pine. 
And  the  darkness  reigned  so  fearful 
That  the  stars  forgot  to  shine. 

Though,  the  night  was  4ark  and  dreary, 

Such  aa  ofltimea  riaita  earth, 
Tet  the  flre-llgbt  in  a  cottage 

With  bright  ahadows  mingled  mirth; 
Wrought  its  wild  and  gleaming  ahadowa 

Noiaeletaly  the  cefling  o'er, 
Like  the  apritea  tnm  roay  dreamland 

Dancing  on  the  oaken  floor. 

Down  before  the  glowing  embera. 

In  a  soft  and  easy  chair, 
Gazing  on  the  phantom  figurea. 

Was  a  man  of  hoary  hair. 
Bent  his  form,  until  his  forehead 

Rested  light  upon  his  cane; 
Viewed  the  shadows  gayly  dancing 

To  the  music  of  the  rain. 

Led  by  ibonghta  of  1ot%  he  wandered 

Back  through  long-departed  years, 
And  hia  eyea  grew  dim  and  heavy 

With  their  weight  of  nawept  tears; 
Faoea  of  the  loved  and  loving, 

Of  the  fhithftil  and  th«  trae, 
With  their  annny  amiiea  of  gladneaa, 

Paaaed  before  hia  mental  view. 

Through  eaoh  olden,  haunted  caatle, 

With  ito  truthful  talea  repUte, 
Through  each  sunny  nook  of  childhood, 

Mem'ry  led  hia  erring  feet 
Voices  of  the  loved  were  ainging 

Sweetly  aome  familiar  hymn, 
And  it  seemed  like  far-off  muaio. 

In  the  summer  twilight  dim. 

Aa  he  roamed  thromgh  ohiMhood'a  maces, 

Hallowed  aeenea  reaeirad  their  birth. 
Till  the  glanoe  of  retroapeetlon 

Seemed  tha  aaddeat  thing  on  earth. 
Long  he  aat,  but  act  a  mnaele 

Moved  to  mar  tha  alienee  deep, 
For  the  old  man,  Hke  aa  infant, 

In  hia  okair  had  ^t^ipp^d  maUtp, 

But  it  waa  the  alaep  that's  wakeleaa. 

For  his  Umba  were  atiff  and  eold; 
AMhiaaaadaof  lifewerewaated,  | 

And  hia  daya  on  earth  were  told. 
Angela  oame,  while  be  waa  musing, 

Fren  the  seatana  ef  bliaa  a<ar, 
Boie  away  hi^iaatieaa  apirit 

Whwa  the  Jaat  aad  M/  •»* 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


FRUIT   OULTUHE   FOR   LADIES. 

BY  THE  AtrmOB  OF  "  OABDENINa  TOIL  I.ADIE8." 


WHEN  TO  PRUNE  FRUIT  TREES. 


w. 


f'lTH  ragmrd  to  the  proper  teason  for  pmning 
frvit  tree«,  there  seems  to  be  as  manyopin- 
iani^  or  theories,  as  there  are  iadiyidaals  engaged 
in  raltirating  frnit  orchards.  We  have  seen  eaoh 
npsrate  month  in  the  year  reoommended  by  differ- 
cit  penona  as  the  one  and  only  right  month  in 
vhioh  to  prane.  Recommendations  so  conflicting 
•n  eertainly  rery  pusxling,  to  say  the  least,  to  the 
aoriee  in  frnit-onltare. 

The  tmth  is,  says  a  sensible  writer  on  the  snb- 
j«t,  trees  can  be  pmned  at  any  time,  and  ought  to 
bt  vhaierer  the  branches  or  shoots  are  running 
utray.  Out  away  at  any  time  any  superfluous  or 
uoeeessary  shoots.  Thus  a  proper  direction  is 
girsQ  to  the  growth  and  vigor  of  the  tree,  and  its 
Aieei  are  husbanded  whDe  it  is  producing  wood. 
Do  net  wait  for  some  particular  month  for  pruning, 
■■d  then  go  into  the  tree  with  axe  and  saw;  but  at 
nj  time  as  yon  walk  out  into  your  orchard,  take 
cat  yonr  knife  and  trim  gently  away  such  shoots 
lad  branches  as  yon  think  are  unnecessary.  It  is 
itill  better  to  mb  off  with  your  fingers  the  tender 
ihoot;  but,  if  this  has  been  neglected,  cut  it  off; 
whether  in  spring,  summer,  autumn,  or  winter. 
Ut  your  endeavor  be  to  guide  nature,  baling  in 
view  for  your  tree  the  fbrmation  of  a  round,  open 
top,  admitting  tha  air  and  light  to  all  parts  of  the 
(ne  and  to  its  tm\L 

Heavy  pruning  should  not  be  done  at  any  time. 
If  sorere  pmning  is  needed,  do  not  do  it  all  at 
•oe.  Let  the  work  be  gradual— some  this  year 
■d  some  next.  But  the  every-day  pruning,  the 
Boit  of  which  should  be  done  with  thumb  and 
(Bgor,  is  what  we  recommend.  You  should 
eahivate  your  trees  for  fruit,  not  to  cut  fire- 
wood flrom  them  every  spring  or  fall,  as  the  ease 
■ajbe. 

6U11,  we  admit  there  are  cases  in  which,  gener- 
•Uj  from  past  neglect  or  mi^ndgment,  the  aze  or 
^  law  must  be  applied.  If  this  bad  work  must 
^  done,  March,  we  think,  is  the  best  time  for 
tog  it  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  orehardists 
who  are  just  as  confident  that  it  should  be  done 
•hoot  the  middle  of  June.  Perhaps,  if  the  truth 
wan  known,  the  time  when  is  of  little  oonsequence ; 
A  eaat  be  much  worse  in  the  one  month  than  in 
tto  other,  and,  as  we  have  already  said,  is  bad  at 
ttr  season. 

At  all  events,  let  your  branches  be  cut  off  as 
■toothly  as  possible,  and  close  up  to  the  stock 
ftoA  whence  they  are  taken,  but  not  so  close  as  to 
■hare  away  the  slight  ridge  generaUy  found  at  the 
^  of  every  braneh.  Cover  the  wound  with 
infti^g-wax,  o?  with  a  thin  eoating  of  tar. 


RENEWING  OLD  STRAWBERRY  BEDS. 

Old  strawberry  beds  may  be  renewed  by  spad- 
ing np  or  under  the  vines,  so  as  to  leave  them  in 
rows  three  feet  apart  Let  the  spaded  strips  be 
well  pulverised  and  oultivatcd.  Train  runners 
over  them  from  the  old  vines,  allowing  them  to 
take  root  one  at  every  foot  of  the  new  bed.  The 
new  plant  will  bear  well  the  following  season. 
The  present  month  is  a  good  time  for  this  work. 


ROOT  PROPAGATION  OF  PEAR-TREE& 

An  excellent  and  reliable  way  to  propagate 
choice  varieties  of  pears,  is  by  setting  out  cuttings 
from  the  roots,  as  is  often  done  with  the  red  sorts 
of  raspberries  and  with  blackberries.  Select  such 
pieces  of  root  as  have  one  or  more  fibres  attached. 
They  cannot  well  be  too  small,  but  ought  not  to  be 
larger  than  the  finger.  Cover  the  wound  at  the 
larger  end  with  grafting-wax,  setting  the  pieoe 
obliquely  in  the  ground.  They  very  seldom  fail 
to  send  up  shoots,  whieh  in  a  single  season  be- 
oome  as  tall  as  plants  raised  from  these  seed  of 
two  years'  growth. 


BARK  LICE. 

To  get  rid  of  these  pests  is  no  easy  task,  and 
requires  considerable  patience  and  perseverance. 
It  has  been  suggested  to  scatter  quick-lime  over 
the  branches  when,  or  soon  after,  the  grub  hatches 
out,  say  from  the  20th  of  May  to  the  20th  of  June. 

A  pretty  strong  soap-suds,  applied  with  a  scrub- 
bing brush  such  as  the  women  scour  floors  with,  is 
also  recommended  likewise.  A  weak  fish- brine,  such 
as  may  be'  obtained  at  the  stores  from  mackerel 
barrels,  is  said  to  be  efficacious  in  destroying  bark 
lice. 


THE  YELLOWS. 

This  is  a  disease  peealiar  to  the  peach-tree.  Its 
eaase  has  never  been  aatisfiactorily  asoertained. 
It  is  supposed,  however,  to  have  arisen  originally 
from  exhaustion  or  deterioration  of  the  soil,  over- 
bearing, and  bad  cultivation.  Its  indications  arn^ 
first,  a  premature  ripening  of  the  fruit,  aoeom- 
panied  with  purple  disool orations  of  the  fleah. 
The  following  season  numerous  small  wiry  shoots 
are  thrown  out  from  the  larger  branches,  the  leaves 
become  yellow,  the  whole  tree  assumes  a  sickly 
appearance,  and  finally  dies.    As  this  is  a  eonta- 

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ABTHXJB*8   LADT'8   SOME    MAGAZINE. 


gioaa  disease,  yoar  best  plan  is  at  once  to  remove 
and  burn  the  first  tree  in  yonr  orehard  that  shows 
symptoms  of  it.  No  yoang  tree  should  be  planted 
on  the  same  spot.  If  your  soil  is  rich  and  strong, 
the  disease  is  not  so  likely  to  spread.  I  know  of  no 
instanoe  where  a  well-marked  ease  of  the  yrilowe 
has  been  cured.  A  writer  in  the  Oardener't 
Jdmtkly,  however,  says  : 

"In  the  spring  of  1863  I  had  two  or  three  peach 
trees  that  had  the  yellows  very  bad.  I  poured  on 
one  gallon  of  boiling-hot  water  on  eaeh  tree>  and  lei 
it  ran  down  the  trunk.  The  result  was  snrprising. 
In  the  eourae  of  two  or  three  weeks  there  appeared 
a  new  growth  of  leaves,  freeh  and  g^reen,  and 
thi«  seaaon  they  have  all  had  peaohes  on  th«m." 


THE  CURCULIO  AGAIN. 

Having  come  across  another  plan  for  catching 
the  curculio,  we  deem  it  of  sufficient  importance 
to  condense  and  present  to  our  readers : 

Put  your  orchard  in  the  best  order;  smooth 
down  the  soil  around  every  tree,  having  the  ground 
very  clean.  Do  not  leave  a  single  hole,  or  crack, 
or  crevice,  where  the  curculio  can  hide.  Kow  lay 
oLose  to  the  tree,  and  close  to  the  ground,  about 
four  pieces  to  a  tree,  either  of  chips,  or  bark,  or 
board,  or  rag,  or  corn-cob,  or  old  leather,  or,  in 
fact,  anything  for  a  covert  Go  around  every  day, 
and  turn  over  each  piece,  and  kill  every  curculio 
you  find.  The  little  pests  will  generally  be  found 
adhering  to  the  chip,  or  whatever  you  may  use ; 
but  many  will  also  be  found  on  the  ground  imme- 
diately under  it.  This  plan,  faithfully  adhered  to, 
will  do  good,  even  if  it  dues  not  finally  result  in 
the  extermination  of  the  curculio. 

We  have  also  seen  it  recommended  to  use  finely 
pulverised,  unslackod  lime,  placed  in  a  loose  sack, 
which  is  attached  to  a  long  pole,  and  then  shake 
and  jar  the  dust  over  and  through  the  plum  trees, 
early  in  the  morning  while  the  dew  is  on.  This 
is  to  be  done  from  the  time  the  young  plums  are 
aa  large  as  a  pea. 


HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

STRAWBERRiS8.*«-De  DOt  foTgot  to  mulch  your 
strawberry  beds.  Corn-stalks  make  a  very  good 
mulch.  If  your  beds  have  been  covered  with 
straw  during  the  winter,  it  would  he  well,  instead 
o#  lumoving  it  in  the  spring,  to  simply  part  it  over 
the  plants,  and  leave  it  on  till  after  your  Aruit  is 
gathered.  What  weeds  make  their  way  through 
the  straw  may  be  pulled.  Where  your  beda  have 
not  thus  been  covered,  give  them  a  thorough  hoe« 
ing  shortly  after  the  fruit  sets,  and  thwik  ftpply 
yeur  mulch,  with  some  light  ma&urei. 

CuRRAKTS  AND  GoosBBBRRiES. — Manure  and 
mulch  your  currant  bushes  before  the  hot  weather 


sets  in.  No  Aruit  is  more  benefited  by  mulching 
than  the  ourrant.  Lack  for  ourraat-wermi,  and 
apply  powdered  hellebore,  as  directed  in  a  former 
number.  The  same  remarks  apply  as  well  to  tht 
gooseberry. 

BASPBURiina  ard  BLAOKBXRR»B.^Gnltivate 
carefully,  manure  liberally,  and  mulch  lightly.  If 
not  already  tied  up  to  stakes,  or  supported  In  sons 
way,  they  should  now  be  gone  over  and  put  in 
trim  to  oarry  the  burden  of  ftuit  they  are  soon  to 
bear. 

GBAPE-rnrES. — Leave  one  bud  on  young  vinsi 
set  out  this  spring.  On  vines  started  l&st  season 
two  may  be  left  On  old  vines  rub  off  all  buds  thtt 
appear  where  they  are  not  wanted,  and  save  prua- 
irig.  New  plants  may  now  be  propagated  by  lay- 
ering. Make  a  trench  a  few  inches  deep,  in  which 
lay  down  a  vine  of  last  year's  growth.  Fasten  it 
down  with  pegs,  and  when  the  shoots  have  made  their 
appearance,  cover  the  vine  with  earth.  Look  for 
rose-bugs  on  your  vines,  especially  on  tbeblossomi. 
Shake  the  little  rascals  off,  and  catch  and  kiU 
them.  This  must  be  done  every  day  while  your 
vines  are  in  bloom. 


BEADING  FOR  FRUIT-CULTURISTS. 

AU  persons  going  into  the  culture  of  £rait  will 
find  it  to  their  advantage  to  take  one  or  moxo 
perlodkahi,  either  partially  or  wholly  devoted  to 
that  particular  employment  Among  such  period- 
icals I  may  mention,  as  being  excellent  and 
reliable,  the  A^rieuUmritt,  of  New  York ;  the  Hor- 
tiouUurUt,  of  the  same  city,  and  the  Gardene/t 
Jlotuhly,  of  Philadelphia.  I  would  deem  it  a  good 
investment  to  take  all  three  of  these  publicatioDS. 
But  as  a  cheap,  reliable,  and  thorough^  practkal 
paper,  I  oaa  heartily  recommend  the  *'  SmaU-Ffit 
BeeonUr,"  published  by  A.  M.  Purdy,  of  PalmyTS, 
N.  Y.  It  is  almost  wholly  devoted  to  the  oultira^ 
tion  of  small  fruits,  and  oontains  information  in 
regard  to  every  conceivable  point  bearing  upon 
the  sttbjeot  Prioe  $1  a  year.  Specimens  sent  on 
application  to  the  publisher. 


SUMMER  PLANTS  AND  BULBS. 

Those  who  are  about  to  put  the  final  touches  to 
their  gardens,  preliminary  to  their  summer  ditplftTi 
should  not  fail  to  send  for  Mr.  Dreer's  Gsiden 
Calendar,  and  examine  his  Ifsto  of  bedding  pisfitf, 
summer  bulbs  and  roses.  The  stock  is,  we  beUeve) 
the  most  complete  of  any  one's  in  the  country ;  he 
is  perfectly  reliable,  for  his  seeds,  plants,  and 
bulbs  always  give  satisfaction.  He  offers  te  sen* 
one  hundred  choice  and  judiciously  selected  plaatt 
for  $10.00,  or  fifty  plants  for  $6.00.  Addi«« 
Henry  A.  Dreer,  Philadelphia,  Fa. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


NETT  i>UBr,io^Tioisrs. 


EuTBWiu  Lxd;  or,  Thi  Two  Bbqusbts.  By  Jane  B. 
Sonunen.    Philadelphia:  Porter  dt  Ooat^a. 

Ikif  is  an  Ameriean  norel^  the  MitboiMs  of 
wkmk  MeBfl  to  liATe  attonpiad  to  tnuisfai  aame  of 
tka  «hftraotertttiot  of  eaoond-nto  Enffluh  fiotkm 
taWDWB  book.  Wo  have^  for  inftaoooy  a  man- 
te»  a  park  aboondiog  in  deer,  and  an  old  familj 
ii  which  the  law  of  primogenHure — ignoied  hj 
itatste  in  this  country — is  kindly  recognised  by 
Bstnre.  Here  the  resemblance  of  our  American 
nord  to  its  English  prototypes  ends.  With  lUl 
(Mr  faalts,  they  aim,  at  least,  to  be  natural ;  bnt 
the  heroines  of  our  book,  young  girls  of  fifteen  and 
dzteen,  are  pretematarally  mature  in  speech  and 
Mtion;  they  are  the  heroines  of  romance,  rather 
tbu  what  our  Amerioan  girls  really  are  at  this 
Bost  uninteresting  period  of  their  lires.  The  plot 
of  the  story  is  one  that  can  lay  little  claim  to 
probability.  In  short,  as  a  literary  production, 
''fieaTenward  Led"  searoely  rises  to  the  dignity 
of  eren  a  third-rate  nevel. 

The  Tovro  AvKBiCAir  Spbakiu.  By  J.  B.  Sypher,  author 
of  '*The  American  Popular  Speaker,"  '* School  His- 
loiy  of  Pennaylrania,"  "  History  of  New  Jersey/ 
etc   Philadelphia:  i^tw  4  CiMiM. 

A  pleasing  askd  judioions  seleotioB  of  ''speaking 
pisess,"  designed  for  the  use  of  the  younger  otaMMes 
is  lehoolSy  lycenms,  temperanoe  sooieties,  eto. 

EuL  WmTuro ;  or,  Thi  Cabub  op  a  Naxiless  Bot.  By 
the  author  of  "The  Little  Peanut  Merchant."  Bos- 
ton: ffenry  A.  Young  c£  Cb. 

This  Lb  a  well-toid  story,  depicting  the  evils  of 
tatemperance,  and  iUustrative  of  the  virtues  of 
sobriety  and  active  well-doing.  Though  specially 
dsngned  for  joung  readers,  it  will,  to  a  certain 
eitent,  please  and  edify  readers  of  any  age.  A 
place  should  be  found  for  it  in  every  Sunday- 
Khool  library.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Claxton, 
Bemsen  k  Haffelflnger. 

lfABaTwAiii'8A«TOBxooaAPBT,ijn>FiiaiBo]ii»ai.  New 
lork :  Shddon  and  Oo, 

Two  amusing  trifles;  not,  however,  by  any  means, 
in  their  author's  happiest  vein.  Without  his  name 
■ttaehed  to  them  they  would  scarcely  have  been 
desmed  worthy  of  pubUeation  in  book  Ibrm. 

FftASTK  SpBuoaa^s  Boli  of  Liri,  ahd  How  n  L»  to  Paos- 
WHHT.  By  John  W.  Kirton,  author  of  "Buy  Your 
Own  Cherries,"  etc.  New  York :  /.  If.  Stearru,  Pub- 
lishing Agent  of  the  National  Temperance  Society. 

A  plain,  naturally-written  story-— claiming  to  be 
founded  on  fact— of  the  way  in  which  a  poor  boy 
worked  his  way  up  in  the  world  by  a  strict  adhe- 
nace  to  habits  of  temperance,  and  to  the  advice, 
glT«a  to  him  as  the  nMe  of  his  life,  by  his  dying 
Sn&dCither,  "to  fear  God,  and  take  the  conse- 


quenaes,  and  to  deelaie  war  against  all  deoeit  and 
dishoBeaty." 

WoirosRFUL  Escapes.  Bevised  from  the  French  of  F. 
Bernard,  and  an  original  chapter  added .  By  Bichard 
Whiting.    With  twenty-six  Illustrations. 

A  richly  [illustrated  book,  well  calculated  both 
to  entertain  and  to  instruct  youthful  readers.  It 
^  the  twentieth  of  that  unique  and  attractive 
series  of  books  entitled  the  "  Illustrated  Library 
of  Wonders."  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J.  B. 
Lippincott  A  Co. 

Ta«  ConviBsiOK  of  St.  Paul.  Three  Discourses.  By 
Cteorge  Jarvis  Geer,  D.  D ,  Hector  of  Bt.  Timothy's 
Ohuroh,  New  York.    New  York :  Sanmel  £.  WelU. 

The  three  disoourses  in  this  volume  treat  of  the 
subject  of  St.  Paul's  conversion  in  ite  relation  to 
unbelief,  then  in  its  false  and  true  uses,  and,  finally, 
in  its  relation  to  the  Chnroh.  For  sale  in  Phila- 
delpbia  by  J.  B.  Lippinoott  Sd  Oo. 

Thm  MTsnar  er  Evwur  Daoon ;  and  Master  Humphrey's 

Clock.    By  Charles  Dickens. 

We  ara  indebted  to  Messrs.  T.  B.  Peterson  k 
Brothers,  of  Philadelphia^  for  a  eopy  of  their  cheap 
popular  edition,  in  paper,  of  Dickens's  last  and 
unlnished  noveL  The  Messrs.  Peterson  publish 
all  of  Diokens's  novels,  issuing  them  in  a  great 
variety  of  styles,  from  the  cheapest  to  the  most  ex- 
pensive^ and  suited  to  the  means  or  tastes  of  all 
olaases  of  readers. 

Howe's  Mosical  Monthly.    Boston:  EUaa  Bowe,  108 

Court  Street. 

This,  as  the  title  indicates,  is  a  monthly  musical 
pnblioation.  It  contains  thirty-two  pages  of  first- 
elass  musie,  both  instrumental  and  for  the  voice, 
with  piano  aoeompaniments.  Ite  site  is  that  of 
the  largest  sheet  music,  to  the  best  of  which  it  is 
fhlly  equal  in  the  neatness  and  elegance  of  ite 
typognphioal  appbarance.  The  instrumental  mu- 
sie  oonsiste  of  waltees,  marches,  sohottishes,  gal- 
ops, masurkas,  polkas,  etc,  by  the  best  QermaB 
composers,  both  of  the  modem  and  classical 
schools.  The  vocal  pieces  comprise  the  most  pop- 
ular songs  of  the  day.  Terms  $3.00  per  year; 
7  oopies  lor  $18.00.  Singlo  copies  sent  by  maU, 
postpaid,  for  36  etnte. 

Taxii  Provzrb  Sroaiss.  By  Louisa  M.  Alcotti  author 
of  **  Moods,"  "  Little  Women,*'  eto.  Boston :  Loring, 
Philadelphia :  CUueton,  Jtomsen,  d  Boffi^nger. 

This  is  not  a  new  book,  but  a  new  edition  of  three 
exquisite  stories  that  appeared  two  or  three  years 
ago.  It  is  charming^  illustrated  by  Hoppin.  The 
stories  illustrate  the  proverbs,  "  A  Stitoh  in  Time," 
« Children  and  Fools  speak  the  Truth,"  and 
"Handsome  is  that  Handsome  Does." 

Digitized  by  CjfWDglC 


EDITORS'   DEP^RTMKISrT. 


TJBMPJERANCB  IH  OHIO. 

The  laws  relating  to  the  selliiig  of  liquor  in  Ohio 
■e  m  quite  effectire  in  their  operation.  Under  them 
a  woman  can  ine  a  liquor-seller  for  damages  for 
having  supplied  her  husband  with  liquor.  Mrs. 
Bireetie  recently  reoovered  damages  to  the  amount 
of  three  hundred  doUars  from  a  liquor-seller,  who, 
by  selling  liquor  to.  her  husband,  lessened  her 
means  of  support  Mrs.  Wilson  also  obtained  a 
like  sum  for  a  similar  eause.  Other  women,  en- 
couraged by  these  suooesses,  are  following  their 
•r  ample.  A  woman  in  Sidney  has  placed  the 
damages  at  six  thousand  dollars,  and  a  battle  is 
being  fought' in  good  earnest  between  the  temper- 
ance and  the  anti-temperance  men.  The  latter 
party  has  called  its  members  into  council  and  de- 
cided to  take  a  bold  stand  against  any  encroach- 
ment on  its  <'righU."  <<It  wUl  not  trade  with 
temperance  men."  ''It  will  neither  buy  nor  sell 
from  er  to  temperance  men."  **  It  will  not  em|rfoy 
temperance  men,  and  in  erery  possible  way  it  will 
work  their  financial  min."  We  like  the  looks  of 
this.  It  shows  that  the  liqnor  men  feel  their  ease 
to  be  a  desperate  one.  They  are  getting  frightened, 
and  many  dramshops  in  Ohio  hare  been  dosed. 

KXTRATAOAVCB  ▼••  MATRIMOHT. 

Shall  we  never  be  done  heariog  the  complaint 
that  it  is  the  extravagance  and  idleness  of  the 
yonng  women  of  the  period,  which  ^frightens  our 
young  men  out  of  matrimony  ?  All  women  are  not 
extravagant,  and  the  surest  way  to  check  extrava- 
gance in  those  who  are,  is  for  these  economical 
and  self-denying  young  men  to  show  that  they 
appreciate  industry,  fk-ugality,  and  modest  attire 
in  the  other  sex.  A  lady  writer  in  the  Evening 
Post,  says : 

"Why  don't  some  of  the  wise  and  sensible 
bachelors  court  and  marry  among  the  vast  army 
of  working  girls  ?  They  are  dressed  simply,  and 
are  accustomed  to  habits  of  economy.  They  wonld 
be  glad  enough  of  good  homes,  and  would  make 
eKoellent  wives.  They  are  personally  attrastive, 
asid  I  doubt  not,  are  quite  as  refined  and  intelli- 
gent as  the  average  of  fashionable  women.  Why 
Is  there  not  a  greater  demand  (br  them  as  wives, 
and  why  are  not  the  Flora  McFAmsey's  a  drug  in 
the  market?  Let  the  hciM  speak  for  themselves. 
Be  not  deceived,  0  my  brethren .'  WitJi  yon  lies 
the  fault;  from  you  must  come  the  remedy — re- 
fuse to  pay  court  to  silks,  paniers,  frills,  and 
chignons,  and  we  shall  go  over  to  calico  in  bat- 
talions." 

■  01 

f^*  We  notice  that  A.  Williams  A  Co.,  Book- 
sellers, of  Boston,  have  gone  back  to  their  old 
plaoe  at  135  Washington  Street,  where  for  so  many 
years  they  supplied  books  and  periodicals  to  the 
reading  public  There  is  not  in  the  trade  a  finer 
specimen  of  the  courteous  gentleman  than  Mr. 
Williams  of  this  firm,  as  all  who  know  him  eaa 
testify.  May  his  sojourn  at  the  old  stand  be  long 
and  profitable.  The  Homx  MAGAznri  can  always 
be  found  at  136  Washington  Street 
(298) 


GOODfl  FOR  SPRIHO  ITRAR. 

As  spring  advances,  and  the  heavy  winter  fab- 
rics begin  to  be  onl  ef  pl«c^  there  is  a  demand  for 
lighter  goods  that  shall  present  a  good  appearance, 
be  durable,  and  suited  to  the  season.  The  very 
best  that  we  can  recommend  for  spring  wear  are 
the  beaver  brands,  silk-finished  black  mohairs, 
and  the  otter-brand  blaofc  alpacas.  These  Mirics 
with  these  brands  are  recognised  in  Bngland  as 
the  very  best  of  their  kinds,  and  they  will  seen 
beoome  equally  popular  here.  Messrs.  Peake, 
Opdyeke  k  Co.,  of  New  York,  are  the  sole  Impoitws 
of  both  brand*  for  the  United  States. 

BOCVD  TOLVMSS  OF  «<  THB  CHUL- 
DRBH**  HOUR.** 

These  finely  printed  and  elegantly  illustrated 

books  for  children,  we  send  by  mail,  postage  paid, 

to  any  parts  of  the  United  States. 

8  volumes,  each $1.00 

The  whole  set 7.00 

4  double  volumes,  eaoh  .    .    •    1.75 

The  whole  set fi.OO 

The  set  eontalns  over  250  ohoioe  engravings. 

We  know  that  no  cheaper,  purer,  or  more  elegant 

books  for  children  can  be  found. 


BOCriTD  TOl^UMBS   OF.  <«  THB  IVORK- 
ISCIMAH.** 

The  first  volume  of  this  elegant  pictorial,  hand- 
somely bound,  is  now  ready,  and  will  be  sent  to 
any  address  by  mail  on  leeeipt  of  80  cents.  It 
contains  some  00  fine  engravings,  and  a  large 
amount  of  careDiUy  edited  reading  matter  suita- 
ble for  family  reading.  Its  splendid  illastrationi 
are  worth  more  than  the  price  of  the  book,  while 
its  temperance  stories  and  great  variety  of  use- 
fhl  and  entertaining  articles  make  it  a  most  attrac- 
tive publication  for  youog  and  old.  It  is  rarely 
that  so  much  good  reading  can  be  had  for  so  smsll 
a  price. 

A  box  containing  a  doxen  cakes  of  Colgate's 
fine  toilet  soap,  is  a  very  nice  present  for  a  Isdj. 
Manufactory,  58  John  Street,  New  York.  Yoa 
can  get  one  at  any  grooer*s  or  druggist's. 


INTKRBSTING  TO  LADIKS. 

I  have  used  the  Qrover  k  Baker  Maehine  almcit 
constantly  for  eleven  years,  doing  all  kinds  of  sew- 
ing on  it,  ft-om  the  finest  cambric  ruflling  to  the 
heaviest  EnglUh  beaver  cloth.  I  find  it  invals- 
able  for  Hemming,  Felling,  Braiding,  Binding, 
Gathering,  and  everything  in  general  that  fingeff 
can  do.  I  prefer  it  over  all  others  on  scconnt  of 
ito  simplicity  and  durability,  and  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  use  any  other  kind. 

Mbs.  J.  Ophuua  LMSBi 

Parkersburg,  W.  Va. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE  HAWK  AND  THE  DOVE. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


VOL.  XXI 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


CONSTANCE  BASQUE. 

»que  18  Baited  for  either  house  or  street  wear.    It  is  adapted  to  any  material  of  medium  thickness— 
r,  or  foulard— the  trimming,  of  course,  to  correspond  with  the  rest  of  the  dress. 


A  most 
•ipeoially  a 
Biiore  MTK 
ftpproprUte 


AGNES  APRON.  BEAUTY  APRON. 

7  pretty  apronp,  especially  becoming  to  slender  girls  from  six  to  ten  years  of  age.  They  are  most 
ly  made  in  white  washing  goods,  trimrr.ed  with  narrow  edging  or  ruffling,  but  look  nicely  made  in 
ir  or  8ilk,  with  suitable  trimmings. 


Thiign 
to  be  worn « 
ing  the  edj 
tassels.  It 
wiU  yery  efl. 


No.  1.— NEWBERN  8LBEVK  No.  2.— ESTHER  SLEEVE. 

.  sleeTe  especially  becoming  for  slender  persons,  as  the  puff,  which  reaches  nearly  to  the  elbow, 
ppearance  of  breadth.  The  trimming  should,  or  course,  correspond  with  the  material.  Onjpm 
r  ruffles  or  laoe  will  be  very  effeotire,  and  on  mohair  or  kindred  goods,  Telvet  ribbon  and  plaiungs 

i  ooat  sleeve,  rather  wider  than  oaual,  left  open  about  four  inches  on  the  outer  seam,  and  orna- 
i  two  straight  ruffles.  A  very  appropriate  style  for  black  mohair,  trimmed  with  velTet,  or  for  any 
dium  thickness.  .  .  . 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A  neat  design  for  a 
material  edged  with  a  t 
tMted  for  the  fold  with  gc 
Umds  of  linen  or  cambrf , 
nittire. 


. .         atylish  costume  in  Japanese  silk  represented  on  Fig.  4  of  the  fhll  pace  of 
tiif^iblo,  it  can  be  rendered  more  dressjf  W  looping  in  the  middle  of  tile  oaok. 


h<  le 


.—LILIAN  SUIT. 


No.  2.— COSTUME  CORA. 


appropriate  for  6cru  linen,  trimmed  with  oraid  or  bindings  of  brown. 

illustrated  on  tlie  full  page,  on  Fig.  5.  A  simple  sash,  composed  of  two  wide, 
!lvet,  is  attached  to  the  belt,  which,  it  will  be  noticed,  extends  only  to  the  aide 
front  its  full  effect.  The  suit  could  be  very  prettily  made  in  linen  or  oambriCy 
of  cambric  of  a  contrasting  color,  and  pearl  buttons. 


Especially  intend 
•orreapond  with  the  n 
stylish  sash,  which  co 
Teiy  becoming  to  s'.ein 


THE  JESSAMINE  SUIT. 


^  med  with  blue  TeWet  ribbon  and  pearl  buckles,  the  "  Jessamine*"  will  be  found 
"J  jacket  and  orersklrt  are  arranged  as  a  casaque ;  but,  if  desired,  can  easily  1m 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


FA.8H:iOJSr    DEPARTMENT. 


FASHIONS  FOR  JUNE, 
e  crumbliDg  of  thronei  and  the  oUshing  of  arms,  the  modistes  of  Paris  have  been  pnrsning 
)r  of  their  ways,  inTenting  and  preparing  models,  evidently  determined  not  to  abate  one 
way  oyer  the  fashionable  world.  If  we  conclude  still  to  look  to  Paris  for  oar  fashions,  we 
p  oar  minds  for  a  radical  change  in  the  modes  of  dress.  We  are  going  baek  to  the  aUnost 
simplicity — to  the  stjies  which  prevailed  after  the  terrible  rcTolution  of  1792. 
ts,  raffles,  hoops,  chignons,  and  the  thousand  and  one  devices  with  which  we  are  now  so 
soon  be  things  of  the  past. 

',  these  styles  have  not  yet  ceme  in,  and  American  ladies  have  still  time  to  decide  whether 
ibroad  for  their  fashions,  or  decide  aboat  them  themselves  at  home. 

an  obvioas  difference  in  the  fashions  of  the  present  season  from  those  of  previous  seasons, 
trimming ;  flounces,  when  used  at  all,  are  put  on  flat  or  very  nearly  so,  and  overskirts  and 
le  entirely  omitted. 

k  is  the  most  stylish  dress  that  can  be  made  for  street  wear.  The  Buffalo  brand  of  alpaca 
bed  on  both  sides  alike,  is  durable,  and  never  changes  color  by  exposure,  is  one  of  the 
e  materials  for  suits.  The  other  brand  of  alpaca  is  perhaps  equally  excellent,  and  better 
ummer,  being  a  lighter  and  finer  fabric.  Black  grenadine  makes  handsome  summer  suits. 
}Ountry,  piqu6  and  other  wash  goods  are  more  in  favor. 

ndressed  linen  is  considered  more  stylish  than  the  yellow  or  "  Mettemich  "  green. 
I  used  almost  universally  for  children  of  both  sexes.     It  is  cheap,  durable,  easily  washed 
andsome. 

kets  have  taken  the  place  of  shawls  for  street  wear, 
lis  made  of  a  yard  of  gauxe,  simply  hemmed,  are  useful  and  popular. 
)lin  seems  to  be  superseding  satin  for  bridal  dresses.     At  the  recent  royal  wedding  it  was 
of  the  bridal  dress. 

is  much  less  worn,  especially  by  young  ladies,  than  it  was  some  jL^mt  ago.  Bracelets  and 
ilmost  disappeared,  and  black  velvet  with  pendants  taken  the  place  of  the  latter. 


CHILDREN'S  FASHIONS  FOR  1871. 

( iSe«  full-page  Engra  ving. ) 

A.  stylish  costume,  8uitable  for  girls  from  eight  to  twelve  years  of  age.  It  is  made  in  gray 
ming  on  the  skirt  consisting  of  a  broad  band  of  green  silk,  crossing  diagonally,  at  intervals, 
irrow  green  velvet.  The  upper  garment  is  cut  in  the  Polonaise  st^le  in  front,  rounded  away 
igh  on  the  sides,  the  back  arranged  as  seen  in  the  illustration.     The  edge  is  finished  with 

fringe,  headed  by  velvet,  the  same  style  of  trimming  being  carried  around  the  pointed 
ornament  tho  front,  and  bordering  the  flowing  slecFcs,  which  are  rounded  up  and  looped 

This  style  would  be  very  baudsome,  made  in  black  silk,  to  be  worn  with  any  dress.  White 
brim  turned  up  on  the  sides,  trimmed  with  green  gros-grain  ribbon,  a  white  ostrich  tip,  and 

Walking- costume  in  Japanese  crepe  cloth  of  a  medium  shade  of  green,  the  trimming  of 
nge  two  shades  darker.  The  very  short  ovcrskirt  describes  the  same  shape  as  the  bottom 
ttingjachet,  which  is  square  in  front,  somewhat  longer  than  the  back,  slashed  in  the  back 
ips,  the  sides  and  back  trimmed  with  narrow  velvet  and  fringe,  and  the  fk-ont  trimmed  with 
latching  the  broad  sash  ends,  which  fall  from  underneath  in  the  back.  The  jacket  is  fin- 
leck  with  revers  and  pointed  collar  of  velvet.  Gypsy  hat  of  straw,  trimmed  with  a  garland 
d  green  gros-grain  ribbon. 

A  charming  little  dress  in  white  linen,  the  skirt  bordered  with  a  plaited  flounce,  edged  with 
le  unique  beading  formed  of  a  bias  piece  of  linen  cut  in  a  design,  bound  with  blue  cambric, 
ted  with  bows  of  narrow  blue  velvet  placed  at  intervals.  The  ovcrskirt  is  quite  short,  cut 
iding  design  on  the  bottom,  and  worn  without  looping.  Plain  waist,  with  square  neck,  and 
3S  trimmed  with  a  plaited  ruffle  edged  with  Cluny,  and  a  heading  matching  that  on  the 

A  simple  costume  in  gray  Japanese  silk,  trimmed  with  black  velvet  ribbon,  suitable  for  a 
!en.     A  back  view  will  be  found  on  another  page. 

A  becoming  little  suit  in  challis  ecru,  trimmed  with  blue  velvet  ribbon,  the  straps  confined 
IS.     Another  view  of  this  suit  will  be  found  on  another  page.     Straw  hat,  trimmed  with 
PlnQQ  giUt  mnj  1)Iq^  velvet  bows, 
flouncei 

rled  doiHome  dress  in  gray  leno,  the  skirt  trimmed  with  rufiies  arranged  in  festoons,  and  confined 

fl**''**'' alar  bands,  all  edged  with  narrow  black  velvet.     High  plain  waist  and  flowing  slceveB, 

velvet.     A  pretty  little  arrangement  in  black  silk,  hardly  large  enough  to  be  called  an 

(cribes  short  basques  in  the  front  attached  to  a  belt,  and  a  plaited  postillion  in  the  back, 

,11  two  deep  sash  ends,  continuations  of  the  bretelles.     This  is  trimmed  with  narrow  Veltret 

id  is  a  pretty  addition  to  any  dress. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Mtieio  Beleoted  lay  J.  A.  GSTZB. 


TBI  SPOUT  OF  TSl  SSLIi. 

Utten  If  H.  B.  FABITIE.  Arranged  to  a  Melody  by  OH.  aOTTBOI). 

Andante  Bon^troppo.     »       ,       ,  III  II 

^  f  f^  44  4    !44 


lAKO. 


^^ 


<ran^i^/o. 


i 


:t 


^^ 


3t:: 


1.  Wh«B-I     press  my  wear-y       pil-low 

2.  Gent  -  ly    atUl     the  bell     is      rlDging, 


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J  J  J  J3IJ  J-^^ 


Fai  -  ry  chimes  from       o*er  the    bll  -  low. 
In    >my    dream  my         arms  oat  fling  -  Ing, 


[raU. 


m^ 


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^^«  me  back  the  dream  of  my  youth  once  morel  Harklthespi    -   rit     of      ttie    bell 

With  a  tear  I  breathe  my  dear  mo  -  tber's  name,  And        a  loT'd    one*8  by-     her  side, 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


Puss  •  eth  o*er      my       da  -  live    dell.  .  . 
One    who  la         mj       hope,  mj   pnde. 


And  in      an    -    awer     to       the    soand 
Ahl  kind  roea  •  wage     for     me    tell. 


doUe. 


A-LTOB. 


CHORUS  ad  lib. 


l^^^^i^^ 


Soft  the  mea-aage  that  thoa  doat  tell, .. .     Oen-tle  api-rit     of      the    bell. 
Tenors.  .  ^  ^ 


Soft  the  mea-aage  that  thou  dost  tell, . . .     Gen-tle  apl-rit     of      the    bell. 
Piano. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


r 


ARTHUR'S  LiDY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


JUNE,    1871. 


A  CHAPTER  FROM  EXPERIENCE. 


BT  A  YOima  HOU8EKBBPBB. 


FOM  its  earliest  agitation,  I  haye  fblt  ranch 
interested  in  the  question  of  woman's 
"work  and  wages.''  And  although  for  several 
jctn  drcnmstanoes  had  made  it  more  con* 
fenient  for  ns  to  board  than  keep  house,  I  all 
iloDgwas  espeeiallj  attentive  to  its  bearing 
upon  domestic  service.  Of  the  many  women 
^tcpending  upon  their  own  exertions  for  sup« 
port,  those  possessing  culture,  energy,  and 
ibilitj  sufficient  to  hold  the  numerous  posi- 
tioDi  now  open  to  them  need  no  special  sym- 
ptthy.  By  their  social  influence  and  force  of 
dutfacter,  these  women  are  making  their  way 
to  reoognitioti  and  confidence,  proving,  rather 
than  proclaiming,  their  fitness  for  the  work  of  ' 
their  choice. 

So  I  never  felt  greatly  troubled  bnt  that  the 
lights  of  women  fit  and  desirouR  to  teach,  fill 
derkshipe,  practise  law  and  medicine,  preach 
mmI  lecture,  and  receive  the  same  emolument 
fer  their  services  as  men  would  do,  must  event- 
Qtlly  be  recognised  and  granted. 

My  sympathies,  as  i  before  intimated,  have 
been  ddefly  exercised  over  the  condition  of  re- 
qwetable  bat  ignorant  working-women,  whether 
of  American,  Irish,  or  Ethiopian  stock,  who  ' 
moat  look  to  fiMtories,  kitchens,  and  laundries  i 
for  their  ^  work  and  wages,"  and  I  carefully  ' 
•ttcnded,  while  personally  uninterested  and 
uibiassed,  to  the  various  points  of  fact  and 
opinion  I  heard  and  read  in  reference  to  the 
vexed  **  servant  question."  I  felt  sure  that  the 
hey  to  its  sedation  was  in  the  hands  of  em- 
ploTSfs.  It  seeoEied  reasonable  that  the  heads 
of  a  household  could  and  should  bring  such 
influcnoes  to  bear  upon  all  beneath  their  roof 
••  to  esublish,  motually,  satisfiu^ry  relations 
between  the  parlor  and  the  kitchen.  The  class 
of  womca  who  go  out  to  domestic  service, 
thoQgh  for  the  most  part  ignorant^  untrained, 
ttd  fiokle^  are  yet  warm-hearted  and  impressi^ 


ble,  and  should  be  famished  with  attractive 
homes,  and  treated  with  patient,  appreciative 
co-operation  and  respect,  until  they  develop 
into  faithful  and  valuable  assistants.  A  good 
mistress  must  make  a  good  servant,  even  from 
ordinary  material. 

This  was  my  belief— my  theory,  if  you  will. 
It  looked  rCHSonable ;  it  does  still.  But  I  wish 
to  relate  my  experience  for  the  past  year. 
Perhaps  some  one  can  tell  me  why  it  does  not 
harmonise  so  well  as  I  could  wish  with  my 
theory.  I  offer  it  humbly,  deprecatingly,  ven- 
turing no  explanations  nor  excuses.  If  some 
one  will  come  to  the  rescue,  and  show  me 
wherein  I  have  erred  in  the  practical  applica- 
tion of  my  principles,  I  shall  be  very  grateful. 

We  began  housekeeping.  There  were  three 
of  ns— Orlando,  baby,  and  I.  The  latter  men- 
tioned of  the  trio  feeling  scarcely  equal  to 
assuming  all  the  manual  labor  of  the  domicil, 
in  addition  to  the  care  of  the  second  member, 
there  must  then  be  a  fourth. 

I  omitted  to  mention  that,  having  recently 
read  some  papers  by  Mrs.  Stowe  showing  the 
advantages  of  household  work  over  that  of 
a  seamstress,  fnctory-girl,  or  even  school -mis- 
tress, and  recommending  it  as  a  field  of  labor 
for  American  girls,  1  had  heartily  endoned  her 
views,  and  was  desiroos  o^  seeing  them  carried 
\  into  efiect.  I  felt  prepared  to  receive  into  my 
fiimily  some  sensible,  intelHgent  girl,  who  was 
not  ashamed  to  be  seen  at  the  cooking-stove  or 
wash*  tub,  yet  would  be  an  agreeable  companion, 
and  ooQBcientioas  and  judicious  when  left  in 
charge  of  my  child.  I  thought  I  could  give 
such  an  one  a  pleasant  home.  The  work  for 
our  small  laiuily,  in  a  commodious  house^  could 
not  be  very  laborious;  we  could  give  her  access 
to  the  latest  books  and  periodicals  in  her  iionn 
of  leisore,  and  there  would  be  opportunities  for 
church  aad  lectare  going,  bcaides  an  occaaionai 


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ARTHUR'S    LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


hour  or  two  of  an  afternoon  for  those  little 
promenades  for  small  shopping  in  which  the 
feminine  heart  is  supposed  to  delight. 

A  neighbor,  an  elderly  lady,  with  whom  I 
conversed,  thought  she  knew  of  just  the  righl 
person  for  my  purpose.-  A  young  woman  in  the 
country,  a  farmer's  daughter,  skilled  in  house- 
hold afiairH,  well  instructed,  but  with  no  taste 
for  school-teaching,  wishing  to  be  independent, 
had  requested  her  to  look  out  for  some  suitable 
situation.  I  was  pleased  with  what  she  told 
me  of  the  girl,  and  waited  the  result  of  their 
correspondence  with  some  anziety»  My  neigh- 
bor came  in  one  morning  with  a  question : 
''  Did  I  expect  the  girl  to  come  to  the  table 
with  us  V  Now,  I  had  thought  seriously  upon 
this  point;  and  though  it  w««  uo ordinary  sa^ 
rifioe  to  give  up  those  quiet,  oonfidentaal  table- 
talks  with  one's  husband  which  made  so  much 
of  the  charm  of  housekeeping  in  contra^  with 
our  long  boarding-house  ezperienoe^  and  which 
every  wife  of  a  business  man  knows  are  almost 
her  only  opportunitiea  for  uninterrupted  con- 
versation with  him  throughout  the  day ;  still, 
under  the  circumstances^  I  was  prepared  to  say 
''  yea,''  only  there  was  the  baby.  She  was  still 
too  young  to  sit  at  the  table,  and  for  some 
months  some  one  must  take  pare  of  her  at  meal- 
times.  The  lady's  oountenaaoe  changed  as  I 
explained  this  to  her.  She  was  '*  afraid  Sarah 
would  not  think  it  best  to  come^she  seemed 
particular  about  coming  to  the  table."  1  begged 
her  to  write  again,  tell  Sarah  the  exact  drcmn- 
stanoes,  saying  that  when  the  child  was  old 
eeough  to  come  also  we  should  not  object  to 
her  eating  with  us,  if  she  were  as  lady -like  as 
we  had  reason  to  believe.  But  we  never  heard 
from  her  on  the  subject  again. 

I  had  long  been  acquainted,  with  and  felt 
great  interest  in  a  young  girl  of  about  twenty 
years,  the  daughter  of  an  intelligent,  indus- 
trious mechanic,  who  had  sent  her  to  the  pub- 
lic schools  until,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  she 
had  been  very  well  educated.  She  was  fine- 
looking,  amiable,  and  interesting  in  manner, 
having  good  health  and  fine  physical  develop* 
ment.  This  young  lady  seemed  to  value  and 
reciprocate  my  regard,  and  had  often  expressed 
to  me,  in  confidence^  her  ardent  desire  to  oh* 
tain  some  employment  by  which  she  might 
earn  her  livelihood,  and  be  able  to  obtain  more 
and  better  articles  of  drees  than  her  father 
could  afibrd.  After  some  consideration,  I  re* 
solved  to  ofier  her  the  same  oompeniiation  that 
I  had  expected  to  pay  to*  a  first-class  servant, 
to  become  an  inmate  of  our  ftnnily,:  and  assist 
me  in  all  its  domestic  duties.    Warned  hj  my 


previous  experience,  I  at  once  told  her  : 
the  care  of  baby  when  not  asleep  at  raeal-timea 
She  did  not  object  at  all  to  this  arrangement, 
knowing  that  she  had  always  been  treated  and 
considered  as  an  *eqiuil  by  u^  and  reoogniaag 
the  necesait/  that  one  T>r  the  other  of  os  should 
be  so  precluded  for  a  time.  Yet  it  was  widi  a 
good  deal  of  hesitation  that  she  accepted  tfae 
proposal.  1  eould  see  that  it  was  not  a  plesi- 
ant  proRpeclM|her,  and  that  probably  it  was 
the  remuntijRKi  which  won  her  consent. 

I  soon  discovered  that  she  was  not  only  igno- 
rant of  hoiisewoiic,  but  despised  it,  and  thtt 
she  regarded  it  as  a  pitiable  neceesitj  whick 
had  led  her  to  attempt  it.  Knowing  that  her 
mother  was  a  hard-working,  economical  house- 
wife, and  an  excel  lent  manager,  I  had  expected 
at  least  a  tolerable  degree  of  pjroficiency  in 
Eleanor.  But  she  was  not  only  unable  to  doany- 
thing  properly-^«he  did  not  think  it  wortli  her 
while  to  learn.  She  seemed  surprised  and  in- 
credulous when  I-^to  whom  she  had  pcenonsly 
attributed  some  degree  of  refinement^  taste,  sad 
intellect— avowed  that  I  liked  houaekeepiag, 
and  felt  a  real  pleasure  in  the  proper  perfons- 
anoe  of  Us  duties,  and  though  her  own  nobis 
and  honest  father  had  maintained  her  by  tke 
sweat  of  his  brow,  and  her  mother  toiled  akoa 
in  her  kitchen  ail  day  long  that  she  migiit 
exempt  her  for  study  and  society,  so  firmly 
fixed  was  her  idea  of  the  degradadon  of  woik, 
that  she  evidently  lost  a  portion  of  her  r^qwet 
for  me^  regarding  me  as  deficient  in  taste^  or 
else  feigning  an  interest  I  did  not  feel^  for  ths 
purpose  of  inQuendng  her. 

"  I  haU  housework  1"  she  would  say,  with  aa 
expression  of  dif^uston  her  fine  features;  "it 
is  only  fit  for  ignorant  Irish  or  colored  peopla 
Think  of  a  lady,  with  intellectoai  tastes  and 
delicate  peroeptioas,  spending  her  tinse  and 
powers  in  scouring  kettles  and  pans^  and  waab* 
ing  soiled  clothing  I" 

I  tried  hard  to  show  her  the  beauty  of  a  room 
arranged  as  only  a  lady  of  taste  and  culiurt 
can  arrange  it;  to  make  her  appreciate  the  » 
finement  and  taate  evinced  by  a  well-ordered 
house,  the  delicate  purity  of  spotless  linen  and 
shining  silver,  and  the  moral  and  seathetie 
power  of  perfected  houseliold  arrangement^ 
and  lead  her  to  see  that  she  who  held  tliii 
power  in  her  hands  was  a  queen,  and  not  s 
*'  drudge/'  even  if  she  spent  a  portion  of  her 
time  in  the  actual  labor  involved  ifi  the  carry- 
ing out  of  her  plans.  I  told  her  that  hooBS- 
work  became  "drudgery"  (her  fiiToriteword 
as  applied  to  it)  only  when  one  was  tmerwortiit 
having  no  time  for  other  thinga^    In  oor  ews 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A    QSAPTER    FROit  EXPERIENCE. 


811 


MMy  etUier  one  of  vs  might,  witbout  pbysioal 
iojoiy  or  fitdg^e,  have  done  aU  we  had  to  do^ 
liy  ahariog  it  we  had  eaoh  pl«ity  of  time  for 
veadtog,  society,  tewing,  and  going  oat,  and  it 
vrald  not  be  called  drudging.  I  shared  widi 
ker  the  more  disagreeable  details,  teaching  how 
even  kettles,  ooal^^hods,  eboTels,  brooms,  and 
kwhes  maj  be  handled  by  a  lady  without 
ktving  mipdeasant  marks  upon  her  hands  or 
dreaa.  I  told  her  or  read  to  her  of  the  many 
noble,  refined,  scholarly  women  who  have  not 
disdained  such  tasks,  nor  delegated  even  the 
oosner  parts  to  others,  unless  more  important 
iffiun  made  it  neeessary  to  employ  help.  In 
ihoit,  I  tried  in  every  way  to  msJce  her  feel 
thst  the  woman  who  makes  a  cheerful  and 
beaQtiful  home  for  those  she  loves,  performs 
for  them  a  service  the  most  truly  refining  and 
cBDohliog  of  which  human  nature  ia  capable. 

All  in  vain.  At  the  end  of  two  months  I 
Aood  I  was  working  too  hard,  and  being 
obliged  to  neglect  many  of  my  usual  pursuits 
tnd  recreations.  Of  course,  there  was  much 
Bore  to  do  with  a  person  of  Eleanor's  habits 
idded  to  the  fiunily  than  before.  She  had  no 
laet  in  discovering  what  was  to  be  done,  bat 
Nemed  to  have  a  vague  idea  that  the  house 
kept  itsell  I  could  not  find  a  place  where  she 
vas  of  use  or  relieved  me  of  any  responsibi^f  ty. 
If  I  leit  the  kitchen  and  dining-room  ta'her 
after  breakfast — ^I  always  had  that  meat  to 
prepare  while  Orlando  held  baby,  as  she  never 
Binsged  to  leave  her  room  until  the  breakfast 
boQi^-afier  bathing  and  dressing  baby,  and 
petting  the  chambers  and  parlor  in  order,  I 
Ntomed  to  find  the  fire  out,  the  dishes  nn- 
vaahed,  or  half  of  them  left  standing  about, 
diahdoth  and  towel  lying  in  a  greasy  heap  in 
s  comer  of  the  sink,  Uie  fioor  nnswept,  every- 
thug  awry,  dismal  and  orumi^ed,  while  my 
yooag  lady  assistant  and  companion  lay  upon 
the  lounge  with  a  novel  or  the  morning  paper. 
If  I  remained  in  the  kitchen  myself,  doing  up 
tha  ordinary  work,  and  perhaps  lingering  to 
Wighten  the  silver  or  wash  some  of  baby's 
finoy,  I  went  to  the  sleeping-rooms  to  find 
lank,  tumbled-Iookii^  beds,  with  wrinkled  pil- 
lowB  lying  at  angles  to  each  other,  littered  car- 
pets, soiled  towels  and  dusty  furniture;  or, 
quite  as  frequently,  nothing  had  been  done^ 
•ad  Eleanor  sat  ruiding  with  the  baby  asleep 
sooBB  her  lap,  when  it  should  have  been  laid 
^  the  crib  an  hour  before.  Eleanor  was  fond 
of  reeding.  I  had  known  and  been  proud  of 
ker  literary  tastes  before  she  oame  to  live  with 
>Mt  Bat  when  she  puUed  volume  after  vol- 
VBft^m  the  boobicaaes  and  left  them  paled 


in  chairs  about  the  roonos,  snd'  hunted  oat  all 
the  old  magasines  from  the  oloset  shelves,  and 
arranged  or  disarranged  them  in  heaps  in  the 
corners,  under  the  sofiis,  in  the  crib,  on  the 
beds,  and  even  in  the  pantry  and  behind  the 
oook-stove,  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  feel 
like  talking  over  their  contents  with  her  as  I 
used  to  do. 

And  1  never  could  impress  her  with  the  idea 
that'it  was  best  to  get  our  work  done  in  the 
morning.  Orlando  dined  down  town ;  so  after 
putting  the  house  in  order  we  had  only  our- 
selves to  provide  for  until  teartime,  and  might 
have  had  a  good  deal  of  leisure.  But  Eleanor 
seemed  to  think  it  was  jost  as  well  to  wash  the 
dishes  at  eleven  as  at  nine  o'clock;  to  dress 
before  or  after  as  she  felt  inclined,  or,  if  diBposed, 
to  sit  about  all  day  in  a  dirty  wrapper,  with 
tumbled,  unchignoned  head.  On  these  days  she 
rushed  into  the  retirement  of  her  own  room  if  the 
door-bell  rang,  leaving  me  to  answer  it,  with- 
out regard  to  baby's  convenience  or  my  own, 
listening  to  find  whether  any  one  oamd  in,  in 
which  case  she  soon  emerged  in  beoonung 
dress  and  unconscious  serenity.  The  presence 
or  absence  of  company  regulated  the  matter  of 
dress  with  her.  The  idea  of  being  oJioc^a  suit- 
ably arrayed  for  the  time  and  occasion— neatly 
and  plainly  in  the  morning,  freshly  and  more 
adorned  for  the  afternoon,  without  r^^ard  to 
visitors,  seemed  to  be  foreign  to  her  mind,  and 
would  not  thrive  with  assiduous  cultivation. 
It  beoame  neoeesary  that  I  should  have  more 
help  than  I  should  be  likely  to  receive  from 
Eleanor  at  this  rate.  Our  connection  was 
pleasantly  dissolved  and  she  returned  home. 

1  was  so  disappointed  in  the  endeavor  to 
have  a  companion  and  domestic  help  combined, 
that  I  concluded  to  fall  back  upon  the  Irish 
element  Btill  I  thought  to  secure  a  rather 
superior  person,  one  who  would  appreciate  a 
comfortable  home  and  easy  situation,  and 
whom  I  could  attach  to  myself  and  my  in- 
terest by  kindness,  and  consideration  for  her 
own. 

One  was  recommeded  to  Orlando-^a  widow 
of  about  thirty  yeu*^  having  the  reputation  of 
being  a  good  housekeeper  and  especially  a  good 
cook.  She  had  been  receiving  large  wages  in 
the  latter  capacity  at  hotels  and  saloons,  we 
were  told,  but  would  gladly  accept  lower  wages 
for  an  easier  place  and  a  quiet  home^  She  oame 
to  us.  As  Mary  looked  rather  slender  and 
very  neat,  I  beg^  my  efibrts  at  establishing 
kindly  relations  with  her,  by  giviiig  her  a 
nicely  furnished  room  on  the  same  floor  as  my 
own,  instead  of  the  one  in  the  third  story  in* 


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312 


ABTEUB'8   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


tended  for  servaDts,  sajing  to  her  that  I  did 
so  because  she  looked  hardljr  strong  enough  to 
like  going  up  two  flights  of  stairs.  She  ex- 
pressed no  thanks,  and  only  remarked  that  she 
^*  wasn't  much  used  to  sleeping  up  stairs  when 
her  husband  was  alivci''  which  I  afterward 
found  was  true,  as  they  had  lived  in  a  cabin  of  \ 
two  rooms.  I  soon  discovered  that  mj  new 
help  was  one  of  the  class  of  self-canonised  mar- 
tyrs who  are  "  never  so  happy  as  wh^n  they 
are  miserable."  In  fact,  miseralde  was  her 
chosen  word  for  all  her  grievanoesi  which  were 
legion.  I  had  previously  supposed  that  I  had 
a  convenient  house,  but  before  Mary's  first 
week  expired  she  had  discovered  many  things 
to  the  contrary.  The  cellar  stairs  were  "  mis- 
erable"— she  Aever  drew  water  before  from 
such  a  "miserable''  well,  the  draught  of  the 
stove  was  **  miserable,"  and  I  never  went  into 
the  kitchen  without  hearing  of  half  a  dozen 
of  these  trials  in  the  most  patiently  forlorn  of  | 
tones.  There  were  not  half  enough  of  kitchen 
utensils  for  her  purpose.  The  sink,  the  bak- 
ing-table,  the  wash-room,  the  pantries,  all  of 
which  we  had  prided  ourselves  upon,  had  each 
some  weak  point,  which  she  "  got  along  with  " 
in  the  most  martyr-like  manner.  Having 
been  obliged  to  do  all  the  cooking  while  Elea- 
nor was  with  me,  I  had  especially  felicitated 
myself  upon  the  acoompllBhments  of  Mary  in 
that  line,  and  promised  myself  rest  and  appe- 
tizing meals.  She  kept  us  overstocked  with 
richly-seasoned  dishes,  and  increased  our  weekly 
bills  for  groceries  more  than  one-half.  If  I 
ventured  to  suggest  that  we  would  like  things 
a  little  more  plainly  prepared,  or  that  a  less 
quantity  would  better  suit  so  small  a  family, 
she  plaintively  replied  that  she  always  cooked 
juU  so,  she  never  did  have  any  luck  when 
she  "  split  a  receipt" — i.  e.  made  half  the  quan- 
tity— didn't  know  anything  about  using  things 
any  different  from  her  way,  and  had  rather  not 
try  strange  ways.  If  I  explained  to  her  the 
exact  ingredients  of  some  favorite  dish,  she 
meekly  said  that  she  never  heard  of  cooking  it 
so,  didn't  see  how  it  could  be  fit  to  eat  with 
only  three  eggs— she  always  jfedySM-^was  afraid 
she  would  fail — it  always  made  her  mi^erabU  to 
hil  in  her  cooking.  I  always  retired  discom- 
fited— overawed  by  her  consistent  and  melan- 
choly faithfulness  to  her  art,  and  always  con- 
victed in  my  own  mind  of  a  ahameful  want  of  < 
appreciation  of  lard  and  spices.  We  sat  down 
to  our  rich,  greasy,  strong^flavored  food,  day 
after  dayf  trying  to  avoid  dyspepsia  by  eating 
of  the  plainest  dishes;  wondering,  meanwhile, 
what  would  become  of  the  others,  and  longing 


for  the  delicate  and  simple  five  which  we  pi 
ferred. 

Thinking  Mary  was  not  very  strong,  I  to< 
pains  to  procure  for  her  use  in  washing  a  labc 
saving  soap,  which  I  had  tested  and  knew 
be  a  material  help,  and  instructed  her  in : 
use.  But  without  evincing  any  interest,  s 
grimly  averred  that  she  had  no  faith  in  *'  a 
of  them  new-fangled  soaps  and  things,"  it  m 
**  no  use  trying  to  get  away  from  the  hd  tk 
washing  was  hard  work — for  her  part  she  h 
rather  break  her  back  than  not  do  things  rig 
and  unless  I  was  particular  about  it  she'd  kc 
to  her  washboard  ;  and  neither  didn't  want 
wringer;  she'd  be  miserable  if  the  clothes  did 
look  just  so,  unless  she  had  done  her  best  wi 
them."  Such  uncompromising  integrity  in  i 
service  eventually  won  the  day,  and  I  sga 
felt  convicted  of  slovenly  and  make-shift  pi 
divities. 

If  Mary  took  the  baby  in  her  arms,  it  w 
with  the  saddest  of  faces,  and  the  dismal  i 
mark  that  she  **  did  not  like  to  take  csre 
babies,  it  made  her  think  of  her  own  baby  tk 
died ;  though  she  was  sure  it  was  better  ofi 
she  didn't  mourn  for  it  to  be  out  of  this  m 
erable  world." 

At  firnt  this  aroused  my  sympathies  to  t 
ex^nt  of  devising  all  sorts  of  oontrivanoes 
avoVd  asking  her  to  take  the  child,  who  oc< 
sioied  such  painful  recollections ;  but  after 
while  her  lament  came  to  mean  less  to  me, 
I  found  that  she  really  saamed  just  as  wilii 
to  hold  the  baby  as  to  xio  anything  else. 

There  was  a  mysterious  power  in  Mary's  s 
assertions  of  self-abnegation,  and  I  had  nesi 
succumbed  to  my  meek  paragon,  whom  1  mi 
pose  I  should  never  have  thought  of  diBmissii 
though  her  gloomy  ways  darkened  all  o 
home,  when  she,  one  day,  told  me  she  guess 
she  must  leave  me  on  the  next,  to  return  to  t 
situation  of  cook  at  an  eating-ealoon,  which  si 
left  to  come  to  us.  She  had  "  got  kind  of  rest 
up,  and  they  o£fored  her  a  dollar  more  a  we 
than  before."  I  saw  a  glimpse  of  freedo 
from  the  thraldom  of  her  sad  peHection. 
think  she  expected  an  offer  of  advance  in  wsg< 
But  I  only  said  I  was  sorry  she  had  not  to 
me  sooner.  I  could  not  be  sorry  she  was  goin 
though  I  knew  not  how  I  was  to  replace  he 
and  I  breathed  more  freely  than  for  a  moot 
before,  when  she  was  really  gone. 

We  now  applied  at  an  intelligeooe-offic^si' 
for  three  or  four  days  I  held  receptions  for  s] 
plioants.  I  will  not  recount  my  interview 
with  them.  I  had  not  thought  myself  v«: 
diflkult  to  please.    I  know  I  did  not  look  k 


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A    CHAPTER    FROM   EXPERIENCE. 


313 


perfection,  and  was  willing  to  overlook  even 
gnTe  defidencieH ;  but  I  was  oMiged  to  send 
iwtjseTenl,  feeling  that  I  conld  not  willingly 
admit  them  into  my  house.  One  young  Scotch 
giri  of  seventeen  years,  tidy  and  honest-look- 
iBg,  I  almost  decided  to  engage,  even  after  she 
told  me  she  knew  nothing  at  all  of  housework. 
I  was  expecting  company  soon,  to  remain  some 
dajs,  when  I  wished  particularly  to  be  at  leis- 
ure, or  I  should  have  attempted  her  instrnc- 
ttOD,  so  winning  were  her  pleasant  face  and 
fink,  good-natured  ways ;  and  I  have  always 
nnoe  felt  a  vague  regret  that  I  did  not  secure  her. 

I  finally  engaged  a  smartly  dressed,  good 
lookmg  Irish  girl,  who  claimed  to  be  well 
Tereed  in  all  the  branches  of  housekeeping. 
She  stipulated  for  an  alarming  extent  of  priv- 
ilege as  to  going  out  and  entertaining  com- 
puijr;  but  I  reflected  that  it  was  as  well  to 
luiTe  such  things  settled  at  first,  and  was  dis- 
posed to  grant  anything  not  too  unreasonable. 
It  was  with  great  difficulty,  however,  that  I 
coold  make  her  see  that  if  she  went  ont  three 
times  on  Sunday  I  could  never  attend  church 
myself;  and  we  compromised  at  last  by  arrang- 
ing that  she  should  go  twice  on  the  Sabbath 
tod  I  once,  and  that  she  was  also  to  go  out  one 
afienoon  and  two  evenings  in  the  week,  and 
noeive  her  '*  cousins"  in  the  kitchen  on  other 
evenings.  At  the  end  of  the  first  week  Katy 
luui  won  the  name  of  being  good-natured,  re- 
spectful, an  ordinary  laundress,  a  tolerable 
cook,  and  a  kind  nnrse.  She  was  prompt  and 
expeditious  at  work,  the  work  was  light,  she 
was  cheerful,  and  all  went  on  smoothly.  I  be- 
SSn  to  congratulate  myself  upon  having  secured 
ill  one  could  reasonably  expect  in  one's  help, 
ind  to  look  forward  to  the  days  when  mutual 
f^gard  and  respect  should  make  our  relations 
perfiecUy  satisfactory  in  all  things.  She  had 
stayed  long  in  her  former  places,  and  I  believed 
ske  would  remain  longer  still  with  me. 

Bat  soon  we  began  to  notice  suspicious 
SBMars  upon  our  dii«hes  at  table,  and  strange- 
looking,  foreign  substances  in  their  contents ; 
xhI  looking  a  little  more  closely  into  afifairs  in 
the  kitchen,  I  found,  under  the  appearance  of 
^■^  and  neatness,  evidence  of  habits  of  the 
{voiaest  slovenliness.  I  will  not  run  the  risk 
of  shodcing  any  one  by  recounting  my  discov- 
*!««•  Let  it  be  sufficient  that  I  felt  that  when 
^  sat  down  to  the  table  we  could  not  know 
^^  we  were  eating,  what  pevious  experiences 
It  had  passed  through  since  entering  the  house, 
<*  to  what  uses  the  varioua  utensils  of  the 
kitchen  were  put  in  the  intervals  of  their  regu- 
Wduty. 


Katy's  despatch  was  at  the  expense  of  neat- 
ness.  She  was  not  openly  slovenly — her  rooms 
and  person  always  looked  reasonably  clean  and 
orderly,  but  her  closets,  her  bread  and  cake 
jars,  hrT  refrigerator  and  the  cellar  shelves 
revealed  secrets  to  the  investigator  sadly  detri- 
mental to  appetite. 

I  had  taken  her  on  trial  for  two  weeks ;  and 
before  the  time  expired  I  knew  all  this.  Yet, 
when  I  came  to  talk  with  her  of  it,  she  was  so 
deferential,  so  sorry  she  did  not  please,  so  will- 
ing  to  be  taught,  so  ready  to  promise  care  in 
the  future,  that  I  kept  her.  It  was  hard  to 
come  to  an  open  rapture  with  Katy. 

She  did  not  improve — at  least  not  for  more 
than  a  day  at  a  time — and  relapsed  into  her 
careless,  hasty,  diriy  ways  as  soon  as  my  watch- 
fulness was  intermitted.  A  hundred  times  I 
have  gone  into  the  kitchen,  fresh  from  some 
new  and  startling  discovery,  resolved  that  she 
must  go  at  once,  to  be  met  by  such  pleasant, 
rcHpectful  attention,  such  profuse  and  sorrow- 
ful excuses,  such  plausible  explanations,  that 
the  rebuke  and  dismissal  died  on  my  lips  or 
lapsed  into  the  faintest  of  inquiries  or  remdn- 
strances. 

And  so  Katy  stayed  with  us  five  months. 
But  things  grew  worse  instead  of  better,  and 
at  last  I  summoned  courage  to  tell  her  that 
Bhe  might  go  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and  I 
was  again  alone. 

In  dwelling  upon  Katy's  worst  fault,  I  have 
neglected  to  mention  that  the  kitchen  was  illu- 
minated four  or  five  nights  in  the  week  until 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  while  she  entertained 
her  friends,  often  a  half-dozen  at  a  time,  and 
that  when  once  "  out,"  she  was  so  oblivious  to 
the  flight  of  time  that  my  own  arrangements 
were  often  broken  up,  and  our  meals  behind- 
hand, because  she  failed  to  make  her  appear- 
ance at  the  expected  hour.  But  as  she  was 
never  without  a  reasonable  excuse,  or  a  hum- 
ble apology,  nothing  could  be  said. 

One  day  a  stout  Irish  woman,  of  respectable 
appearance,  came  to  the  door  seeking  a  place. 
I  hired  her,  because  I  needed  help,  and  because 
of  her  fifty  years.  She  was  a  good  laundress, 
delighting  to  do  the  baby's  dresses  and  Orlan- 
do's shirts  in  "  iUgant"  style.  She  was  exces- 
sively neat,  every  leisure  moment  being  spent 
in  scrubbing  or  scouring.  We  had  beautifully 
polLthed  knives  and  bright  dishes  while  she 
remained.  She  could  not  cook,  nor  set  a  table 
properly ;  but  there  were  so  many  things  she 
ocmld  do  well,  that  I  was  content.  But  Bridget 
was  queer.  She  talked  vehemently  to  herself, 
and  acted  strangely  at  times.    I  tried  to  shut 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


zu 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


my  eyes  and  ears  to  it,  and  gave  palliative 
replies  to  my  friends'  inquiries.  It  was  so  nice 
to  have  her  put  out  the  kitchen  gas  and  go  to 
bed,  when  her  work  was  done;  to  hear  her  up 
early  in  the  morning  sweeping  pavements  or 
polishing  stoves;  to  have  no  cousins  coming 
in,  no  going  out  and  staying  out  too  long.  But 
ahe  grew  more  and  more  strange  in  manner, 
and  soon  after  having  stayed  alone  in  the  house 
with  her  for  three  nights  in  Orlando's  absence, 
J^  heard  that  she  had  been  an  inmate  of  an 
insane  asylum  for  years,  and  yet  had  frequent 
relapses  into  violence.  I  kept  her  till  the 
month  was  up ;  and  though  the  poor  woman 
begged  hard  to  be  allowed  to  stay,  I  dared  not 
keep  her  longer. 

I  next  procured  a  young  girl  of  twelve  years, 
who  could  take  care  of  the  baby,  do  the  lighter 
parts  of  the  work,  and  attend  the  door — 
thinking  that,  by  putting  out  the  washings,  I 
could  easily  manage  the  remainder,  and  have 
a  good  deal  of  leisure  besides.  And  so  I  did ; 
but,  alas  I  my  little  nurse,  though  cheerful  and 
aiPt,  was  incorrigibly  careless  and  disobedient 
vriien  not  in  my  sight,  and  I  did  not  dare  trust 
my  child  with  her,  after  hearing  from  my  neigh- 
bors that,  in  my  absence,  she  jumped  from  the 
chairs  and  tables  with  it  in  her  arms  for  amuse- 
ment, and  finding  that  it  had  repeatedly  fallen 
from  the  bed  or  cradle,  and  was  scarcely  ever 
without  bruises  upon  its  little  face.  At  last, 
coming  into  the  room  just  in  time  to  see  a 
heavy  iron  furniture  caster,  which  she  was 
whirling  by  a  string  in  the  air,  fly  from  her 
hand  and  just  escape  my  baby's  head  as  it  fell, 
I  concluded  not  to  attempt  longer  teaching  her 
to  be  more  thoughtful,  lest  my  little  one's  life 
be  sacrificed  to  the  lesson. 

I  suppose  that  by  this  time  I  have  gained 
the  reputation  of  a  mistress  difficult  to  please, 
who  often  changes  servants,  and  no  doubt  shall 
be  shunned  by  girls  seeking  situations.  I  have 
not  yet  attempted  to  secure  any  further  help. 
I  do  not  know  as  I  wish  to  do  so.  I  feel  un- 
settled and  disheartened  at  the  result  of  my 
efforts  to  provide  employment  and  home  for 
one  of  those  homeless  women.  However  it 
may  look  to  others,  I  know  that  in  each  case, 
except  the  last  one,  I  bore  long  with  the  fault, 
tried  earnestly,  affectionately  and  patiently,  to 
help  in  its  correction. 

Meanwliile  I  cannot  do  alone  the  work  for 
my  family,  unless  I  give  up  all  social  and  liter- 
ary ties  and  pursuits,  which  no  woman  should 
sacrifice  unless  she  musL 

At  present,  our  meals  are  served  from  a  res- 
taurant near  by.    We  began  taking  them  thus 


as  a  temporary  resort;  but  I  sometimet  as 
myself  why  such  an  arrangement  should  not  b 
a  permanent  one — if  one  great  kitchen. migl 
not  prepare  the  food  for  fifty  families  at  odo 
employing  cooks  and  waiters  in  the  stOD 
way  that  workmen  at  other  kinds  of  busine 
are  employed,  send  the  meals  to  their  tabl< 
and  remove  the  service  afterwards,  leaving  i 
as  before — if  a  mammoth  laundry  might  d< 
do  their  washings  and  ironings.  And  we] 
so  much  of  the  work  taken  from  the  houa 
three-fourths  of  the  families  now  employii 
servants  would  need  none.  Even  chambe 
maids,  seamstresses,  etc.,  could  work  by  tl 
day  or  hour,  and  go  to  their  own  homes  j 
night.  And  in  America,  at  least,  it  seems  i 
if  the  spirit  of  the  age  tends  more  and  moi 
to  the  establishment  of  men  and  women  i 
homes  of  their  own,  however  lowly,  and  i 
unhappiness,  contention,  extortion,  and  ui 
faitfulness  where  two  or  three  sorts  and  ooi 
ditions  try  to  live  in  one  home,  however  spi 
clous  and  luxurious.  The  trials  I  have  r 
counted  are  perhaps  among  the  least  to  whic 
employers  are  liable;  yet  they  were  sufficiei 
in  each  cose  to  prevent  employer  and  emploj 
from  being  at  home  under  the  same  tooL 


FAME. 

BY   EBBH   E.    BBXFORD 

/^NCE  I  knew  an  aged  poet, 
^^  Old  with  work  and  want  and  care, 
And  tha  fame  he  sighed  and  toiled  for 
Never  came  to  make  life  fair ; 

And  his  heart  grew  starred  and  hungry 

As  the  hearts  of  poets  can, 
For  Bome  sign  of  approbation 

From  hit  selflih  fellow  man. 

And  he  died :  bat  when  he  slambered, 
Caring  nothing  more  for  fame. 

All  the  world  began  to  echo 
With  the  poor  old  poet'i  name; 

And  they  bnilt  a  tomb  of  marble 
His  low  resting-place  above. 

Shutting  out  the  rain  and  sunebine, 
And  the  flowers  poeta  love. 

Yesterday,  as  I  was  going 
Slowly  down  a  crowded  street, 

More  than  once  I  heard  some  children 
A  sweet  verse  of  his  repeat ; 

And  I  wondered  whieb  was  traest, 

Tribate  to  the  poet  dead, 
Stately  tomb  of  heart-cold  marble, 

Or  the  words  the  children  said  ? 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE  CHILDLESS  HOME. 


MANY  newly-married  people  consider  child- 
lessnese  a  peculiarly  fortunate  dronm- 
flUnoe.  It  relieves  them  from  many  cares, 
aonoyaDces,  and  vexations.  It  abolishes  the 
AQVse,  sleepless  nights,  good  Mrs.  Winslow, 
and  the  cradle.  ^It  gives  opportunity  for  par^ 
taesy  halls,  the  opera,  and  sundry  trips  \o  the 
monntaina  and  sea-shore,  which  would  be  ez- 
eeedingly  inconvenient  if  a  little  trouble-maker 
had  to  be  taken  along  or  left  behind.  There  is 
nobody  to  litter  the  floors,  turn  the  show-articles 
npside  down,  and  make  confusion  generally ; 
and  there  are  no  sobs  nor  squalls,  which  those 
may  call  ''  music  *'  who  have  an  ear  for  such 
Boond^  which  our  childless  people  have  not. 
And  then,  the  landlords  are  always  so  civil 
when  they  are  told,  ''No children ;"  that  is  the 
"  open  sesame  "  to  any  desirable  suite  of  apart- 
mentB  or  love  of  a  cottage.  Indeed,  many  of 
our  newly-married  folks  look  upon  no  chil- 
dren as  the  universal  panacea  ibr  the  ills  of 
life^  aod  the  infallible  recipe  for  oonnubial, 
aad  indeed  all  other  happiness. 

Bot  after  awhile  the  brightest  and  most  en- ' 
g«»gi»*g  couples  tire  of  receptions,  theatres,  con- 
eertBy  and  the  like.  The  appetite  for  excite- 
menta  becomes  sated.  The  relish  for  artificial 
CBJojinents  gets  cloyed.  The  desire  for  com- 
fort and  quiet  takes  the  place  of  the  feverish 
craving  for  active  pleasures.  To  sit  down  at 
home  over  an  entertainiog  book ;  to  break  the 
nonotony  of  an  evening  by  a  pleasant  chit-chat, 
a  lew  touches  of  music,  or  an  amusing  game ; 
to  be  warned  off  to  bed  by  velvet-footed  dreams, 
stealing;  over  the  senses  and  filling  the  fancy 
with  drowsy  delights— these  things  invariably 
oome  in  time.  And  then  comes  a  yearning  for 
■omething  the  heart  has  not,  a  looking  for  what 
the  room  does  not  contain,  a  feeling  after  what 
no  provision  has  been  made  for.  Bat  the 
cradle  does  not  oome.  The  aversion  to  care, 
infimtile  cries,  and  confusions  of  all  sorts,  has 
beoome  ehronic;  but  little  Two  Shoes  is  a 
tyrant^  and  wherever  he  sets  up  his  small  des- 
poliani  insists  that  the  "laws  of  disorder" 
abaU  prevail.  The  desire  for  somebody  to  pet» 
and  play  with,  and  dote  upon,  grows  to  a  hon- 
gper,  which,  alas,  does  not  feed  itself ;  and  only 
^ves  way  to  the  more  painful  need  of  that 
sympathy,  afiection,  friendship,  solace,  and 
sapport  which  none  but  a  child  can  supply. 
There  may  be  wealth;  yet  who  but  a  ohild 
ihali  keep  at  bay  that  great  brood  of  yultures 


and  cormorants  which  peck  remorselessly  at  the 
life  of  whoever  has  a  purse?  There  may  be 
social  position,  and  even  fame ;  but  how  empty 
and  barren  are  all  honors  that  must  dissolve 
with  the  breath  of  their  wearer  ?  The  home 
may  be  a  palace ;  but  its  splendid  halls  will  be' 
cold  and  cheerless  as  the  forecourt  of  a  sepul- 
chre^ if  they  are  not  made  the  portals  of  Heaven 
by  the  prattle,  the  merry  laugh,  and  innocent 
hilarity  o(  children,  through  whom  the  Di- 
vine Paternity  bestows  perennial  youth,  and 
hope,  and  earthly  immortality  upon  parents 
here. 

Of  all  cheerless,  unnatural  places  in  the 
world,  a  childless  home  u  quite  the  most  un- 
comfortable. There  is  something  oppressive 
in  its  vacancy.  Its  stillness  is  stifling.  The 
heart  faints  and  cries  for  what  is  not  there. 
The  home  into  which  the  Great  Father  has 
once  pUoed  one  of  His  little  ones,  for  however 
short  a  stay,  is  transformed  by  that  visitation, 
and  can  never  lose  the  charm  of  that  myste- 
rious coming,  nor  the  light  that  streamed 
through  door  of  the  noiseless  departure.  That 
door  is  open,  and  no  hand  can  shut  it ;  and 
just  on  the  other  side  the  unseen  child  engages 
in  gambols,  or  is  busied  with  tasks,  which  it 
needs  but  a  little  imagination,  blended  with 
faith  for  a  parent's  heart,  to  hear.  No  home 
can  ever  be  the  same  again  into  which  one  im- 
mortal being  rose  to  conscious  life,  and  saw  a 
heaven  of  love  in  a  mother's  eyes.  Birth  is 
the  great  sacrament.  Bat  the  home  that  has 
had  no  such  baptism,  cold,  dull,  and  dreary  is 
it  at  the  best,  with  none  of  the  poetry  of  life  in 
it,  no  legends  of  angels  trailing  about  it,  and 
no  star  shining  over  it  to  indicate  thai  it  is 
fovored  of  Heaven.— Tik«  Oolden  Age. 


SAVE  SOMETHING. 

If  your  income  is  hve  dollars  a  day,  spend 
but  four.  If  it  is  one  dollar,  speod  eighty 
cents.  If  it  is  but  ten  cents^  spend  nine.  If  it 
is  three  potatoes,  save  half  a  potato  for  seed. 
Thus  you  will  gradually  acquire  something; 
whiie^  if  you  spend  and  oonsume  as  you 
go,  you  will  never  get  ahead  one  iuch  in  life^ 
but  every  sunset  will  look  on  you  poorer  than 
at  sunrise,  because  you  will  have  used  unprofit- 
ably  one  day  more  of  your  strength  and  your 
allotted  term  of  life. 


'316) 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A  DOLLAR  A  DAY. 


BT  VIBOIKIA  F.  TOTrmEMD. 


I 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  storm  which  had  been  long  brewing, 
bnnt  fluddenlj  in  the  household.  It  took 
everybody  by  surprifie,  as  tempests  always  do, 
no  matter  how  long  they  have  been  preparing. 
Greasy,  who  was  pretty  thoroughly  seasoned  to 
sodden  flurries  and  squalls  in  the  domestic  at- 
mosphere, never  remembered  snch  a  whirlwind 
of  passion  as  had  burst  just  afler  breakfast,  when 
the  morning  mail  was  brought  in.  It  took 
away  her  breath  and  the  pretty  color  from  her 
cheeks,  although  not  a  solitary  hail-stone  of 
her  father's  wrath  had  beaten  on  her  young  bead. 

All  that  was  reserved  for  Ramsey.  Richard 
Forsyth,  with  a  vague  doubt  and  uneasiness 
about  his  eldest  boy,  had  been  of  late  holding 
the  purse-strings  with  a  gripe  which,  consider^ 
ing  Ramney's  age  and  general  bringing  up, 
might  have  been  wisely  relaxed  a  little. 

The  result  was,  the  boy  had  grown  desperate 
at  last,  being  driven  to  bay  by  expensive 
habits  and  boon  companions.  In  one  way  and 
another  he  had  plunged  into  debt,  not  in  Thorn- 
ley — he  was  too  shrewd  for  that — but  in  the 
larger  town,  where,  despite  his  father's  growls 
and  menaces,  the  youth  managed  to  spend  the 
greater  part  of  his  time. 

Ramsey  Forsyth  had  not  been  brought  up  to 
know  the  value  of  money,  and  his  father's  dol- 
ing out  of  meagre  supplies,  looked,  in  the  con- 
temptuous eyes  of  his  son,  like  the  merest 
niggardliness,  no  better  than  any  miser's  gripe 
on  his  gold,  combined  with  a  pleasure  in  mak-  [ 
ing  his  own  power  and  authority  felt 

But  Ramsey  did  not  do  his  father  entire  jus- 
tice here.  Forsyth  knew  the  world  only  too 
well,  and  what  lions  lay  in  wait  along  the  bor- 
der-lands of  opening  manhood;  and  if  the 
measures  which  he  took  to  save  Ramsey  from 
coming  to  grief  were  not  always  the  most  judi- 
cious, there  was  much  to  be  said  in  favor  of  the 
motives  that  underlay  everything  else. 

But  Ramsey,  judging  from  the  surface  of 
things,  felt  himself  outraged ;  grew,  in  conse- 
qnence,  more  and  more  irate  with  his  father, 
swore  at  him  behind  his  back,  called  him  hard 
names— a  favorite  one  being  ''a  beggarly  old 
■crew" — hankered  to  get  his  fingers  into  the  old 
man's  purse,  and  with  plenty  of  time  on  his 
hands,  with  lounging,  boating,  racing,  and  late 
■uppers,  was  very  likely  to  take  the  road,  as 
his  fiither  succinctly  put  it,  "  to  the  Devil." 
(816) 


But  money  most  be  forthcoming  for  all  th 
luxuries;  and  Ramsey,  driven  to  strsitR,  fa 
rowed  a  little  here  and  there,  trusting 
"  luck" — that  last  resort  of  fools  and  coward 
to  pay  it.  • 

But  luck  did  not  serve  him,  and  final 
pinched  to  desperation,  he  put  up  some  sn 
stakesat  a  gambling-saloon,  and  winningenoc 
at  first  to  give  him  a  relish  for  play,  he  w 
deeper,  and  lost ;  borrowed  more  money,  mc 
ing  with  alternate  good  and  evil  fortune  in 
stakes. 

His  debts  grew  pressing;  his  father's  hold 
the  purse  did  not  relax,  but  rather  tightei 
with  Ramsey's  appeals,  and,  at  last,  to  esG 
the  annoyance  of  petty  debts,  and  bracing 
courage  with  the  old  proverb  that,  "  As  i 
hang  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb,"  young  Fois; 
borrowed  a  sum  on  his  father's  credit  wh 
covered  his  outstanding  debts,  and  left  bio 
margin  for  anoUier  trial  at  gambling,  by  wb 
he  confidently  expected  to  pay  his  new  crc 
tor  before  the  debt  should  fall  due;  hav 
fully  settled  it  in  his  own  mind  that  '*the  oldn 
would  never  be  the  wiser;"  for  though  Ram 
was  a  great  bully  and  blusterer  among  hischw 
he  never  secretly  thought  of  this  act  com 
to  the  knowledge  of  his  fatlier  witfaoul 
shudder. 

But  'Muck"  was  not  with  Ramsey's  ea 
this  time ;  he  played  and  lost.  His  debt 
due,  and  an  extension  which  he  obtained  k 
few  days  found  him,  at  its  close,  with  no  i 
provements  ib  his  affiiirs. 

Ramsey's  creditor  was  a  shrewd  busin 
man.  He  suspected  how  matters  stood,  f 
after  waiting  another  interval,  resolved  toapj 
to  the  fountain- head,  and  sent  an  aooount 
the  whole  transaction  to  the  youth's  father. 

The  boy  had  no  suspicion  of  what  had 
curred.  He  had  been  in  the  worst  of  mo 
for  several  days,  with  uncomfortable  f« 
facing  him  all  this  time;  but  he  had  justarii 
from  the  breakfast-table,  and  was  going  • 
when  his  father  sprang  up  from  the  con 
where  he  was  reading  his  letters,  and  witl 
horrible  oath  collared  his  son.  Everybody  i 
consternated.  Cressy  shrieked,  and  Prod 
springing  out  of  his  chair,  upset  it. 

There  was  an  awful  scene.  Forsyth  was  i 
a  man  it  was  safe  to  defy,  and  in  all  his  1 
his  ■on^  and  his  daughter  had  never  witnea 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAT. 


317 


anrthiDg  like  this  explosion  of  paanon  on  his 
put. 

Ramsey  was  thoroughly  cowed.  A  roagh 
shaking  from  his  fathera  hands  was  all  the  per- 
sonal violence  he  experienced,  hat  he  sank  into 
a  chair,  the  big,  hrajErgart  yoath,  with  all  his 
coarage  oosed  ont  of  him,  while  Greraj  stared 
and  shook  with  a  dreadful  fear  of  what  would 
come  next,  and  yet  not  daring  to  interfere. 

Her  fether  thundered  up  and  down  the  room, 
pouring  out  dreadful  oaths,  cursing  his  son, 
now  shaking  his  fist,  and  now  the  letter  in 
Bamsey's  face,  who»  before  such  a  witness,  had 
not  a  woid  to  say  in  his  own  defence,  and  who, 
cmght  in  this  sudden  hurricane  of  wrath,  would 
searoe  have  attempted  any  if  Forsyth  had 
seiacd  the  first  chair  and  broken  it  over  the 
boy's  head. 

It  eodedy  however,  at  this  time,  with  the 
Other's  oollaring  his  son,  and  more,  dragging 
him  to  the  door  and  thrusting  him  out  of  the 
room,  ordering  him  to  go  up  to  his  room,  and 
Boc  to  leave  it  that  day  at  his  peril ;  and  Ram- 
sey went,  glad  enough  to  escape  from  his  father 
ia  tbia  ignoble  fashion. 

Proctor  and  Cressy  were  left  alone  in  the 
bteakfiast-room  after  this  storm.  The  boy  and 
girl  looked  at  each  other  with  scared  faces. 
The  latter  burst  into  tears. 

**  Ahy  Proctor,  wasn't  it  awful  I  I  never  saw 
pa  like  this  in  my  lifeP 

Proctor  rose  up  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow like  one  half  dased,  for  the  whirlwind 
of  Ida  lather's  passion  had  half  stunned  the 

"■  Yes,  it  was  horrible,''  he  said,  in  a  slow 
tone,  like  one  half  afraid  of  his  own  voice,  with 
his  eyelids  at  their  highest  possibility  of  mo- 
tion. *'  rd  rather  walk  a  thousand  miles  than 
go  through  such  a  high  old  blast  again." 

"  It's  an  awful  thing  Ramsey's  been  doing, 
renning  pa  in  debt  that  way.  I  wouldn't  have 
keliered  it  of  him,"  sobbed  Cressy. 

*^  Ye8>  it  was  a  horrid  move  on  Ram's  part 
But,  hang  it,"  with  a  sodden  fellow-feeling  for 
his  brother,  "the old  men's  grown  awful  stingy 
of  late— keeps  a  fellow  on  such  low  grub,  he 
drives  one  into  desperation." 

Creaiy  groaned.  *<rd  rather,"  she  sobbed 
again,  "have  sold  sll  my  jewelry.  I'd  rather 
wear  my  old  clothes  a  whole  year,  and  not  had 
one  mngle  new  dress,  than  had  Ramsey  do  such 
a  dreadful  thing." 

"If  Ram  gets  alive  out  of  this  scrape,  he 
will  never  try  it  on  a^in,"  added  Proctor,  who 
sympathised  with  his  brother  a  good  deal,  and 
yet  was  quite  shocked  at  Bams^'s 


"  Might  have  known  it  would  end"  in  a  high 
old  breese  at  last,"  beginning  to  recover  him- 
self a  little. 

Suddenly  Cressy  came  up  to  her  brother. 
There  was  a  dreadful  fright  in  her  face.  "  You 
don't  s'pose,  now,  pa  will  really  do  it,  do  you  ?" 
she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"Do  what?"  asked  Ramsey,  unconsciously 
lowering  his  voice. 

"  Why,  send  Ramsey  to  State's  prison  7  You 
know  he  swore  he  would^-said  this  business 
would  shut  him  up  in  a  felon's  cell." 

"5o,"  said  ^Proctor,  decidedly.  "He  may 
swear  and  threaten  until  all's  blue ;  hut  when 
it  comes  to  sending  his  son  to  Staters  prison, 
Richard  Forsyth  won't  do  it ;  I  thought  you 
knew  him  better  than  that,  Cressy." 

"  So  did  T  until  this  morning,  but  I  believe 
it  has  shaken  the  wit  all  out  of  me.  How  he 
did  look,  how  hh  eyes  did  glare  I"  and  she 
shuddered  again. 

Proctor  shared  largely  in  his  sister's  feeling, 
although  he  was  a  boy,  and  would  not  show  it 
qnite  so  openly.  "  It  will  be  a  lesson  to  Ram 
and  to  all  the  rest  of  us  not  to  rouse  the  lion," 
he  said.  "  Did  you  ever  see  that  boy  so  out 
up?" 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Cressy,  the  color 
getting  hack  slowly  into  her  cheeks.  "  Any- 
body would  have  collapsed  under  such  a  hur^ 
ricane.  I'm  so  glsd  the  servants  happened 
to  be  out  of  the  room." 

"Yes,  we're  lucky  enough  if  they  didn't 
hear  the  hubbub,  and  play  eaves-dropper, 
though." 

And  while  the  two  talked,  they  suddenly 
canght  sight  of  their  father,  driving  rapidly 
out  of  the  front  yard. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  Forsyth  returned 
home.  Cressy,  whose  wits  were  seldom  at 
fault,  rightly  conjectured  that  her  father  had 
ridden  over  to  the  scene  of  Ramsey's  mis- 
doings to  thoroughly  investigate  them.  It  had 
been  a  miserable  day  to  the  girl,  the  most  mis- 
erable she  could  remember  in  her  whole  life. 
Her  spirits  usually  shook  ofi*  troubles  as  dncksP 
backs  do  water,  but  the  dreadful  scene  of  that 
morning  dung  to  her  with  a  terrible  tenacity. 
She  lived  over  her  Other's  towering  rage  and 
Ramsey's  look  of  wretchedness,  until  every 
other  feeling  was  lost  in  pity  for  her  brother, 
which  was  quite  generous  in  the  little  girl, 
oonsidering  what  a  torment  and  bully  Ramsey 
had  managed  to  carry  himself  toward  his 
sister. 

When  Proctor  went  off,  this  pity  so  far  got 
the  upper  hands^  that  Cressy  stole  up  to  her 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


318 


ARTHUR'S   LADrS    SOME    MAGAZINE. 


brother's  foom,  pnt  her  lips  to  the  key-bole, 
and  pleaded  to  come  in. 

At  first  no  notice  was  taken  of  her  entreaties; 
then  she  was  angrily  ordered  to  take  herself 
off;  but  Cressy  comprehended  how  terribly 
etong  and  mortified  her  brother  must  be  at  this 
juncture,  and  would  have  forgiven  him  if  he 
had  knocked  her  down. 

She  watched  her  father's  face  anxiously  when 
he  returned,  but  its  look  was  hardly  promis- 
ing. Creasy  suspected  that  the  result  of  his 
examination  into  Ramsey's  late  conduct  had 
hardly  lightened  his  wrath  toward  his  son. 
There  was  something  in  his  look  and  manner 
which  the  girl  could  not  help  feeling  boded 
DO  good  to  Bamsey. 

The  supper  passed  off  with  unusual  quiet ; 
Proctor  feeling,  also,  to  use  his  own  words, 
there  was  thunder  and  lightning  in  the  at- 
mosphere. Her  father  never  alluded  to  Bam- 
sey, except  once,  when  he  inquired,  sternly 
enough,  whether  the  boy  had  left  his  room  tliat 
day. 

After  the  meal  was  over,  Cressy's  eyes  and 
ears  were  on  the  watoh.  She  could  not  tell 
what  she  feared,  only  she  had  an  instinct  that 
her  father  bad  made  up  his  mind  to  try  some 
desperate  remedy  on  Ramsey. 

She  watched  the  man  when  he  went  out  to 
the  barn,  and  she  was  in  her  room,  with  the 
door  ajar  when  he  returned,  as  he  would  have 
to  pass  that,  in  order  to  reach  his  own ;  and 
Ramsey's  lay  beyond  both. 

But  as  the  heavy  tread  passed  her  door, 
Cressy's  wide-open  eyes  saw  that  her  father 
carried  a  horsewhip. 

Cressy's  blood  seemed  to  freeze  in  her  veins 
at  that  sight.  She  knew  Ramsey,  and  that  he 
would  never  submit  to  a  horsewhipping,  from 
human  hands,  without  defending  himself  to 
the  last  gaMp,  and  that  an  awful  struggle  must 
ensue  between  the  fiither  and  son,  in  which 
the  result  would  be  doubtful,  for,  if  tlie  elder 
was  the  more  powerful,  the  other  had  the  ad- 
vantage on  his  side  of  the  swift,  alert  muscles 
of  youth. 

Forsyth  had  been  frequently  a  loud,  harsh, 
but  never  a  cruel  father.  He  had  never  struck 
Cressy  a  blow  in  her  life,  and  his  boys  had 
very  little  lo  complain  of  in  thai  line ;  and  if  , 
Forsyth  had  not,  in  this  instance,  been  driven 
to  desperation,  partly  by  passion,  partly  by  the 
shock  which  the  discovery  of  Ramsey's  con- 
duct had  given  him,  he  would  have  seen  the 
madness  of  resorting  to  any  such  extreme 
measures. 

Arguments  addressed  to  human  hides  hav^ 


irom  the  nature  of  things,  a  repvlsive  aspect 
brutality  in  them,  and  must  always  be  t 
lowest  and  eoarsest  method  of  reaching  t 
soul  hidden  somewhere  in  the  animal. 

That  corporeal  punishments  may  prove  1 
only  means  of  appeal  to  certain  natures,  m 
perhaps  remain  an  open  question  in  mor 
and  metaphysics ;  bat  a  horsewhipping  in  1 
case  of  Bamsey  Forsyth  would  be  certain 
rouse  up  in  him  what  I  suppose  it  would 
most  boys  of  sixteen,  ''the  very  Devil." 

In  that  one  moment  of  frozen  horror  Crei 
had  taken  in  the  whole  thing.  She  had  a  blj 
instinct  that  she  must  not  let  this  thing  happ 
that  she  must  throw  herself  into  the  brea 
at  all  hazards ;  and  hardly  knowing  what  i 
was  about,  she  seized  a  little  jewel-box  wbi 
for  some  private  reason,  she  had  been  hi 
ov  er  a  good  pert  of  the  day,  and  rushing  q 
she  confront^  her  fiither  just  opposite  his  a 
door,  which  he  was  passing. 

*'  Papa,  papa,"  clutching  at  his  arm  breal 
lessly,  *'  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  moment." 

*'Get  out  of  the  way;  I  can't  be  bothei 
now  I"  answered  Fon^yth,  in  a  tone  such 
Cressy  seldom  heard  from  him. 

The  man  was  strung  up  to  a  mood  with  whj 
it  was  dangerous  to  interfere. 

But  Cressy  flung  herself  right  in  his  wi 
''Just  one  minote^  P<^P*;  I  must  say  it  bef( 
you  go !" 

He  tried  to  push  past  her,  bat  in  her  deq 
ration  she  dung  to  him. 

"  Let  me  go,  I  say  I  If  s  better  not  to  tri 
with  me  now  !"  and  in  his  blind  rage  the  m 
actually  raised  his  hormwhip. 

It  was  well  for  his  own  future  peace  that 
did  not  strike  her.  The  blow  would  only  hi 
stung  Cresay's  flesh  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
memory  would  have  returned  to  hurt  Fonj 
at  times,  to  the  last  day  of  his  life. 

Cressy  saw  the  raised  whip,  and  grew  wb 
as  ashes,  but  she  did  not  shrink — there  wsi 
strong  courage  at  bottom  of.  the  girl,  of  tl 
kind  which  has  takeD  many  a  tender  worn 
to  the  scaffold.  She  dropped  right  doi 
before  her  fiuher,  she  clasped  his  knees  wi 
one  hand,  and  with  the  other  she  held  i 
the  little  box  she  had  snatched  from  t 
table. 

The  sight  struck  the  man  through  all  I 
blind  rage.  The  whip  dropped  down  befio 
it  struck  Cressy. 

"  What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked,  staru 
from  the  box  to  the  kneeling  girl. 

"They  are  my  jewels,  papa;  there's  lots 
Aioe  things,  aU  you.  ever  gave  me.    I  want  y< 


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to  take  them  and  let  them  pay  Bameey's  debt; 
oh,  do,  papa!" 

The  eoTer  flew  back.  There  was  a  glitter- 
ing heap  inside,  ooral  beads  with  gold  clasps, 
ami  pretty  lockets,  and-  bracelets,  and  rings, 
iod  all  kinds  of  dainty  trinkets  on  which  a 
yoang  girl  would  be  likely  to  set  her  heart. 

''Child,  do  you  think  I  want  those  baables?" 
lod  this  time  there  was  a  touch  of  feeling  in 
Forsyth's  voice,  as  he  looked  at  his  kneeling 
daughter,  and  he  was  a  good  deal  shocked 
\o  feel  how  near  be  had  come  to  striking 
her. 

"  But,  papa,  they  are  worth  more  than  you 
kink — and  I  had  a  great  deal  rather  poor 
EUmsey  would  have  them" — she  broke  right 
k»wn  here,  sobbing  dreadfully,  bat  still  clings 
mg  to  the  man's  knees. 

The  sight,  the  sobs  went  to  the  heart  of  the 
Guber.     He  raised  her  up. 

**  There,  don't  cry,  child.  I  didn't  mean  to 
be  hard  with  you.  Come  in  here,"  and 
rheiher  he  would  or  not,  she  dong  to  him 
nd  made  him  follow  her  into  his  own  cham- 
w. 

''Bat  you  will  take  the  jewels,  papa 
\KurV*  smiling  up  at  him  through  her  tears. 

"&e«yr 

"Yon  think  they're  only  a  girl's  baubles, 
(ot  they're  all  solid  gold,  and  they  cost  heaps 
f  money;  and  if  you  will  only  sell  them, 
bey'U  pay  eyery  dollar  of  Ramsey's  debts." 

*^  Child,"  said  her  father,  and  through  the 
mth  of  his  voice  some  sudden  pain  struggled, 
'it  isn't  the  money  I  care  for;  it's  the  tricks 
bat  yoang  rascal  has  played  on  tne." 

"I  know  he  has  been  a  dreadful  boy, 
•pa-** 

^YeB,  and  he  needs  a  desperate  remedy," 
lis  fiioe  darkening,  his  fingers  tightening  over 
he  boivewhip. 

"Ah,  papa,"  cried  out  the  girl,  sharply, 
'yoa  will  not  do  that." 

"Cresty,"  said  her  father,  very  sternly,  "you 
not  meddle  with  this  matter.  It  is  be- 
Bamsey  and  me." 

"  But,  papa,"  wringing  her  hands,  •*  it  will 
^  the  ruin  of  Bamsey.  It  will  drive  him 
nad.'' 

"  It  will  teach  him  one  lesson  he  won't  be 
Itkdy  to  forget,"  answered  her  father. 

Cnessy  saw  that  his  mind  was  made  up ;  she 
Dould  not  move  him.  Hi8*will  was,  for  once, 
%  rock  against  which  she  might  beat  her  weak 
wings  in  vain. 

Yet  she  blindly  dashed  at  it  once  more. 
"fiot^  papa,  think ;  he  is  your  own  boy,  yourt 


and  mamma's ;  and  oh,  "what  woul<i^  the  do  if 
she  was  here  now !" 

CresBy  had  her  mother's  face.  As  it  looked 
up  at  him  now,  the  sweet  face  of  the  wife 
of  his  youth  came  out  from  the  grave  and 
stood  by  Bichard  Forsyth.  Cressy  saw  the 
sterol  look  soften  a  little,  and  kept  on.  "He 
was  her  oldest  boy,  papa,  hers  and  yours,  and 
she  loved  him  so ;  and  if  she  was  here  now,  she 
would  beg  you  not  to  do  this  awful  thing — you 
know  she  would,  papa,  so  much  better  than  I 
can." 

She  heard  a  kind  of  short,  sharp  sound 
from  her  father,  much  like  a  smothered  groan« 

"  But  mamma  is  away  off  in  her  grave  to- 
day, and  there  is  nobody  to  stand  here  in  her 
place  and  plead  for  her  boy  but  poor  little  me. 
Oh,  papa,  don't  think  it  is  Cressy  talking 
now ;  think  it  is  mamma  1" 

Forsyth  sat  down  in  a  chair.  His  face  was 
shaken. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  that  wretched  boy, 
if  I  let  him  off  now  ?"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. 

"  But  he  is  not  all  bad,  papa.  There  is  some 
good  in  him.    Think  of  last  Christmas  eve." 

"What  about  it,  child?  If  there's  any- 
thing to  be  said  for  the  scoundrel,  let  me  hear 
it." 

"I'd  forgotten  you  never  knew  anything 
abon  t  it  at  all  papa ;"  and  then  Cressy  sat  down  at 
once  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  went  over 
eagerly  with  the  whole  story  of  the  night  on 
which  Bamsey  had  given  the  five  dollars  to 
the  newsboy,  and  of  all  the  talk  betwixt  her  and 
her  brother  which  had  preceded  Bamsey's  act. 

8omewh««  during  the  relation,  the  horse* 
whip  fell,  with  a  hard  ring,  to  the  floor. 
Whether  Cressy  heard  the  sound  or  not,  she 
knew  that  the  dreadful  thing  would  not  fall  on 
Bamsey  Forsyth's  shoulders  that  night.  Her 
fisither  sat  still  awhile,  after  the  girl  had  fin- 
ished. Cressy  had  a  feeling  that  the  story  had 
taken  deep  hold  on  him.  At  last,  she  said, 
putting  her  soft,  cool  cheek  down  to  his :  "  Papa, 
I  have  heard  you  say  very  often  that  mamma 
was  a  good  woman." 

"  There  never  was  a  better  one  in  the  world." 

Forsyth  was  mistaken  here.  The  dead  woman 
had  been  a  true  wife,  a  loving  mother,  and 
always  had  general  purposes  of  doing  right ; 
she  was  amiable  and  kindly  in  all  her  rela* 
tions,  but  she  had  no  exalted  ideals,  no  high 
moral  convictions,  and  bad  plenty  of  small 
vanities  and  selfishnesses;  there  has  been  many 
a  worse  woman,  many  a  better  one,  too. 

But  these  latter  Forsyth  liad  never  known^ 


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ARTHUR'S   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


probably  voald  not  have  ocMnprehended,  and 
bi8  family  love  was  the  best  side  of  him,  aa  tha 
influence  of  his  wife  had  been  the  beat  that  bad 
ever  fiillen  into  his  life. 

'*  Then,  P*P«i  you  know  Ramsey  could  not 
be  altogether  bad,  being  mamma's  boy/' 

Forsyth  looked  at  his  little  daughter  and 
smiled,  and  this  time  there  was  something  soft 
in  his  smile  that  made  it  seem  like  a  woman's. 

*'  Well,  daughter,  I  hope  you  are  right.  At 
any  rate,  it  is  the  only  thing  that  can  be  said 
for  the  young  scapegrace." 

In  a  few  moments  he  rose  up,  and,  without 
saying  a  word,  but  very  kindly,  set  Cressy  down, 
and  went  on  to  Bameey*8  room.  She  was  not 
afraid  now.  Bhe  sat  still  as  a  mouse  for  a  long 
time,  in  the  reaction  from  the  dreadful  excite- 
ment which  she  had  undergone,  and  discerning 
in  a  vague  way  a  new  sense  of  responsibility  on 
her  part.  She  felt  more  of  a  woman,  too,  than 
she  had  ever  felt  before.  Indeed,  Cressy  whs 
never  in  her  inmost  self  the  same  child  which 
she  had  been,  after  that  night. 

At  last,  when  she  rose  up,  ^he  saw  the  handle 
of  the  horsewhip  gleaming  like  the  scales  of  a 
serpent  in  the  dark,  for  the  twilight  had  faded 
long  before.  She  seised  it,  and  hurried  out  to 
the  stable,  groping  her  way  by  the  starlight, 
and  thrusting  the  whip  on  the  floor  as  though 
it  was  something  she  loathed.  The  next  morn- 
ing the  coachman  found  it,  and  wondered  how 
the  thing  got  there. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

About  the  middle  of  April,  Darley  Hanes 
wrote  in  the  old  aceonnt^book  of  the  *'  Super- 
cargo's" as  follows: 

I  knew  as  soon  as  I  reached  home  last  night 
something  had  happened  Perhaps  I  snified 
it  in  the  air,  as  they  say  a  horse  does  a  wild 
beast  near  at  hand ;  perhaps  I  read  it  in  Cher- 
ry's big  round  eyes  when  tliey  kept  looking  at 
me,  and  dancing  and  saying  just  as  plainly  as 
though  they  had  spoken  out  loud,  "Oh,  you 
don't  know — you  can't  gness  what  is  coming, 
Darley  Hanes  r 

And  Prudy  puckered  up  her  lips,  and  tried 
hard  to  keep  on  her  prim  old  woman's  mask ; 
but  that  little  pet  dimple  of  hers  kept  peeping 
out  every  minute  or  two,  and  I  knew  the  thing 
which  was  coming  was  something  wonderfully 
good.  I  kept  mum.  Qirls  are  funny  things, 
and  it's  just  as  well  for  a  fellow  to  let  them 
take  their  own  time  and  way  in  small  matters. 

When  we  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  I  lifted 
my  plate,  it  was  all  out  in  a  flash ;  there  lay  a 


letter  to  me  with  a  foreign  postmatk  on  i^  ii 
the  handwriting  of  Joe  Dayton. 

Such  a  Babel  of  tongoea  as  followed  whm  I 
swung  the  letter  arouad  my  head  and  shoalid 
three  times  three  I 

"It  came  three  hours  ago;  the  posbsn 
brought  it,"  shouted  Cherry. 

"  We've  been  dying  to  know  what's  insdi 
ever  since,"  screamed  Pnidy. 

They  were  still,  though,  as  mice  when  th 
cat's  on  guard,  as  I  opened  the  letter;  and  w 
had  it  with  our  aupper,  and  the  first  maJe  tki{ 
last  sweeter. 

Dear  old  Joel  that  letter  was  his  bnv^ 
honest  self  all  through.  He  was  in  Catcotli; 
had  been  in  port  only  one  day ;  hot  tiie  stesaer 
was  to  sail  next  morning,  and  so  be  seised  tk 
chance  of  writing  to  me. 

They  had  a  stormy  passage  out,  he  fSK^ui 
a  fellow  who  goes  to  sea  for  the  fun  and  ezdte> 
ment,  will  find  before  many  days  he'soooated 
without  his  boat.  The  whole  is  made  Dp  tboot 
equally  of  hard  work,  and  hard  tack,  sad  hud 
knocks. 

The  mates  were  coarse,  surly  old  ses^ 
enough ;  but  the  captain  was  a  jolly,  geiwraoi- 
sailor,  who  loved  a  joke  and  a  long  yam  sIbmi^ 
as  well  as  he  did  his  pipe. 

Joe  was  seasick,  and  a  good  many  odia  { 
kinds  of  sick,  the  first  weeks  out,  and,  lik«old 
Qonsalo,  would  have  given  "a  thousand fiv' 
longs  of  sea  for  an  acre  of  barren  groond,  Vti 
heath,  brown  furae— anything." 

But  at  last  the  worst  wore  q%  and  he  pidnd 
up  spunk  and  plocki  and  resolved  not  to  go 
under  before  the  ship  did. 

Good  for  Joe,  I  say.  I  knew  he'd  got  it  is 
him,  as  I  told  him  that  last  morning. 

He's  lain  awake  many  a  night  in  hit  bnak 
when  the  winds  bowled  away  in  the  rigg^ 
like  a  whole  wilderness  of  wild  beasts,  thinking 
how  I  was  cutting  around  MerchanU'  f^^^  \ 
with  the  evening  papers.  | 

Calcutta,  Joe  says,  looks  like  a  paradise  «itb 
its  palaces  and  gardens,  its  glittering  moaja* 
and  its  Hindoo  temples,  as  you  see  it  fiist  ail* 
ing  up  the  Hoogly. 

It  all  seemed  like  a  dream  to  him  wbiic* 
was  writing,  sitting  there  in  the  shsdeof  v 
deep  veranda,  and  stopping  now  and  thcD  to 
gase  at  the  long  quay  stretching  before  iu0i 
and  the  crowds  of  natives  with  their  dsrit^ 
which  seemed  to  cany  some  awful  secret,  ^ 
their  curious  dresses,  surmounted  with  nk 
great  turbans  just  as  we  see  them  in  pictiu*^ 

"And  somewhere,"  Joe  says,  "away  off* 
tbe  other  aide  of  the  world,  is  tha  boy  I F^ 

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with  last  ikll  by  Uie  old  bridge,  and  my  old 
beart  got  sach  an  awful  wrench  then  that  it 
feel#  a  little  nore  yet,  away  offhere  in  Calcutta." 

Prudy  declared  that  was  pretty  enough  to 
pat  in  a  book.  Perhaps  when  Vm  a  wrinkled, 
gray-pated  old  man,  I  shall  open  these  pages 
and  read  it  here.    Who  knows? 

Here  goes  the  conclusion  of  Joe's  letter, 
wfaieh   has  a  ring  to  it  that  stirs  a  fellow's 


*'  6ood-by,  dear  old  Darley  I  I've  munched 
many  a  mouldy  crust,  and  pulled  through  many 
a  heavy  gale,  and  climbed  the  masts  when  my 
fingov  stuck  to  the  ice  on  the  ropes;  but  I'm 
not  sorry  I  left  off  selling  papess  and  turned 
sailor.  I've  got  many  a  hard  fight  and  many 
a  big  storm  to  weather  before  I  get  into  smooth 
waters.  But  if  I  don't  get  there — if  I  go  to 
tlie  bottom,  in  Rome  thick  squall,  they  shall 
say  Joe  Dayton  went  there  doing  his  duty,  if 
it  was  only  a  sailor's  before  the  mast." 

Beat  that,  1  Ray,  who  can  1  Shakspeare  him- 
self oonldn't  have  said  anything  more  *'pat." 
Good  for  Joe,  again  I 

I  thought  that  finished  the  letter ;  but  Cher- 
ry's sharp  eyes  found  a  postscript  on  the  other 
nde,  though  Bhe  sat  oppoeite  me  at  the  table : 

^  Old  fellow,  keep  up  heart  I  though  I  know 
ItTs  toagh.  You'll  come  out  top,  yet  'Twon't 
be  always  selling  papers  round  Merchants' 
Bloc^  for  you,  Darley  Hanes  1  You've  got  it  in 
you,  as  yon  said  to  me.  Whistle,  and  keep 
your  courage  up  I  You've  got  your  battle  to 
fight  on  land,  and  I  mine  on  the  sea,  but  we 
both  have  the  same  foes  of  Fate  and  Poverty, 
and  it  will  take  many  a  long,  hard  pull  for  us 
lo  throttle  'em — you  and  I,  my  boy  I 

^Give  my  love  to  Miss  Prudy  and  Miss 
Cherry. 

*'  You  did  the  right  thing  to  etay  at  home, 
Darley,  when  the  pinch  came.  If  I'd  had  two 
such  sisters  as  yourR^  I  wouldn't  have  been  such 
a  sneak  of  a  brother  as  to  strike  off  and  leave 
them  to  shift  for  themselves,  for  all  the  gold  of 
these  Indies." 

Now,  I  never  told  the  girls  they  were  all 
that  kept  me  from  going  off  with  Joe ;  but  that 
postscript  kind  of  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. 

"  Old  Joe  was  bom  for  a  sailor,"  I  said.  "  I 
should  have  caved  in  the  first  day  out." 

That  was  a  whopper;  I  saw  it  was,  the  next 
moment;  and  Prudy  looked  at  me  with  some- 
thing in  her  eyes  which  made  me  suspect  she 
did  too.  I  went  back  to  Joe's  letter. 
*' It's  just  him,  all  through,"  I  said. 
''I  never  Imagined  there  was  so  much  in 
him,"  said  Cherry.    He  had  such  a  big  fiice, 


and  lots  of  freckles  all  over  it ;  and  his  thick, 
yellow-white  hair  stuck  out  like  little  horns  all 
over  his  head ;  and  I  never  could  think  of  any- 
thing but '  old  Sir  Nob'  when  I  looked  at  him. 
Then,  Darley,  he  always  seemed  kind  of  scared 
and  awkward  when  you  brought  him  home 
with  you." 

I  fired  up  there.  <'Now  that  is  like  girls. 
Nobody  else  would  think  of  Joe  Dayton's  hair 
and  eyes,  when  he  has  such  a  royal  brain  and 
such  a  big  heart  underneath." 

"  Now  don't  get  huffy,  Darley,"  said  Prudy, 
"  We  all  know  what  splendid  stuff  there  is  in 
Joe;  but  it  didn't  come  out  always— did  it, 
now — when  you  used  to  bring  him  home  with 
you,  and  he  would  stand  stiff  as  a  poker  by  the 
door,  and  wringing  that  old  cap  in  his  hands 
until  I  wondered  how  it  was  ever  to  go  on  his 
head  again,  and  blushing  scarlet  up  to  his  eyes, 
and  wriggling  one  foot  before  the  other — " 

Cherry  and  I  burst  out  laughing  before  Pru- 
dy could  get  any  farther  with  her  picture.  I 
had  to  admit  its  faithfulness  to  the  original, 
though  doing  so  went  a  little  against  the  grain. 
"Joe  was  horribly  bashful  before  girls,"  I  said; 
they  seemed  to  take  the  pluck  right  out  of  the 
fellow.  He'd  never  had  any  sisters,  you  see, 
and  thought  girls  were  a  kind  of  angels  or 
fairies,  pr  something.  If  he  had  only  known 
them  as  well  as  I  do  I" 

The  girls  shouted,  and  called  me  ''  wretch," 
and  ''monster,"  and  plenty  of  other  hard  names, 
at  that  Suddenly  Prudy  grew  dreadfully  sober. 
'<0f  all  the  world,"  she  said, ''  I  have  lio  busi- 
ness to  be  making  fun  of  Joe  Dayton's  looks 
and  ways." 
I  knew  she  was  thinking  of  the  boots. 
'*  Min  Prudy  and  MiM  Cherry,"  said  Cherry. 
''  No  one  but  a  gentleman  at  bottom  would  have 
put  it  in  that  way." 

"  Joe  was  bom  one,"  I  said,  "  if  he  is  homely 
and  awkward." 

Then  Prudy  spoke  in  her  slow,  solemn  way : 
"He  has  seemed  like  a  real  king  Arthur  in 
disguise  ever  since  I  learned  how  he  wore  his 
old  boots  to  have  me  get  well.  That  was  a 
deed  as  grrand  as  that  cf  any  of  the  knights 
of  the  old 'Round  Table.'" 

How  Joe  would  have  stared  and  reddened  at 
thatl  I've  a  good  will  to  te  i  him,  only  it 
wouldn't  be  quite  fair  on  Prudy,  perhaps. 

"  I  hope  Joe  will  get  a  better  wife,  sometime, 
than  poor,  beautiful  Guinevere  made,"  said 
Cherry. 

I  thought  Prud/s  cheeks  flushed  up  at  that, 
but  it  was  almost  dark,  and  I  wouldn't  take 
my  oath  on  it. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ARTHUR*8   LADTS   MO  ME   MAGAZINE. 


We  talked  about  nothing  all  flapper  tima 
but  Joe's  letter ;  and  all  of  us  being  in  a  won- 
derfully good  humor,  I  proposed,  at  last,  we 
should  try  our  Dream  play. 

We  call  it  that  because  it  was  Pmdy's  dream 
of  my  earning  ''A  Dollar  a  Day.''  It's  ftin 
sometimes  to  imagine  the  dream  has  come  true, 
and  that  we  are  really  rich  folks. 

The  girls  agreed;  and  Cherry  commenced 
telling  what  a  pretty  new  hat,  trimmed  with 
sprays  of  wheat  and  purplish  heather,  she 
would  have  this  spring,  when  she  suddenly 
broke  out :  ''  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  have  It  I 
Darley,  do  you  believe  there  will  ever  come  a 
time  when  yon  will  earn  a  dollar  a  day  V* 

"It  will  be  such  an  awful  long  time  first,"  I 
said,  with  a  horrid  groan.  "Miracles  don't 
happen  now-a-days,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  but  they  do  sometimes,"  said  Pnidy. 
"  Remember  that  ten  dollars  from  the  strange 
gentleman.  Cherry." 

"Sure  enough,"  she  answered.  "That  wom 
a  miracle,  wasn't  it?  And,  oh,  to  think  of  (he 
good  it's  done — paid  the  rent  all  these  weeks !" 

Then,  I  can't  tell  how,  something  went 
throngh  my  thoughts  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"Cherry,"  I  cried  out,  "was  the  man  who 
gave  you  the  ten  dollars  rather  tall,  with  thick, 
grayish  whiskers,  and  a  reddish  complexion, 
and  sharp  black  eyes,  and  did  he  wear  an  im* 
mense  gold  watch  chain  7" 

"Why,  yes.  You  know,  Darley,  I've  told 
you  all  that,  over  and  over." 

"I  know  who  he  was.  I've  seen  him  this 
very  day." 

The  girls  were  off  their  feet  in  a  moment. 

"Where?    Who  is  he?" 

"He's  Mr.  Forsyth;  and  he's  the  father  of 
the  boy  who  gave  me  the  five  dollars  Christmas 
eve.    I  know  he  is  the  same." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  7"  cried  both  of  the 
girls  at  once. 

Then  I  went  over  with  a  little  thing  that  had 
happened  that  y^ry  afternoon,  and  which  Joe 
Dayton's  letter  had  quite  driven  out  of  my 
mind. 

Coming  out  of  Parker's  hardware  store,  I  saw 
Mr.  Forsyth  speaking  to  his  coachman,  who 
was  standing  by  the  horses.  As  the  gentleman 
caught  sight  of  me,  he  started  a  little,  turned 
and  looked  at  me  curiously  with  those  sharp, 
black  eyes  of  his.  They  went  all  over  me,  and 
something  pleasant  came  into  his  face,  and  I 
am  certain  he  was  about  to  speak  to  me,  when 
some  gentleman  came  up  and  claimed  his 
attention. 

l^ow,  as  I  said  to  the  girls,  "I  don't  know 


hom  I  know  this  Mr.  Forvyth  is  the  man  w1 
gave  Cherry  the  ten  dollars,  only  I  do  know  it 
it  just  flalhed  npon  me  a  minute  ago  like  ligl 
ning-*and  you  may  depend  on  that  thing." 

Cherry  looked  at  Prady.  "  I  believe  Dariei 
right,"  she  said. 

"SodoI,"8aidPnidy. 

We  were  so  excited  over  thie  discovery  tl 
we  could  talk  of  nothing  else  last  evening. 

It  is  all  very  strange ;  I  can't  understand 
I  mean,  the  first  chance  I  can  get,  to  go  out  ai 
look  at  that  handsome  stone  house  where  th 
say  the  Forsyths  live,  less  than  a  mile  frc 
Evei^green  Park. 

I  saw  my  /riend  the  other  day,  and  had 
bow  and  a  smile.  I  always  get  that  now- 
days.  He  looked,  too,  as  though  he  won 
like  to  stop  and  speak  to  me,  but  the  earria 
was  bounding  on,  and  then  there  was  cbmpai 
inside. 

What  glorious  times  he  must  have  in  tl 
world  I  Yet  the  sight  of  the  carriage  and  tl 
handsome  grays  never  rouse  those  black,  bitt 
feelings  that  I  used  to  have  before  that  Chrii 
mas  eve.  I  feel  always  as  though  I  had 
friend  in  that  carriage — and  so  I  have,  bU 
him  I 

To  this  day  I  have  not  learned  that  bo] 
first  name.  People  say  that  this  Mr.  Forey 
wui  a  poor  boy  onoe^  and  that  he  made  I 
money —  I  would  not  tell  the  girls  last  nigb 
and  I  won't  put  it  down  in  this  book.  1 1: 
lieve  it  is  all  a  lie.  Such  a  generoi»  mi 
could  not  have  made  his  money  in  that  way. 

I  must  cut  short  here,  for  it  is  about  time  tl 
EH>ening  Standard  was  strudc  off, 

"  Whistle  to  keep  your  courage  up,"  as  J 
Dayton  says ;  "  you'll  come  out  top  yet"  Wi 
you,  Darley  Hanes— will  you  ?  That  top  mu 
be  a  dollar  a  day.  Well,  Joe,  you  by  sea,  at 
I  by  land,  have  a  hard  road  to  travel ;  but 
too,  mean  to  go  to  the  bottom,  if  it  comes 
that,  "doing  my  duty,"  and  that  seems  to  1 
for  the  present  hawking  papers  round  Thornh 
Common  and  Merchants'  Block. 
{To  be  continued*) 


Be  not  angry  that  you  cannot  make  othe 
as  you  wish  tliem  to  be,  since  you  cannot  mail 
yourself  what  you  wish  to  be. 


One  b  scarcely  sensible  of  fatigue  whilf 
he  marches  to  music.  The  very  stare  ar 
said  to  make  hannony  as  they  revolve  in  thei 
spheres. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


RUTH  RAY'S  CONFESSION. 


BY   Tjm    £•    Km 


CHAPTER  I. 

WE  are  very  quiet  people,  and  we  live  in 
a  qniet  way — my  father,  Annt  Janet, 
ind  I.  Oar  little  stone  houRe  is  shut  away 
bom  the  cater  world  by  swelling  green  hills, 
ind  a  brook  ripples  and  rashes  past  our  door, 
Keeping  the  shelving  lawn  and  the  flower-beds 
redi  and  green  in  the  hottest  August  noontides. 
We  rarely  visit  any  one,  and  few  of  onr  scat- 
ered  neighbors  visit  us ;  still  we  are  content 
iid  happy  in  oar  humble  way,  quiet  as  it  is. 
Ky  &Uier  likes  the  quiet  Aunt  Janet  says 
TO  has  grown  to  like  it  too,  and  I— well, 
here  was  a  time  when  I  wearied  of  it  Some- 
iBieB  in  my  wayward  moods  I  fancied  that  a 
hange  never  would  corae^  and  wondered 
igaely  if  I  was  still  to  go  on  sleeping  and 
raking  to  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  like  the 
odding  lilies  in  the  garden,  till  the  autumn  of 
ly  life  came,  and  I  should  wither  and  droop 
iraj.  I  need  often  to  think  it  would  be  better 
\  bear  a  keen,  sharp  pain  than  this  weary, 
rer-reatful  calm.  I  longed  to  go  out  into  the 
leat  world,  face  its  dangers,  bear  its  sorrows, 
rink  my  fill  of  its  brimming  joys. 

One  morning,  in  the  early  spring,  as  I  stood 
;  the  window  watching  the  gardener  pmne 
id  tie  up  the  old  rose-bush  in  the  centre  of 
le  lawn,  my  father  came  into  the  room  with 
II  open  letter  in  his  hand,  and  after  him  came 
xm%  Janet  I  saw  by  their  fbces  something 
as  amiss,  and  my  heart  bounded  painfully. 
7tm  the  longed-for  change  coming  in  the  form 
r  a  sorrow? 

''A  letter  from  Cousin  Both,  Letty,"  said 
ty  firCher. 

I  clapped  my  hands  gladly.  Ruth  was  my 
lot — my  beautiful  cousin,  who  lived  out  in  the 
ly  world,  and  was  one  to  think  of  with  pride 
I  belonging  to  as. 

*'  What  does  she  say,  papa?  Is  she  coming 
ere?^ 

"  No,  child,  she  is  going  to  London  to  stay 
bere  daring  the  sommer,  perhaps  the  autumn, 
iODths,  nskd  she  wants  yon  to  go  with  her." 

He  brought  the  words  out  slowly,  gave  a 
aow  between  eaeh,  looking  at  my  aant  the 
rhile. 

''Tea,''  he  oontinoed;  <^ihe  says  in  thelet- 
er— it  k  almost  a  sad  one^  qjoMe  a  sad  one  for 
er,  90  young  and  foitonate,  to  pen — ^that  the 

VOL.  XXXVII,— 23. 


longs  to  see  a  familiar  face  about  her,  and  if 
^e  would  spare  you  to  her  for  awhile  she 
would  be  glad,  more  than  glad — thankful." 

"O  father,  you  will ! — you  can — you  know 
you  can.  You  won't  miss  me  much  for  awhile, 
and  if  she  wants  me  so — " 

"You  ought  to  go,"  added  my  &ther  for 
me. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  I  said ;  "  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  Let  us  think  about  the  matter,  Letty,"  said 
my  father.  "  We  will  not  act  rashly  even  for 
Buth.  We  must  do  nothing  we  should  have 
to  be  sorry  for  after." 

"  How  could  my  going  to  stay  with  her  for  a 
time  make  any  of  us  sorry,  papa?  I  am  sure 
it  would  do  me  a  very  great  deal  of  good.  You 
could  do  without  me,  too.  You  said  the  other 
morning  I  was  getting  quite  a  torment.  Do 
let  me  go." 

I  had  crept  dose  to  his  side,  the  better  to 
coax  him,  turning  from  Aunt  Janet  quite.  I 
felt  instinctively  she  was  not  in  favor  of  the 
plan ;  her  words  proved  that  I  was  right 

She  had  sat  down  to  pour  tea  out  without  a^ 
word,  but  when  I  ceased  speaking  she  looked 
up  gravely. 

"John,"  said  she,  "it  will  be  a  risk." 

"  I  think  not,  Janet ;  I  hope  not ;  for  some- 
thing in  this  letter — ^a  nameless  something — 
seems  to  urge  me  to  let  her  go.  Buth  seems 
strangely  lonely  for  a  wife.  It  might  do  them 
both  good." 

'"  I  think  not,  John,"  said  Aunt  Janet  "  It 
is  my  belief  the  girl  woald  never  iettle  here 
after." 

"  Aunt  Janet,  that  is  unkind ;  it  is  cruel  of 
you,"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me,  but  she  did  not  answer  my 
passionate  interruption. 

"Their  life  is  difierent  from  our  life,  John- 
brighter,  fuller,  emptier,  too,"  she  added,  a  lit- 
tle bitterly,  I  thought  "  What  if  it  should 
spoil  oor  girl  ?" 

My  fiither  pat  his  hand  on  my  head,  and, 
with  one  of  his  rare,  tender  smiles,  looked  down 
kindly  into  my  teaivdinmied  eyes. 

"Our  Letty  is  not  so  easily  spoiled,"  said  he« 
"  I  oonld  trust  to  her  coming  back  my  own  lit- 
tle girl,  after  all.  You  may  trust  her,  too, 
Janet." 

"Indeed  she  may,  &ther,"  I  said.    " I  never 


(323) 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


824 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


oould  forget  my  own  home,  wherever  I  went,  or 
whatever  1  saw," 

"  And  you  would  greatly  desire  to  go  on  this 
vigit,  Leity  ?" 

He  read  my  answer  in  my  face  ere  I  could 
speak  it,  and  smiled  a  little  sadly  at  my  eager 
longing  to  roam. 

'*  Then  go  you  shall/'  he  said ;  and  so  it  was^  J 
settled.    If  it  had  not  been  so,  then  this  story 
had  never  been  written. 

Now  I  must  tell  yon  a  little  about  Cousin 
Buth,  and  how  it  was  that  I  was  so  eager  to  go 
to  her,  apart  froni  my  wish  to  see  London, 
apart  from  everything  except  my  longing,  in- 
tense and  deep,  to  see  her  fair  face  again 

Ruth  was  the  only  living  child  of  my 
mother's  only  sister ;  and,  ever  since  I  could 
remember,  her  name  had  been  the  emblem  of  , 
all  that  was  beautiful,  and  good,  and  gentle  in 
onr  quiet  home.  She  had  lived  with  qb  for  a 
little  while;  then  she  had  married  and  gone 
away  to  her  grand  new  home,  leaving  a  void  in 
my  heart  which  nothing  had  been  able  to  fill. 
She  married  a  rich  man,  a  Mr.  Rupert  Ray,  a 
tall,  handsome,  grave-faced  man,  with  a  deep 
voice,  and  eyes  keen,  gray,  and  piercing,  that 
seemed  to  look  into  your  inmost  thoughts.  He 
was  one  of  the  merchai>t  princes  of  the  great 
Cottonopolis — a  man  who^  though  yoang,  w] 
looked  up  to  in  the  city,  and  well  sfioken  of; 
more — trusted  in  by  men  older,  wealthier,  obore 
experienced  than  himself. 

From  the  day  I  had  seen  Ruth  looking  so 
shy  and  delicate  in  her  pretty  travelling  dress, 
I  thought  of  her  always  as  one  of  the  happiest 
and  must  fortunate  women  I  had  ever  known. 
How  could  I  doubt  it?  Young,  beaatiful,  rich, 
it  was  not  possible  she  could  be  anything  but 
happy.  Of  her  husband  I  rafely  thought; 
whenever  I  did,  it  was  with  wonder  that  Rath 
should  love  him  and  marry  him.  He  seemed 
^im  and  harsh  in  my  eyes,  not  fitted  to  win  a 
woman's  heart — ^and  such  a  woman  as  Ruth, 
above  all  others.  When  I  said  so  to  Aunt 
.Janet,  she  shook  her  head  and  sighed,  saying 
that  when  I  was  wiser  and  older,  and  knew  as 
.much  of  the  world  as  she  did,  I  should  think 
I  that  Jir.  Ray  was  a  very  good  husband  for  her ; 
indeed,  farjricher,  grander,  higher  in  every  way 
.than  our  Ruth,  a  penniless  orphan,  might  have 
looked  ibr. 

I  .was  silenced,  bat  not  convinced.  I  did  not 
like  my  new  Cousin  Rupert  Ray.  When  I  saw 
.him  in  his  stately  home  I  liked  him  less  still. 
He. was  ever  oourteoas  and  polite,  never  oordial 
.or  friendly ;  even  to  his  wife  he  was  reserved 
andjcx>ld.    It  seemed  ih6  nature  of  the  man. 


I  no  longer  wondered  why  Rath  had  so 
wearied  for  a  familiar  &ce  to  look  upon.  She 
told  me  on  the  day  of  my  arrival,  with  tean 
standing  thick  in  her  beaatiful  eyes,  that  it  did 
her  good  to  have  me  with  her ;  and  I  believed 
her.  That  she  was  in  want  of  some  one  oi 
something  to  cheer  her,  I  ooold  see  at  a  glance. 
Her  bright  temper  was  gone;  she  was  dream; 
and  qnie(>  and  the  laugh  that  used  to  ring  out 
so  clearly  I  never  heard  now.  When  she  wai 
gay,  it  was  not  an  easy  gayety.  Her  mirth 
died  out,  suddenly  as  it  camei^into  half«oirow- 
fol  quiet.  If  possible,  she  was  more  beautifiil 
than  ever,  and,  seeing  her,  I  wondered  more 
and  more  how  she  came  to  marry  Rupert  Ray. 

*'  Yoa  have  sprang  up  into  quite  a  shy  littls 
coantry  girl,"  she  said,  holding  my  face  between 
her  jewelled  hands,  and  smiling  into  it.  "I 
must  give  you  a  peep  into  life,  now  that  I  have 
yoa  here.  Do  you  know,  little  Letty,  that  yoo 
are  quite  pretty  7  I  shall  see  you  spring  into 
a  belle  before  I  send  you  home  to  Aunt  Jane^ 
I  have  no  doubt." 

*'  No,"  I  said,  '*  that  yoo  never  will.  No  one 
could  think  me  pretty  near  you." 

She  smiled  at  my  earnest  oompliment,  and 
sat  down  to  examine  the  pile  of  cards  and  let- 
ters that,  as  I  afterwards  came  to  know,  daily 
littered  her  table. 

My  cousin  was  sought  after  in  society. ;  pe<^6 
who  would  never  have  noticed  her  husband, 
cared  to  know  the  sweet-faoed  little  wife ;  so  she 
came  to  be  quite  a  lashionable  woman,  praised, 
petted,  and  sought  after.  I  don't  think  she 
much  cared  for  it  all ;  but  when  her  husband 
was  away,  as  he  often  was,  looking  after  his 
business  in  Cottonopolis^  she  felt  lonely,  and  so 
went  into  company  for  a  change. 

Through  the  spring  and  summer,  the  quickly 
following  gayeties  took  up  her  time  and 
thoughts.  From  one  scene  of  amusement  to 
another  she  whirled  me,  until  I  began  to  th^^ 
that  the  quiet  days  in  my  own  lowly  home  had 
not  been  so  very  miserable  after  all,  and  to 
wonder  if  their  peace  and  calm  were  not  prefer 
able  to  tliis  glare  and  glitter,  that  had  no  shade, 
no  «nd.  Sometimes  I  begged  to  be  left  to  my- 
self, if  only  for  one  quiet  evening ;  but  Buth 
wonld  not  hear  of  it. 

"These  people,"  she  said,  "are  as  much 
strangers  to  me  as  to  you,  Letty,  though  their 
nanses  are  on  my  visiting  list^  and  th^  call 
themselves  my  friends.  I  need  you  to  help  me 
to  endure  them." 

Then  I  began  to  see  with  clearer  eyes,  and  to 


know  that  my  fotitone-favored  couatn 


was  net 


happy.    Jn  the  centre  of  a  troop  of  friend^  •'»® 
Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BUTE   BAT'8    CONFESSION. 


325 


alone ;  the  eovied  leader  of  her  set,  she  herself 
bad  no  strong  arm  to  rest  npon.  Her  life  wa^ 
barren  in  the  midst  of  its  luxury.  The  gloss 
and  the  shine  were  only  sarfiice  deep ;  under- 
neath it  was  empty,  in  spite  of  its  seeming 
fulness,  even  as  Aunt  Janet  hinted  it  might  be. 

Bapert  Bay  came  less  frequently  than  ever  to 
itay  at  his  grand  London  home.  "  Business/' 
he  said,  ''must  be  attended  to."  And,  to  judge 
by  the  time  he  devoted  to  it,  it  was. 

Buth  never  asked  him  to  stay.  They  were 
quite  a  fashionable  couple ;  as  polite  as  stran- 
gers to  each  other — nothing  more.  They  cer* 
tainly  wore  the  shackles  of  the  married  life  in 
the  style  of  the  best  soeiety. 

Sometimes  I  fancied  tbat  this  grave  man 
made  her  fear  him  somewhat  by  his  very 
gravity.  If  this  be  a  good  husband,  I  thought 
to  myself  then  I  hope  I  may  get  a  bad  one. 

Late  in  August  a  new  whim  came  into  Buth's 
head.    She  would  go  back  home  to  Manchester. 

**  I  am  tired  of  London,''  she  said—"  tired  of 
all  the  people  I  know  here.  You  are  coming 
with  me,  Letty.  Your  father  writes  yon  may 
stay  as  long  as  you  will.  Aunt  Janet  puts  in  a 
line  to  say  that  she  hopes  to  see  yon  safe  at 
home  before  this  month  is  out;  bat  we'll  never 
mind  Aunt  Janet*  You'll  come  with  me,"  she 
said ;  and  I  was  quite  content 

Day  by  day  I  loved  Buth  better.  The 
knowledge  that  her  life  was  not  all  bright,  as  I 
bad  pictared  it,  made  me  cherish  her  the 
more;  and  day  by  day  I  saw  how  much,  how 
sorely  she  needed  some  one  to  love  her,  and  in 
wbom  she  might  wholly  trust. 

*'  She  seems  strangely  lonely  for  a  wife,"  my 
father  had  said,  reading  her  letter.  What 
woold  he  have  said,  I  often  thought,  could  he 
limTe  read  her  life  as  I  was  reading  it  ? 

We  left  London  at  once,  as  she  wished,  and 
when  we  reached  onr  journey's  end  we  ibund 
the  master  of  the  house  about  to  leave  it.  He 
was  going  into  Germany.  "  He  might  be  home 
at  the  end  of  a  month,"  he  said ;  '^  but  it  would 
poesibly  be  three  months  before  he  retorned. 
He  hoped  we  sboold  be  comfortable,  and  eojoy 
oorselves  doriog  his  absence." 

Bath's  face  was  very  pale.  The  long  jour* 
nej  had  tired  her;  but  as  she  listened  to  the 
giave^  measured,  icy  words  that  met  her  on 
the  very  threshold  of  her  home,  a  tiny  orim- 
•on  spot  leaped  out  on  each  cheek,  and  grew 
and  grew  till  her  face  flamed  scarlet.  She 
made  him  some  answer  which  I  did  not  hear, 
and  passed  up  to  her  own  room  quickly,  her 
head  erect^  her  step  firm,  all  trace  of  wearir 
gone  from  her.    Was  she  glad  or  sorry, 


angry  or  only  indifferent,  as  she  seemed  ?  I 
could  not  answer  that  question  any  more  than 
I  could  many  others  that  rose  in  my  heart  at 
that  time. 

Bupert  Bay  went  to  Germany,  and  his  wife 
and  I  had  the  grand,  gloomy  house  all  to  our- 
selves. No  visitors  were  admitted  to  the  pres- 
ence of  its  wayward  young  mistress.  She  had 
ordered  it  so.  The  restlessness  that  had  so 
possessed  her  in  London  had  all  gone  now.  I 
scarcely  knew  her  in  this  new  mood.  She  was 
gentle,  passive,  sad  almost  at  times.  She 
seemed  tired  of  everything,  her  own  thoughts 
above  all.  Truly  she  was  lonely  I  It  made 
my  heart  ache  to  see  her. 

So  the  sultry  days  dragged  on,  then  the  long 
August  days,  till  they  melted  into  September, 
and  then  October,  and  still  the  master  of  the 
house  was  away.  Occasionally  a  short  letter 
came ;  often  she  heard,  through  the  partner  in 
the  firm,  where  he  was  and  what  he  was  doing ; 
but  with  all,  there  was  no  mention  of  his  com- 
ing home.  The  three  months  he  had  said  he 
"  might  be  away,"  passed  slowly,  and  still  he 
did  not  come.  Then  the  weariness  of  living 
seemed  more  than  Buth  could  bear.  She 
grew  thin  and  wan ;  she  could  not  laugh  now 
if  she  would,  and  the  restless  pain  in  her  beau- 
tiful eyes  haunted  me.  I  began  to  be  more 
than  sorry  for  her — I  was  afraid. 

When  I  asked  Both  if  she  felt  iU,  she  said : 
"No,"  and  laughed  at  my  troubled  face.  And 
once,  when  I  hinted  it  Kould  be  well  for  her 
to  write  and  tell  her  husband  she  was  not  feel- 
ing so  strong,  she  turned  upon  me  almost 
fiercely,  saying :  ''  I  will  do  no  such  thing  I-— 
why  should  1 7  When  his  work  is  done  he 
will  come  home." 

I  said  no  more,  but  I  longed  daily  to  see 
him  come,  as  I  once  thought  I  never  could 
have  longed  to  see  his  grave,  stem  fiioe. 

November  had  set  in,  drear  and  chill,  when 
one  day  we  were  startled  out  of  our  quiet  by 
the  arrival  of  my  Aunt  Janet.  She  came  in 
one  morning  early,  looking  as  calm  and  still 
as  though  she  had  just  stepped  across  the  street 
to  see  us  both. 

''I  am  come  to  fetch  this  rebellious  child 
back  again,"  she  said.  "  You  cannot  need  her 
any  longer  now  you  are  at  home." 

Buth  had  started  up  and  flung  her  arms 
about  my  aunt's  neck,  in  her  glad  surprise, 
and  thus  the  two  women  stood  and  looked  at 
each  other  for  an  instant  in  silence;  then, 
with  a  little  sharp  cry,  Buth  broke  into  a  sud- 
den pasBion  of  tears.  I  was  too  frightened  to 
say  one  word,  too  frightened  to  stir  almost    I 


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ARTHUR'S   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE, 


had  never  seen  her  like  this  before.  My  aunt's 
face,  that  had  slowly  doaded,  and  was  grave 
and  troubled  now,  frightened  me  still  more. 

"  Get  ready  and  go  to  Mrs.  Hill,  Letty,"  she 
said.  "  Tell  her  I  will  stay  here,  and  she  can 
send  my  things  over  some  time  to-day.  Go 
at  once,  or  she  will  be  getting  her  rooms 
ready." 

Mrs.  Hill  was  an  old  friend  of  my  aunt's 
with  whom  she  had  always  stayed  during  her 
former  brief  visits  to  Manchester.  I  wondered 
much  that  she  was  not  going  to  stay  there  now, 
but  I  said  nothing. 

I  went  at  once  as  directed,  for  I  saw  I  was 
not  wanted  where  I  ¥ras,  and  my  eyes  filled 
with  tears  to  think  that  Ruth  had  some  trou- 
ble in  which  I  might  not  comfort  her.  >Vhen 
I  came  back  I  found  her  calm  again,  almoHt 
cheerful,  and  my  aunt  settled  as  comfortably 
as  though  she  had  lived  in  that  stately,  gloomy 
house  all  her  life. 

That  day  week  Mr.  Ray  came  home. 
Whether  his  wife  was  glad  or  sorry  to  see  him, 
none  could  say.  The  time  was  past  now  when 
gay  words,  smiles,  or  laughter  were  expected 
from  her.  Should  we  ever  look  for  them  again  ? 
Sometimes  a  terrible  fear  would  smite  me  that 
we  never  need. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Come  out  of  the  shadows,  Letty,  and  dry 
your  eyes,"  said  Rnt^.    "  See,  mine  are  dry." 

'  O  Ruth  I"  I  sobbed  as  I  crept>  shivering,  to 
the  rug  at  her  feet.  "It  is  not  true;  Dr. 
Baylis  is  mistaken.    I  cannot  believe  it." 

Her  hand  rested  foudly  on  my  bowed  head 
for  an  instant,  ere  she  answered. 

"  If  Dr.  Baylis  could  be  mistaken,  I  could 
not,  Letty.    I  have  known  this  for  months." 

i  dried  the  tears  from  my  eyes  the  better  to 
look  up  at  her. 

"You  have  known  itf  I  repeated.  "How 
could  yon  have  known  it?  You  do  not  look 
very  ill  even  now." 

"No;  I  shall  not  look  'very  ill,'  I  expect, 
when  I  lie  in  my  coffin.  For  awhile  after  peo- 
ple will  go  on  wondering  what  it  could  be  that 
killed  me  so  suddenly  in  the  flush  of  my  youth; 
but  the  comfort  is,  Letty,  they  will  none  of 
them  guess  that ;  no,  not  even  my  husband." 

She  spoke  softly,  more  to  herself  than  to  me. 
She  seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply  of  some 
matter  as  she  sat  there,  her  fingers  tightly 
locked  together,  gazing  intently  into  the  bias- 
ing coals,  utterly  forgetful  of  me  and  of  my 
sorrow. 


On  the  very  day  of  his  return  Rupert  Ray 
brought  a  physician,  a  man  fiuned  in  his  pro- 
fession and  out  of  it,  to  see  his  wife.  Ruth, 
looking  in  the  great  man's  face  with  her  clear 
eyes  untroubled,  bade  him  tell  her  openly  his 
opinion  of  her  case. 

"  It  will  not  shock  me,"  she  said  to  him, 
simply,  "  whatever  it  may  be.  I  only  want  to 
hear  the  truth.  Let  me  hear  the  whole  truth, 
if  you  please." 

The  whole  truth  was  that  she  was  dying. 

How  her  husband  bore  the  blow  I  neither 
knew  nor  asked.  His  voice,  as  I  heard  him 
bid  Dr.  Baylis  "  good-by  "  in  the  hall,  was  firm 
and  clear  as  it  had  ever  been.  When  the 
carriage  had  rolled  away,  I,  still  listening, 
heard  his  study  door  sharply  looked,  and  then 
all  was  silent 

To  me  the  news  was  like  the  wrenching 
asunder  of  my  own  heartstrings.  The  bitter^ 
nesa  of  the  pain  was  changing  me  from  a 
restless  girl  into  a  quiet  woman  as  I  sat  there. 

"She  may  live  a  year,"  Dr.  Baylis  had  said, 
in  his  melodious  professional  voice,  that  was 
harsher  in  my  ears  than  the  clang  of  iron, "  or 
she  may  die  before  morning.  Her  life  has 
been  wasting  away  for  some  considerable 
time — I  could  almost  think  for  years.  Now  it 
has  oome  to  be  the  matter  of  a  abort  spaoe^ 
more  or  less,  and  then-»" 

He  did  not  speak  out  the  harsh  truth  again. 
Perhaps  bethought  the  grave-faced  man  before 
him  might  not  be  able  to  bear  its  repetition.  ly 
however,  thought  him  capable  of  bearing 
anything  that  touched  not  himself  too  closely. 

The  evening  shadows  gathered  round  uo, 
wrapped  us  in  and  about,  till  the  little  spot  on 
which  we  sat  was  the  only  patch  of  light  in 
the  mass  of  surrounding  blackness — heavy 
November  darkness,  that  brought  no  stars. 
Ruth,  rousing  from  her  revery,  was  the  first  to 
break  the  silence. 

"  How  dark  the  room  is^  Letty  I  Surely  it 
cannot  be  night  already  1" 

I  rose  hastily,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a 
blaxe,  making  the  flames  leap  up.  Then  I  feU 
my  way  slowly  through  the  daiknces,  to  draw 
the  curtains  across  the  windows  before  light- 
ing the  gas.  I  did  not  care  to  ring  for  it  to  be 
lit,  as  usual.  I  felt  we  were  both  better  uo- 
distorbed*    Ruth  stayed  me. 

"There  is  something  I  should  like  io  teU 
you  to-night,  Letty,  and  I  can  talk  best  in  the 
dark." 

Then  I  sat  down  again  on  the  rog  •*  ^^ 
ffeet,  and  prepared  to  listen.  When  she  spoke, 
I  knew  her  thoughts  were  in  the  pw^  ^^  * 


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RUTH   RATS    CONFESSION, 


327 


memory  thrilled  me  of  how  the  soul,  when  it 
nears  iU  journey's  end,  often  travels  back  to 
that  joarney's  beginning.  I  had  heard  more 
than  one  person  say  this,  and  I  thought  of  it 
now  with  a  pang.     * 

"  You  never  knew  my  father,  Letty ;  but  your 
Aunt  Janet  could  tell  you  that  he  was  one  of 
the  kindest  men  that  ever  lived,  and  one  of  the 
most  generous,  I  think.  I  was  not  his  only 
child,  but  I  was  his  darling.  He  had  one 
other,  a  son,  but  he  scarce  knew  where  he  was, 
whose  conduct  was  the  trouble  of  his  life,  and 
whom  I  had '  never  seen  since  I  was  a  little 
baby.  He  never  came  home,  but  he  wrote 
often,  and  every  letter  had  the  one  burden — 
money.  Though  I  was  little  more  than  a  girl, 
I  grew  to  shudder  at  the  postman's  knock,  and 
dread  the  sight  of  my  brother's  writing  more 
tlian  I  dreaded  anything  else. 

**  One  morning  my  father  came  out  into  the 
garden  to  me,  carrying  one  of  these  ill-fated 
letters  open  in  his  hand.  His  face  was  very  pale 
and  gray — ashen  gray — and  his  lips  trembled. 
It  seemed  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  speak, 
and  his  voice  sounded  strangely  harsh  and 
husky. 

" '  The  money  your  mother  left  you,  the  few 
hundreds  I  relied  on  to  keep  want  from  you 
when  I  shall  be  gone,  could  you  give  them  up 
to  me  to-day,  Ruth,  if  I  were  to  ask  you  for 
them?' 

"  *  I  could  give  up  my  life  to-day,  father,  if 
it  would  save  you  pain,'  I  said. 

"He  laid  his  hand^-an  old  man's  hand  it 
was  that  day — on  my  head,  and  blessed  me 
softly,  looking  at  me  with  eyes  dim  with  tears. 

"  *  1  would  never  touch  one  penny  of  your 
little  all,  child,  but  to  save  our  name  from  dis- 
grace.' 

"He  spoke  sternly,  and  I  saw  something 
terrible  had  happened,  but  I  asked  no  ques- 
tions, and  he  told  me  little  more. 

**  My  money  was  drawn  out  from  the  funds 
and  sent  to  my  brother.  I  knew  it  was  to  him, 
though  my  father  never  said  so  openly.  Three 
thousand  pounds  of  borrowed  money  went 
with  it.  And  from  that  miserable  day  we  were 
in  debt.  I  only  knew  that  the  loan  had  been 
a  stem  necessity,  and  that  the  name  of  our 
creditor  was  Bupert  Bay.     , 

"Often  and  often,  while  my  father  and  I 
talked  over  our  difficulties — for  we  were  not 
rich,  and  the  payment  of  this  money  hampered 
08  greatly — I  have  sat  and  pictured  the  man 
who  held  us  in  his  grasp,  so  to  speak  ;  for  we 
were  proud,  and  the  chain  of  debt  galled  us 
both  more  than  either  would  have  owned  to 


the  other.  Always  in  my  dreams  he  was  old, 
and  ugly,  and  harsh,  ill-bred,  and  vulgar;  and 
I  sighed  for  the  day  to  come,  when,  our  debt 
paid,  his  name  need  trouble  us  no  more. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  hate  a  person 
whom  you  have  never  seen,  Letty  ? — to  loathe 
the  sound  of  his  name — the  very  mention  of 
his  existence?  I  don't  suppose  you  do;  but 
that  was  the  hate  with  which  I  hated  Rupert 
Ray." 

The  words  were  spoken  clearly,  almost  loud- 
ly, and  I  looked  up,  half  doubting  if  this  bit- 
ter, defiant  woman  could  be  my  tender  cousin 
Ruth. 

"  We  never  had  a  trouble  until  that  miser- 
able time,"  she  said ;  "  not  a  real  trouble,  that 
is.  We  had  our  difficulties,  our  pressing  cares 
often,  but  I  have  since  learned  that  those  were 
not  troubles. 

"  One  day  a  foreign  letter  came  to  us,  deep- 
ly edged  with  black.  It  was  directed  in  a 
stranger's  hand ;  and  at  first  my  father  doubted 
if  it  were  for  us.  But  within  was  a  blurred 
and  blotted  note  from  my  brother,  telling  us 
that  he  was  dying,  humbly  praying  my  father 
to  forgive  him  for  the  pain  and  the  trouble  he 
had  brought  him  all  his  life  long. 

"  An  enclosed  and  longer  letter  from  a  friend 
of  his,  who,  it  seemed,  had  been  very  kind  to 
him  through  his  brief  illness,  told  us  all  about 
his  death,  and  that  he  was  buried  in  a  corner 
of  the  little  Protestant  cemetery  at  Boulogn. 
They  had  put  a  tablet  above  him,  too^  with  his 
name  and  age,  so  that  if  ever  we  went  there 
we  should  be  able  to.  pick  out  his  grave  from 
among  the  stranger's  mounds. 

"  We  mourned  for  him,  as  was  natural ;  but 
I  think  my  father's  heart  was  more  at  rest 
from  that  day.  He  felt  almost  thankful,  I 
think,  at  times,  to  know  that  the  fevered,  sinful 
life  was  over  —  that  the  prodigal  was  gone 
home. 

"  So  the  weeks  and  the  months  passed  quietly 
over  us  till  my  father  died — sickened  and  died 
suddenly,  without  warning  of  any  kind. 

"On  that  terrible  day,  as  I  stood  and  saw 
them  lay  his  white  face  back  on  the  pillow,  I 
neither  sobbed  nor  cried.  The  life  froze  at 
my  heart,  the  sight  left  my  eyes,  and  I  fell  on 
the  bed  in  a  fit.  For  days  I  lay  as  one  dead, 
and  when  I  came  to  myself  it  was  to  find  that 
my  father  was  buried. 

"  I  cannot  bear  even  now  to  think  of  that 
awful  time.  For  weeks  I  saw  no  one  but  old 
Lizzie,  our  faithful  servant.  Friends  called 
with  kind  words,  begging  to  be  let  into  my 
room ;  but  I  would  not  see  them.     Your  father 

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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


had  not  come  to  me  then,  and  I  sat  alone  and 
battled  with  my  sorrow  as  best  I  could.  I  was 
like  one  dazed ;  and  through  all,  my  heart  was 
hard  and  cold,  it  lay  like  a  stone  in  mj  breast ; 
and  I  told  myself  often  in  my  bitter  pain  it 
would  be  well  if  I  too  was  at  rest,  under  the 
sods  by  the  side  of  my  father ;  for  that,  whether 
I  died  or  lived,  there  was  no  one  in  the  world 
to  care  for  me  now  he  was  gone. 

''  One  day  Lizzie  came  up  with  an  important 
face,  bringing  a  card,  with  the  message  that  a 
'gentleman  on  business  from  Manchester  would 
be  glad  of  a  few  moments'  interyiew.' 

'* '  Rupert  Ray*  was  the  name  on  the  card. 
Holding  it  in  my  hand,  I  knew  well  who  my 
visitor  was,  and  what  his  business  would  be. 
I  knew,  too,  that  the  roof  which  covered  me, 
the  little  strip  of  lawn  before  the  door,  white 
with  the  first  snow-fall,  the  belt  of  trees  at  its 
foot ;  all  these  things  which  we  had  been  wont 
to  call  ours,  were  mortgaged  to  this  man,  and 
belonged  to  our  name  no  more.  Yet  I  did  not 
dream  of  avoiding  the  interview,  now  that  he 
had  sought  it  of  me. 

"  Without  one  flutter  of  fear,  I  went  down  to 
the  parlor,  where  he  was  waiting  for  me.  The 
shadow  of  the  grave  was  over  me;  I  could 
know  no  deeper  blackness ;  the  pain  at  my  heart 
could  be  no  keener,  let  what  would  come.  So 
I  thought  then.  I  dare  say  I  looked  very 
ghastly  and  wan  in  my  long  black  dress ;  for 
when  the  tall  gentleman,  who  stood  warming 
his  hands  by  the  fire,  saw  me,  he  seemed  to 
repent  of  his  errand.  He  apologized  for  his 
early  call.  'Another  day  would  be  perhaps 
more  suitable,  and  he  could  wait.'  But  I  would 
hear  of  no  delay.  I  told  him  I  knew  the  debt 
we  owed  him,  and  that  it  was  my  intention  to 
pay  it  off  in  full. 

**  *  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware,'  said  he, '  that, 
to  do  so,  this  house  and  furniture  would  have 
to  go?  However,  we  will  let  the  matter  rest 
for  the  present.  In  a  month  or  two  we  will 
see  what  arrangements  can  be  made.  It  is  not 
my  wish  to  inconvenience  yon  in  any  way.' 

"  He  rose  to  go,  but  I  stayed  him. 

'"I  would  prefer  everything  to  be  settled 
now,'  I  said. 

,  "He  was  Yerj  different  from  what  I  had 
pictured  him,  very  different,  but  with  all  I 
could  not  take  a  favor  at  his  hands." 

The  light  from  the  fire  flickered  and  fell ;  as 
it  sank,  the  shadows  crept  closer  and  denser 
round  us;  the  roll  of  carriages  on  the  road 
below  seemed  a  sound  from  another  world. 
The  diamond  brooch  at  my  cousin's  throat 
shone  like  a  watchful  human  eye,  with  each 


heavy  breath  she  drew.  When  she  ceased 
speaking,  the  silence  in  the  house  beat  upon 
my  ear  more  painfully  than  any  sound  could 
have  done. 

''Do  you  know,  Letty,"  she  said,  a  litth 
while  after,  opening  her  eyes,  and  looking 
down  on  me,  "  I  have  often  and  often  wished 
since  that  he  had  taken  me  at  my  word ;  bai 
he  was  not  to  be  moved  from  his  resolve ;  hi 
went  away,  and  left  me  still  his  debtor  in  mj 
old  home. 

"  Four  months  after  that  he  came  to  yon; 
father's  house,  where  I  was  staying,  and  askec 
me  to  be  his  wife.  Your  iath^  was  not  a  riel 
man  then,  Letty,  any  more  than  he  is  now. 
knew  I  was  welcome  as  his  own  child,  yet  ] 
knew,  too,  that  he  could  ill  afford  to  keep  m< 
a  burden  at  hi«  fireside ;  so  I  told  Bapert  Ba; 
I  would  be  his  wife. 

"  What  else  could  I  do?  He  was  rich,  am 
honorable,  and  true-hearted,  I  do  believe ;  aD< 
yet  what  did  it  all  avail,  when  I  hated  him  a 
I  hated  no  other  living  creature  ?" 

Her  fikce  was  white  now,  and  the  hard  line 
that  no  one  suspected  of  lying  there  stood  od 
rigid  and  blue  about  her  dainty  mouth.  Th 
struggle  and  the  pain  of  that  past  time  wer 
in  her  heart,  and  my  own  ached  as  I  watcher 
her. 

"  I  felt  that  my  father  might  have  been  liv 
ing  if  this  man  had  been  a  generous  creditoi 
but  he  was  not  He  was  harsh,  exacting,  piti 
less — business-like,  men  of  the  world  migfa 
call  it — and  the  fear  of  him  ate  into  my  father* 
life,  and  sapped  his  strength  away. 

"The  night  before  I  married  him  I  told  hii 
this — that  the  memory  of  it  would  stand  b€ 
tween  him  and  love  of  mine  for  ever  and  evei 
did  we  two  live  till  the  world  was  old.  I  ha 
sickened  over  my  promise  by  that  time,  an 
wanted  to  draw  back— but  he  would  not  let  m< 
I  do  think  he  must  have  loved  me,  Letty,  eU 
my  bitter,  stinging  words  would  have  drive 
him  away  from  me  forever.  They,  howevej 
did  not,  and  1  really  think  he  then  loved  mi 
in  his  own  peculiar  way." 

She  seemed  to  take  a  strange  sort  of  pleasur 
in  remembering  that,  and  in  trying  to  convinc 
herself  or  me  (which  was  it?)  that  it  was  tra( 
Looking  at  her^as  she  lay  back  in  hereas 
chair,  I,  too,  believed  that  he  must  have  love 
her  then.  She  was  not  a  "  fine  woman,"  as  th 
phrase  goes — far  from  it  She  was  little^  an 
slender,  and  fragile-looking  as  a  bent  lily.  He 
grave,  fathomless  eyes,  usually  so  cool  and  stil 
were  fiashing  and  restless  to-night,  under  th 
lash  of  these  .old  memories ;  and  her  montl 

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829 


witli  ita  sensitive  scarlet  lips,  fresh  and  tender 
as  a  child's,  had  a  grieved  quiver  round  it  as 
alM  ]bj  there  thinking.  She  had  a  low,  full 
hffow—the  hrow  of  a  poet  and  a  dreamer,  and 
thick,  heavy  lashee,  dark  and  long,  that  swept 
her  dieeks  when  the  eyelids  drooped,  as  they 
were  doing  now,  so  wearily.  Her  hair,  a  deep 
bronied  brown,  was  pushed  off  from  her  face> 
and  over  her  little  ears,  as  though  its  rippling 
wealth  oppressed  her ;  and,  sittting  looking  at 
her,  with  the  violet  velvet  cushion  of  her  loung- 
ing chair  for  a  back-ground,  the  blackness  of  < 
the  early  night  framing  her  in,  as  it  were,  I 
thought  no  earthly  eyes  had  ever  seen  a  more 
ezqaiaite  picture. 

I  heard  the  clocks  in  the  house  cliime  nine, 
and  then  a  quarter-past,  and  she  still  sat  silent. 
I  was  very  still,  too.  I  sat,  staring  blankly 
into  the  gloom  that  filled  the  rest  of  the  room 
like  a  presence,  trying  to  realize  the  time,  so 
near,  it  might  be,  when  this  fair  face  and  sunny 
hair  would  be  gathered  away  from  my  sight 
forever. 

It  seemed,  as  I  had  cried  out  in  my  first 
shiurp  pain,  that  this  oould  not  be  true.  She 
WSB  ao  fref«h,  so  fiiir,  so  free  from  any  outward 
token  of  decay,  that  death,  as  applied  to  her, 
saemtfd  only  a  terrible,  ghastly  word  that  had 
no  meaning.  If  she  was  dying  slowly  but 
sorely,  as  the  physician  had  said,  I  could  not 
see  it.  All  I  knew  was  that  my  darling  was 
joong;  and  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  that  to 
see  her  slipping,  £uiing  from  me^  was  more 
thmn  I  could  bear. 

**  There,"  she  said,  abruptly,  just  as  I  had 
bc^pui  to  think  Mhe  slept,  "  you  are  crying  again. 
Child,  child  I  you  will  break  my  heart  with 
yoor  tears.    Why  will  you  ?" 

'*  I  cannot  help  it,*'  I  s&id«  when  I  oould 
speak.  "O  RuthI  I  feel  as  if  my  heart  must 
break." 

''Ah,  but  it  won't,  Letty.  Sorrow  rarely 
breaks  the  heart  at  one  sharp  wrench,  or  I 
should  have  been  sleeping  under  the  grass  long 
ago.  I  am  not  the  one  to  cry  for,  Letty.  If  I 
were  a%ved  wife  and  mother  you  might  weep 
then ;  but  to  me  death  will  be  a  blessing,  and 
Hfe  is  a  weariness  too  great  to  bear." 

I  knew  she  had  grieved  sorely  when  her 
baby  had  been  carried  out  in  its  tiny  coffin ; 
hot  I  never  dreamed  that  the  wound  was  so 
deep  and  new,  as  her  bitter,  fast-failing  tears 
showed  me  it  must  be. 

''When  my  boy  lay  dying,"  she  said,  "I 
prayed  for  his  life  as  only  those  can  pray  who 
feel  they  are  losing  all  they  have  to  love  and 
ding  to  in  the  wide,  desolate  earth.    My  prayer 


was  not  granted — my  darling  was  taken.  The 
night  he  lay  in  my  arms,  stiff  and  white,  with 
the  awful  beauty  that  comes  only  after  death, 
on  his  baby  fece,  I  felt  I  oould  not  live  long 
after  him.  I  could  have  told  you  then  what 
Dr.  Baylis  has  told  you  to-day,  and  I  could  tell 
you  the  reason,  which  he  could  not — I  had 
nothing  to  live  for." 

**0  Buthl"  I  said,  "you  had  your  hus- 
band." 

"  My  husband  I"  she  replied.  "  Have  I  not 
told  you  I  bated  him  the  day  I  married  him  ? 
Perhaps  I  hate  him  even  now.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  do.  Whenever  I  wanted  to  learn  to 
love  him  I  knew  he  would  not  let  me.  You 
are  young,  Letty ;  as  yet  your  life  is  full  of  lov- 
ing faces ;  but  if  ever  you  are  left  so  tliat  you 
have  to  listen  dumbly  for  a  loving  word,  and 
never  hear  it,  you  will  know  a  little  of  the  ach- 
ing want  that  has  been  eating  my  heart  out 
through  all  these  weary  years." 

Her  face  seemed  stiffening  as  she  spoke;  my 
heart  thrilled  at  the  awful  change  that  had 
crept  into  it^  and  I  sprang  to  my  feet  in  dismay. 
As  I  did  so,  a  step  sounded  near,  and  Rupert 
Ray  came  forward  into  the  circle  of  light  from 
the  fire,  stood  out  at  once  like  a  ghost  from 
among  the  shadows,  and  I  did  not  even  wonder 
that  he  should  be  there. 

**  You  have  let  her  talk  too  much  to-night" 

That  was  all  be  said;  then  he  stooped  and 
lifting  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  out  into  the 
hall,  and  up  to  her  own  room,  as  if  she  had 
been  an  infant ;  and  I  followed,  the  tears  frozen 
at  my  heart  by  sudden,  terrible,  overmaster- 
ing fear.  Were  Dr.  Baylis's  fateful  words 
about  to  become  true?  Was  she  to  die  ere 
morning  7 


CHAPTER  III. 

We  laid  her  down  in  her  death-like  faint, 
and  sent  for  Dr.  Baylis ;  an  hour  later  he  was 
standing  by  her  bediude,  watch  in  band,  count- 
ing her  puke  with  face|;rave  and  inscrutable. 

"She  has  been  disturbed,  excited,"  he  said. 
^  1  warned  you  she  was  not  able  to  bear  it." 

He  looked  at  her  husband,  as  though  to 
charge  him  with  the  neglect,  but  he  did  not  see 
the  look,  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  the  words 
even.  He  was  standing  mute  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  his  clasped  hands  resting  on  the  carved 
board,  his  eyes  bent  on  his  wile's  white  face. 

After  some  time — a  time  that  to  me  seemed 
hours  long — the  hands  I  was  chafing  closed  on 
mine  with  a  little  feeble  pressure;  then  her 
eyes  slowly  opened,  but  only  to  close  again 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


8d0 


ARTEVB'8   LADT'8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


wearily.    The  doctor,  watchiDg  keenly,  Beemed 
relieved. 

"  She  has  recovered  from  the  faint  now/'  he 
said.  "  All  I  can  recommend  is  alienee — perfect 
silence  and  rest.  Keep  her  lips  moist  with 
wine,  and  let  her  sleep  as  long  as  she  will.  I 
will  come  again  in  the  morning." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  many  calls  on  his  time,  and  went  down 
to  his  carriage  attended  hy  Rupert  Ray. 

AVhen  the  carriage  wheels  had  rolled  away 
into  the  stillness  and  fog  of  the  November  night, 
my  Cousin  Rupert  came  softly  back  and  stood 
at  his  former  post,  in  his  former  position  almost, 
save  that  now  his  head  was  more  bent,  as  be- 
neath a  weight  of  sudden  grief,  and  his  face 
was  as  white  as  the  still  face  he  watched  so 
earnestly.  I  feared  to  stir.  He  never  moved ; 
and  so  the  hours  slipped  by  us,  faint-hearted 
watchers,  in  that  weary  room. 

lAter  on,  when  the  night  was  almost  gone, 
in  that  awful  silent  hour  that  comes  before  the 
dawn,  when  the  darkness  was  a  thing  to  be  felt 
and  no  pulse  or  stir  spoke  of  life  in  the  world, 
a  sudden  fear  fell  on  my  heart,  and  I  looked 
silently  with  blanched  face  at  the  quite  mute 
figure  keeping  watch,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
Ruth  was  dying  in  her  sleep,  slipping  from  us 
in  that  awful  silence  without  sign  or  token. 
He  read  my  look,  or  else  his  own  heart  felt  the 
fear,  for  he  bent  above  her,  trembling.  I  put 
my  hands  to  my  lips  to  force  back  my  terrified 
cries ;  yet  neither  spoke ;  no  speech  was  needed ; 
we  understood  each  other  all  too  well.  The 
shaded  lamp  threw  a  dull  gray  light  on  her 
quiet  face,  and  the  heavy  shadows  of  pain  lay 
thick  upon  it.  So  we  stood  breathlessly  watch- 
ing, very  cowards  in  our  love  and  fear. 

Slowly,  as  it  seemed  with  the  growing  day, 
the  ashen  hue  left  her  face,  and  its  rigid  lines 
softened.     My  heart  leaped  gladly  up. 

"She  is  not  worse,"  I  said;  and  for  that  I 
was  thankful. 

Her  husband  stole  back  to  his  place,  looking  \ 
old  and  haggard,  I  eovld  not  but  see,  with  his 
long  night  vigil.  She  had  been  ordered  rest 
and  quiet,  so  we  watched  patiently  on.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  convulsive  start,  when  he  least 
expected  it,  her  large  eyes  opened. 

"  Where  is  my  husband  ?"  she  asked. 

He  came  forward  at  the  unlooked-for  call, 
and  bent  over  her ;  then,  with  one  glance  at  hia 
face,  changed  and  marked  through  strong  emo- 
tion, she  stretched  out  her  feeble  hands  to  meet 
his,  yearningly,  whispering  softly  to  him  in  her 
low,  faint  voice. 

"At  last,  Ruth  I — my  own  loyc  I — my  wife  I" 


he  cried ;  and  in  the  sudden  flnsh  of  joy,  break- 
ing like  a  blessed  light  over  his  stern  iaoe  w 
his  soul  went  out  in  that  passionate  cry,  I  aaw 
my  Cousin  Rupert  in  a  new  character,  and 
knew  how  cnielly  I  had  misjudged  him. 

I  stole  softly  ont,  leaving  them  alone  with 
their  new-found  joy,  my  heart  throbbing  with 
thanks  all  too  deep  for  words  for  this  great 
good,  which  I  looked  upon  already  almost  as  a 
granted  blessing. 

"She  will  not  die— she  will  not  dieP'  so  I 
told  myself  over  and  over  again  in  my  over- 
whelming joy  and  gratitude,  as  I  stood  by  my 
window  and  watched  the  pale  pink  and  opal 
dyes  deepening  in  t)ie  gray  sky,  till  at  last,  as 
I  stood  there,  all  the  east  grew  aflame  with 
crimson. 

And  I  waa  right— the  Angel  of  Death  had 
turned  aside  from  our  darling,  called  back,  ere 
his  work  was  done,  by  that  same  tender,  all- 
pitying,  all-powerful  voice,  that  of  old  bade  the 
dead  arise. 

Once  more  I  was  at  home.  It  was  spring 
again,  and  the  gardener  was  busy  among  the 
flowers  as  he  was  on  that  past  spring  morning 
when  I  had  stood  looking  out  at  him,  so  weary 
and  listless.  But  this  spring  all  was  different 
I  was  weary  and  listless  no  longer,  nor  waa  I 
alone,  as  before;  Cousin  Ruth  waa  with  me — 
Ruth,  our  darling,  our  household  treasure,  whom 
we  had  been  so  tenderly  and  carefully  nursing 
back  to  life  during  the  past  three  months ;  and 
not  Ruth  only,  but  Cousin  Rupert  also.  He  had 
left  his  counting-house  and  warehouses  to  the 
care  of  others,  and  come  down  to  our  quiet 
house  to  keep  his  young  wife  company.  He 
no  longer  urged  that  "business  must  be  at- 
tended to  f*  and  Ruth,  a  very  tyrant  in  her 
new-found  power,  would  not  have  listened  to 
him  if  he  had. 

Standing  there  in  the  sunshine,  with  the 
breeze  from  the  hills  coming  to  us,  and  the 
sweet,  subtile  scent  of  the  honeysuckle  and 
jasmine  stealing  up  from  their  nooks  by  the 
brook-side,  we  two,  Ruth  and  I,  stood  and 
talked  of  the  day  her  letter  of  invitation  came 
to  me ;  and  after  a  little  while  we  talked,  too, 
of  the  events  which  had  followed  it. 

"Do  you  know,  Letty,"  she  said,  "poor 
Rupert  heard  all  the  hard  things  I  said  of  him 
in  my  blind  pain  that  night?  But  he  has  foi^ 
given  me  for  every  one  of  them,"  she  added, 
softly.  "All  our  married  life  we  had  been 
like  strangers  to  each  other,  cold  and  proud; 
but  now  all  that  is  over  and  done  with  foreves 
We  know  each  other  at  last." 


Digitized  by  ^^OOQ IC 


TO    ALICE. 


331 


Her  face  brightened  with  its  old  radiant 
smile ;  and  Rupert  Bay,  coming  into  the  room 
at  that  moment,  saw  it,  and  smiled  back,  as  I 
had  used  to  think  he  never  could  have  smiled. 

"  No  more  confessions,  Ruth,"  he  said. 

She  blushed  rosily,  as  any  shj  girl  might, 
and  half  sighed  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

**  I  have  no  more  to  make,  Rupert,"  she  re- 
plied,  "  except  that  I  have  been  very  blind  all 
these  years,  and  verj  thankless." 

Blind  and  thankless  I  From  how  many 
hearts  among  us  might  not  the  same  cry  arise? 
Blind  we  too  often  are  to  the  great  joys  lying 
at  cor  feet;  thankless,  cruelly  thankless,  for 
the  love  and  the  care  and  the  full  heart-store 
lavished  upon  us.  It  would  be  well  for  us  if 
our  plea  were  always  met  by  the  same  loving- 
kindness  and  patient  long-suffering,  strong  to 
endure  and  to  forgive,  that  our  Ruth  read  in 
her  grave- faced  husband's  eyes  that  day. 

When  our  charge  was  over  and  done  with, 
and  Ruth  was  looking  her  bright  self  again, 
the  two,  husband  and  wife  in  heart  as  well  as 
in  nature  now,  left  us  and  went  back  to  their 
citv  homA.  Then  the  little  gray  stone  house 
fell  back  into  its  accustomed  quiet 

Beading  the  merry,  piquant  letter,  brimful 
of  joy  and  content,  that  Ruth  sent  to  us  on  her 
arrival  at  home,  my  fiither  pushed  his  glasses 
bade  and  looked  at  my  Aunt  Janet. 

"  Bid  I  not  tell  you,  Jenny,  it  would  do  Ruth 
good  to  have  Letty  with  her?  Something 
seemed  urging  me  to  let  the  child  go,  and  I 
am  thankful  now,  more  than  words  could  tell; 
that  I  yielded  to  it." 

''Still,  John,  as  I  said  then  I  say  now — it 
was  a  risk." 

"Letty  has  come  back  to  us ;  our  own  Letty 
■till,  Janet." 

"She  might  not  have  done  so." 

"Might  not,"  said  my  father,  thoughtfully. 
"Oar  lives  are  ever  full  of  those  mysterious 
'  might  nots '  and  '  might  have  beens.'  Let  us 
be  thankful  that  things  are  as  they  are.  We 
have  our  own  girl  here — unchanged." 

Was  I?  No:  the  same  girl  I  never  could 
be— never  had  been,  from  the  time  that  a  cer- 
tain pair  of  blue  eyes  and  a  tangle  of  fair 
golden  hair  stole  my  heart  away  during  those 
quiet  days  that  I  kept  Ruth  company  in  her 
grand  city  home.  The  world  called  the  owner 
of  the  blue  eyes  and  the  fair  curls,  Gordon 
Shaw,  partner  in  my  Ck>U8in  Ruperf  s  business; 
but  I  called  him — my  love.  My  own  he  was, 
and  I  knew  it.  I  knew,  too,  that  a  long  letter 
was  shortly  coming  to  tell  my  father  all  about 
it.    And  when  the  letter  came,  and  immedi- 


ately after  the  letter  the  writer  of  it,  eager  to 
enforce  his  claim,  my  father,  as  usual,  looked 
to.Ant  Janet  for  counsel  in  the  emergency; 
and  I  looked,  too,  expecting  not  counsel  but 
reproof. 

We  got  neither ;  only  my  quiet,  stately  aunt 
seemed  to  lose  her  voice  for  a  second,  as  she 
softly  smoothed  my  hot  cheeks,  and  smiled  on 
me  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  She  must  have  left  us  some  day,  John ;  I 
think  she  has  chosen  well,"  she  said,  when  the 
mist  had  cleared  and  her  Usual  calm  had  come 
back  to  her. 

Gordon  bowed  gratefully  over  her  offered 
hand,  while  I  loved  her  more  than  ever,  if  that 
were  possible.  And  thus  the  greatest  and  most 
blessed  change  of  my  life  came  to  me,  for  Gor- 
don and  I  were  engaged,  and  the  restless  long- 
ing of  my  heart  was  stilled  forever.  I  no  longer 
asked  to  roam ;  I  no  longer  wearied  for  gayety. 
I  was  content  to  stay  in  my  home  and  wait — 
wait  with  glad  hope  for  the  time  when  I  should 
have  one  of  my  own,  with  Gordon  Shaw  for  its 
head  and  master. 

Often,  sitting  dreaming  in  the  quiet,  my 
thoughts  would  go  back  to  that  November 
night,  when  I  listened,  in  wondering  silence,  to 
Ruth*s  sttange  story.  Out  of  those  thoughts 
strong  lessons  and  warnings  rose,  that  my  heart 
did  not  fail  to  cherish.  Dangerous  places 
showed  out  clearly  in  the  light  of  her  bitter 
experience ;  pitfalls,  that  had  wellnigh  proved 
fatal  to  her  feet,  shone  as  lights  before  mine- 
so  that  through  all  my  life  I  think  I  shall  have 
cause  to  be  thankful  that  ever  I  heard  "  Ruth 
Rat's  Confession." 


TO  ALICE. 

BT  MART  B.  M'MILLAN. 

DEAR  Alice,  I  wonder  if  thongh'ts  like  mine 
E'er  come  to  raffle  your  calm  life's  joys  ? 
Do  yon  ever  sigh  for  a  vaniabed  smile? 
Do  yoa  ever  weep  for  a  silent  voice  ? 

Our  steps  that  mingled  together  once, 

Now  lie  in  widely  different  ways; 
But  thought  is  a»  frtt  at  the  air,  you  knotc — 

Say !  think  you  ever  of  other  days  ? 

Thoee  days  were  Mm«/u/— and  yet,  ah !  me, 

How  many  that  loved  us  then  are  true  t 
(Thoee  "over  the  river"  watch  over  ua yet) 
But.  of  those  that  are  limngt  say,  Alice,  are  tou? 

^:«?o« 

It  is  better  to  sow  a  young  heart  with  gener- 
ous thoughts  and  deeds  than  a  field  with  coid, 
since  the  heart's  harvest  is  perpetual. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BY  PITBI881WAT  P0TT8. 


No.  IV. 


AQIBL  friend  of  mine,  Ljd.  Maaon,  a  wide- 
awake, enthusiastic  Methodist,  coaxed  me 
to  pat  our  bay  mare  Humbug  in  their  new 
top>carriage,  last  (all,  and  go  with  her  to  attend 
the  Northern  Ohio  Conference. 

Now  Lyd.  can  go  to  such  meetings  and  eigoj 
them  as  much  as  men  do.  She  undentands 
all  about  resolutions,  and  motions,  and  amend- 
ments, and  amendments  to  amendments,  and 
all  these  things  tliat  are  not  housewifely  and 
common  to  women.  A  touching  little  incident 
occurred  while  there  that  I  shall  never  forget. 

There  were  two  men,  both  D.D.'s,  desiring 
the  presidency  of  a  university.  Both  wanted 
it  in  a  modest  way.  The  younger,  a  meek,  fair- 
fiiced,  pure  man,  on  whom  it  seemed  God  had 
set  his  seal  of  suffering,  rose^  and  presented 
his  claims  in  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  way. 

His  opponent,  a  large,  rosy,  portly  man,  of 
remarkably  fine  physique,  then  arose,  and  pre- 
sented his  claims. 

Although  hb  words  were  fair  and  glozing, 
and  rather  kind,  the  poison  of  asps  was  on  his 
tongue.  Each  one  had  his  friends,  and  they 
pushed  forward  the  claims  of  their  respective 


At  last,  the  elder  one  grew  personal.  With- 
out a  moment's  warning,  and  before  the  good 
old  gray-haired  Bishop  could  raise  his  hand  or 
his  voice,  he  tore  away,  as  though  it  were  a 
mere  drapery,  the  covering  and  the  privacy, 
and  his  brother's  poor,  sad,  ill-starred  life  was 
exposed  to  view. 

He  held  k  up,  a  hideous  thing.  It  was 
quickly  done,  but  we  all  saw  it,  and  for  an 
instant  shuddered  at  the  sight. 

We  looked  at  the  victim— the  grace  of  God 
was  given  him  abundantly  in  that  moment. 
He  was  as  pale  as  though  his  heart  stood  still 
and  cold ;  his  white  hands  nervously  worked 
together,  as  the  dying  man  clutches  at  the  bed- 
clothes and  grasps  at  nothingness;  anon  his 
cold  fingers  would  thread  the  silken  lengths  of 
his  beard,  then  aimlessly  gather  up  the  curly 
hair  that  was  pushed  away  firom  his  pallid 
brow.  His  gray  eyes  were  blue  as  steel,  and 
his  lips  dry  and  parted.  I  could  see  them 
move,  even  as  the  Ups  of  the  dying  move  after 
speech  has  gone  from  them  forever.  Oh,  it 
was  Y&ry  sad ! 
(332) 


Suddenly  the  Bishop  rose,  gray-haired,  aD< 
graceful,  and  benign,  and  beautiful  beyond  tb 
mere  pink-and-white  and  healthful  flush  c 
youth,  or  of  manhood,  and  the  wave  of  hi 
hand  had  an  eloquence  in  it  that  was  mor 
powerful  than  the  thunder  or  the  magnetiu 
of  the  orator  who  holds  the  audience  as  it  wei 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  We  feared  lest  tb 
injured  man  should  rise  and  retort — he  seeme 
so  set  apart  of  God,  that  we  feared  lest  h 
would  prove  too  human  and  rise,  and  the  hal 
would  fade  away  like  a  vapor.  His  signet  & 
from  the  deeply  chiselled  white  face,  and  tfa 
man  human  would  stand  in  the  place  of  th 
man  triumphant,  sanctified,  canonized. 

This  thought,  or  fear,  must  have  been  unj 
venal  in  the  audience,  for  it  outspoke  just  the 
— ^the  thought  assumed  a  tangible  form ;  for  a 
old  man,  tottering  and  gray,  with  a  face  almof 
saintly,  rose  from  his  seat  at  the  farther  end  ( 
the  church,  and  leaning  on  his  stafi*,  tren 
blingly  and  slowly  walked  the  length  of  th 
long  aisle,  and  reaching  out  his  old  hs&( 
grasped  that  of  the  injured  friend,  and  held  i 
long,  and  shook  it  warmly  and  tenderly.  H 
spoke  not  a  Word.  The  spell,  and  horror,  ao 
chill  that  had  frozen  the  blood  of  the  poQ 
brother  was  gone.  They  looked  into  eac 
other's  eyes,  and  the  victim  of  slander  sa^ 
there  that  he  was  beloved,  trusted,  vindicate* 
and  believed.  The  vote  was  called  for  iBim< 
d lately — a  rising  vote.  Which  sliall  be  th 
honored  President  of University  ? 

There  was  a  rustling  and  a  shuffling  > 
through  the  house,  as  though  the  congregatic 
were  rising  to  sing 

** Praise  Ood,  from  whom  all  Uesslogt  flow; 
but  it  was  to  give  the  overwhelming  vote  i 
favor  of  the  "Oiild  of  the  Conference^-th 
noble  young  man  who  had  set  aside  wealth,  an 
honor,  and  fame,  and  the  world's  applause,  an 
the  preferences  of  his  parents,  to  go  forth  a  poc 
Methodist  minister,  to  "preach  Christ  and  hii 
crucified."  Perhaps  the  opponent  reowve 
half  a  dozen  votes. 

The  newly  elected  president  arose,  and  in^ 
low  voice  thanked  the  Conference  for  the  k^ 
x^esB  and  love  and  trust  given  him.  The  wee* 
ness  of  the  blessed  Saviour  was  in  the  few  word 
he  spoke. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


OTHER    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS, 


I  looked  aronnd  at  Ljd.,  and  her  eyes  were 
foil  of  laoghter. 

"  Why,  MiflB  Potts,  w^t  did  yoo  mean  ?"  she 
Bsid;  ''women  don't  vote;  they  am't  allowed 
to;  and  here  jou'ye  been  standing  up  as  tall 
and  as  straight  as  a  poplar,  voting  with  the 
Oooference  I  Oh,  mj,  what  shall  I  do,  I  am 
10  diverted  T'  and  she  held  her  head  down  and 
itafed  her  month  full  of  handkerchief  while 
she  shook  with  suppressed  laughter.  ''Dear 
me  I  Pipsey,  daughter  of  Deaoon  Potts,  an  ont- 
■nd-oot,  square-toed  Baptkt,  getting  up  and 
voting  right  among  the  learned,  wise^  sedate 
members  of  Conference  I" 

"Did  I  vote,  reaUy,  Lyd.?"  said  I,  rubbing 
my  eyes  with  my  fists,  as  though  I  had  been 
ideep,  or  absent  from  the  flesh.  "  Well,  I  can- 
not help  it  now.  I  was  so  excited  that  I  had 
bo  do  something.  If  Fd  not  effervesced  in  that 
way,  maybe  Td  hurrahed,  or  swung  my  cotton 
umbrella,  or  tossed  up  my  silk  calash  with  the 
feOow  daisies  in  it,  or  did  something  a  great 
deal  worse.  But  for  fear  they  take  me  to  task 
br  it,  let  us  start  home  before  the  services 
cioeew"  So  we  had  a  man  hurry  and  hitch  up 
Emnbug,  and  our  -  top-carriage  wheels  were 
bamining  homewards  in  less  than  twenty  min- 


Lyd.  promised  never  to  tell  the  Deacon,  and 
be^ll  never  know  of  my  transgression,  unless  he 
reads  it  in  the  "Baptist  Banner,"  and  that  Is 
the  most  unlikely  thing  in  the  world. 

I  had  to  tell  grandma  all  about  the  proceed- 
ingBy  and  how  the  Bishop  appeared,  and  the 
heads  of  the  sermons^  and  of  the  music,  and 
everything ;  but  I  was  very  careful  to  leave  out 
aboat  my  standing  up  among  the  preachers 
and  voting.  She  told  me  I  must  lay  aside  my 
slaie-coiored  allipack  dress,  and  not  wear  it 
again  until  I  went  to  Baptist  Association ;  that 
likely  I  would  see  Deaoon  Skiles  there,  and 
■be  wanted  I  should  be  appearing  well ;  that 
the  deacon  was  a  likely,  well-to-do  man,  hon- 
ei*  and  pious,  and  a  rale  good  provider,  and  I 
would  be  lucky  if  he  chose  me  for  to  fill  the 
place  of  his  deceased  pardner. 

The  hot  blood  flew  over  my  fiu^,  and  I  could 
feel  it  just  the  same  as  when  I  peep  into  the 
OQt-door  oven  to  see  if  the  loaves  are  baking; 
but  I  said  not  a  word  of  all  that  was  in  my  heart. 

Poor  old  grandma  would  think  a  woman 
honored  if  she  could  be  the  lawful  wife  of  a 
man  who  kept  for  her  eight  Alderney  cows, 
and  allowed  her  to  do  all  the  milking,  skim- 
ming, scalding,  and  churning,  and  then — gen- 
6C0US  husband— permit  her  to  have  half  the 
profits. 


**  That  is  the  prettiest  sun-bonnet  I've  seen 
this  many  a  day,"  I  said  to  the  children  as  I 
saw  a  lady  closing  the  gate  after  l^er,  and  then 
rest  her  elbow  on  the  post  and  stand  and  look 
at  the  picturesque  clump  of  native  trees  just 
below  the  house  at  the  turn  of  the  road. 

It  was  a  brown-and-white,  small-checked, 
gingham  bonnet,  with  raised  cords  run  in  it,  a 
full  cape,  and  ties  of  the  same  fastened  in  a 
bow-knot  behind. 

'*  I  wonder  who  she  is?"  said  Ida;  but  just 
then  she  turned  round,  and  who  should  it  be 
but  Cousin  Barbara,  wife  of  young  Stephen 
Tucker  Stump,  who  lives  over  at  Taylor's  mill. 
She  looked  very  sweet  and  clean,  and  I  saw 
the  rosiness — ^the  result  of  the  brush  and  sponge 
and  sweet-scented  toilet  soap — was  lingering 
about  her  yet  But,  woman  fashion,  she  had 
washed,  and  re-washed  her  fece,  and  bathed 
her  eyes,  to  take  away  the  traces  of  a  good  cry. 
But  I  am  too  old  a  woman  to  be  deceived  thus; 
and  I  felt  a  little  tremor  quivering  in  my  voice 
as  I  tried  to  say  cheerily,  ''This  is  glorious 
weather  that  we  are  having,  Bab;  how  the 
October  lingers,  and  lingers!  and  the  leaves 
are  so  green,  and  golden,  and  flamy,  and  beau- 
tiful, and  the  flowers  make  one  as  glad  as  they 
did  in  July  I  How  are  your  flowers  ?  Is  your 
ever-blooming  rose  as  pretty  as  ever?" 

Oh,  in  my  efibrts  to  make  her  glad,  and  to 
foiget  the  tears  of  an  hour  before,  I  had  torn 
open  the  very  hurt  that  I  was  trying  not  to 
touch! 

She  leaned  her  arms  on  the  table  beside  her, 
buried  her  face  in  them,  and  boohoo'd  right  out 
in  a  full-sized,  painful,  agonising  cry. 

"Why  Barbara  Stump!"  said  I;  "did  you 
come  all  the  way  over  to  Cousin  Pip's  just  to 
take  a  good  storm  of  a  cry,  you  poor  thing? 
Don't  now.  Barbie ;  come  1  I  just  knew,  as  soon 
as  I  saw  your  bright,  clean  face,  that  you'd  been 
indulging  in  a  bit  of  womanly  recreation ;  so 
there  now,  dear !  Well,  bawl  it  out,  if  you  must, 
ha,  ha  I"  and  I  tried  to  laugh  patronizingly,  as  I 
smoothed  her  light-brown  braids,  and  patted 
her  shoulders.  "  Deary  me,  I  don't  know  what 
we  women  would  do  if  we  hadn't  the  luxury  of 
tears  now  and  then !" 

Her  sobs  grew  fiurther  and  ferther  apart,  and 
at  last  she  turned  her  head  over  sideways,  and 
eatchingherbreath,  said:  "Tucker— he-^'  I 
leaned  forward  and  put  my  hand  over  her 
mouth,  and  shook  my  head,  saying,  "  My  dear 
coz,  if  there's  anything  serious  at  all  betweeii 
you  and  your  husband,  why  pUaae  don't  tell 
me.  Why  I  am  an  old  maid,  Pipsey  Potts, 
and  would  make  the  very  worst  kind  of  a 


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834 


ARTHUR'S   LADTS   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


confidant,  dont  yon  see?  Husband  forsooth  I  < 
I  wouldn't  know  when  they  did  right  or  wrong; 
wouldn't  know  how  to  manage  one  of  'em; 
couldn't  guess  when  to  praise  and  when  to 
blame,  when  to  pet  or  when  to  scold,  how  to 
feed,  or  advise,  or  counsel,  or  drive,  or  coax,  or 
manage. 

''  Then  a  wife,  I  think,  should  never  tell  any 
one  but  her  Heavenly  Father  of  her  own  trou- 
bles and  disappointments,  and  the  trials  inci- 
dent to  married  life." 

Bab's  eyes  were  twinkling  by  this  time, 
despite  the  red  swollen  lids,  and  the  red  nobby 
nose,  and  the  purple  of  her  cheeks ;  she  began 
to  look  real  pretty  and  happy,  and  the  dimples 
dotted  her  chin  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
and  at  last  she  said :  **  I  declare  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed,  coming  over  here  to  Uncle  Adoni- 
jah's,  and  sitting  right  down  and  giving  you  a 
free  entertainment,  without  being  invited,  too." 
Then  we  all  laughed  together,  Ida,  and  Lily, 
and  Bab,  and  I. 

"  Well,  now  the  shower  is  over,  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is.  You  see.  Tucker  wants  to  make 
his  last  payment  on  the  saw-mill  next  spring, 
and  he  depends  on  selling  a  lot  of  fat  hogs  in 
March.  He  has  twenty-six  pigs  of  all  sizes, 
from  those  that  would  weigh  one  hundred  and 
seventy,  down  to  little  thin  fellows,  three  months 
old.  He  says  there  is  nothing  better  for  them 
than  to  let  them  run  out,  and  root,  and  dig,  and 
have  their  liberty,  until  it  is  time  to  begin  to 
feed  them  for  winter.  80  he  turned  them  out, 
and  they  rooted  down  the  front  gate,  and  all 
came  into  the  yard  this  forenoon,  and  rooted 
up  into  heaps  all  the  pretty  green  sod  in  the 
front  yard.  They  laid  bare  the  roots  of  the 
roses,  and  lilies,  and  dahlias,  and  peonies,  and 
just  tumbled  everything  up  like  a  lot  of  chil- 
dren would  feather  beds,  and  pillows,  and 
bolsters. 

''  The  winding  path  in  the  front  yard,  that 
the  preacher  said  was  poetry  itself,  is  as  com- 
pletely gone  as  is  the  old  meadow  path  in 
which  I  used  to  walk  to  school  ten  years  ago. 

''  Oh,  I  did  feel  so  sorry  I  I  sat  right  down 
on  the  stone  steps  in  the  path,  and  howled  like 
a  poor  dog.  I  thought  of  the  toil  I  had  put  there, 
the  digging,  and  shovelling,  and  the  carrying 
of  sod  and  placing  it,  and  the  watering  of  the 
plants  and  flowers,  and  of  my  poor  hard  black 
hands  that  had  become  homy  in  using  the 
mattock,  and  shovel,  and  wheelbarrow,  and  I 
did  feel  as  though  I  had  been  shamefully 
treated.  And  then  to  make  it  worse.  Tucker 
heard  me  crying,  and  came  to  the  house  scared, 
and  called  me  a  dunce  and  a  big  booby  i    Pos- 


itively, if  Indiana  had  been  no  farther  1 
than  uncle's,  I  do  believe  I  would  have 
over  there  and  applied  for  a  divorce.  To 
said  I  might  just  as  weli  take  it  coolly  as  i 
that  Ihe  grass  would  grow  again ;  just  as  thi 
he  could  make  me  believe  that  that  tumble 
grass-plat  would  take  root^  and  grow  sdq 
and  pretty  again."  Here  her  voice  quiv< 
and  I  feared  another  flow  of  bitter  tears.  \ 
yery  aorry  for  Barbara.  Oh,  I  told  her  how  c 
I  remembered  when  I  was  a  blooming  gi 
seventeen,  how  my  poor  heart  went  00 
worshipful  admiration  to  the  flowers— hoi 
thusiastically  I  did  love  tliem,  and  h< 
starved  for  their  tender  ministry,  but  it 
sternly  denied  me.  I  never  wept  sadder 
than  I  did  once,  when,  in  my  lonely  p 
walls,  the  third  story  of  a  bare,  bleak  log  h 
walking  for  months  backward  and  fbrwaj 
the  monotonous  spinning-wheel,  I  glance 
at  my  windows,  and  saw  the  strong  men 
vines  that  festooned  them  drooping  and  wi 
I  hurriedly  looked  down  to  the  ground, 
saw  the  white  sides  of  a  half  doien  pigs 
placently  turned  up  to  the  sunshine,  as 
slept  in  among  the  damp  roots  they  hsd 
out  and  killed. 

My  one  joy  and  .delight  was  gone,  my 
was  lacerated,  and  I  lay  down  with  my  f« 
the  floor  and  cried  bitterly.  There  would 
been  a  grain  of  comfort  had  the  words,  " 
sorry  for  you,"  been  spoken  feelingly ;  but 
moderate  laughter  only  greeted  me.  Poor 
baral  I  said  to  her,  ''We  women  can 
great  trials  like  heroes ;  we  can  sufier,  an 
strong  and  brave ;  we  can  endure  as  mu( 
wild  Indians,  and  not  falter ;  we  can  up 
strong  men  when  they  break  down,  and  s 
weak  as  children ;  we  can  lead  them  01 
trials,  and  difficulties,  and  litigation,  and 
reasonable  anger,  and  malice,  into  sunnj 
leys,  and  almost  make  saints  of  them.  V 
they  are  perplexed  and  know  not  which 
to  turn,  we  solve  their  difficulties  for  them 
point  the  right  way;  we  make  them  i 
manly,  and  noble,  and  unselfish ;  and  yetf 
not  go  out  of  our  own  sphere  to  do  this ;  n 
not  take  one  step  out  of  our  way. 

"  We  can  bear  pain,  and  loss,  and  pov 
and  bereavement,  and  sorrows  untold ;  cr 
heavier  than  man's  strong  shoulders  c 
carry  ;  taunts,  and  unkind  alluBions,  and  h 
words  from  those  who  may  not  understai 
appreciate  us;  motives  may  be  attributed  1 
that  our  true  natures  would  scorn— all 
and  more — and  yet  how  weakly  we  bear 
loss  of  a  favorite  flower,  or  a  pet  canai; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ON    THE   SHORE. 


335 


ne  little  fiincy  of  oun,  that  cpmes  near  to 
r  finest  sensibilities  I 

^I  am  often  ashamed  of  mjself,  so  strong, 
t  so  weak.  Manj  a  time  when  a  great  little 
TOW  like  jours  comes  right  up  in  mj  face, 
i  meets  me  fairly  in  combat,  I  square  myself  \ 
1  think  a  minute,  and  say : '  Oh,  it  does  hurt ; 
un  so  hurt  I  but  in  one  year,  or  two  years 
m  this  time,  there  will  not  be  a  trace  of  it. 
m  it  orerwhelms  me— covers  me — fights  me 
e  an  aaeaasin  ;  but  it  will  pass  away,  as  passes 
s  circles  in  the  still  water  when  I  drop  down 
iny  pebble ;  it  will  go  away  and  leave  no 
loe,  no  more  than  does  the  echo  that  answers 
r  voice  from  yon  high  hill-top.' 
'*  Then  I  sing  Old  Hundred,  or  Coronation. 
China,  or  some  of  those  grand  old  jubilant 
mns  as  I  go  about  my  work,  and  they  lift  me 
,  buoyantly  as  liils  the  wild  sea  waves  the 
[ht  shallop  that  tosses  on  its  surface.*' 
Barbara's  face  pot  on  a  sweet,  subdued  ex- 
ession,  and  I  told  her  to  cariy  all  this  homely ' 
ilosophy  of  her  Cousin  Pip's  home  with  her, 
d  if  Hbe  could  use  any  of  it,  to  do  so.  I  know 
no  better  way,  in  my  groping  blindness, 
m  this  odd  line  I  have  marked  out  for  my- 
[(  and  found  good  enough  to  recommend  to 
iiers. 

Ida  came  in  just  then  very  opportunely,  with 
eap  of  tea,  and  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter 
r  Cousin  Barbara;  and  she  went  home  feeling 
preat  deal  better  than  when  she  came. 
I  have  learned  one  thing,  and  that  is,  if  an 
il  or  an  annoyance  comes  upon  me,  and  it 
nnot  be  set  aside,  to  try  and  bear  it  cheerfully, 
id  not  fret,  and  fuss,  and  make  the  trouble 
a  times  harder  to  be  borne;  but  such  reason- 
g  is  difficult  to  be  understood  by  one  young 
d  impatient  and  enthusiastic.  The  world  is 
U  of  women  like  poor  Cousin  Barbara. 


EvEBT  man  builds  his  own  house ;  builds 
many-chambered,  fresh-ventilated,  picture- 
ing,  vine-wreathed,  guest-full ;  or  low-pent, 
ire-wall,  flowerless,  inhospitable — just  in  ac- 
^rdance  with  his  inner  nature.  Precisely  as 
e  internal  force  of  affinity  in  the  mollusk 
ys  hold  of  and  aggregates  round  itself  the 
le  lime  particles  in  the  sea- water,  so  does  the 
temal  force  in  the  human  soul  lay  hold 
and  aggregate  around  itself  what  it  wants. 


"ON  THE  SHORE." 

BY  ADELAIDE  STOUT. 

"On  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  the  wires  and  chil- 
dren of  the  fishermen  gather  at  sunset,  and  sing  a 
wHd,  sweet  melody,  till  the  answering  notes  come 
floating  orer  the  waves,  telling  that  the  loyed  ones 
are  homeward  bound. 

We  cannot  tell  how  pare  and  glad 

That  blended  song  would  be 
To  those  brav^  Bonis  who  toil  all  day 

In  rowing  on  the  sea ; 
Some  chord  should  answer  in  the  soul 

To  that  sweet  evening  song, 
Some  voice  we  love  be  lifted  there 

Amid  the  gathered  throng. 

Ah,  love  would  thrill  the  weary  heart  I 

Love,  whispering  iofl,  and  low, 
'*  For  thee  one  heart  doth  wait  to-night ! 

With  yearning  thoughts,  I  know." 
0  ye,  whose  voices  blend,  to  night, 

Upon  the  shining  shore. 
We  never  yearned  toward  heavenly  rest  , 

Till  ye  had  passed  before! 

No  answering  chord  within  the  heart 

There  ever,  ever  seemed, 
Till  lipfr  we  loved  had  taken  up 

The  song  of  the  redeemed. 
0  sweet,  glad  thought !  tbey  watch  for  us, 

Toiling  in  rowing  yet  I 
They  see  our  life-barks  cut  the  foam, 

Hard  for  the  haven  set  I 

Beloved,  on  the  heavenly  shore 

How  sweetly  we  are  drawn  ! 
Our  soul  trills  through  fine  chords  to-night, 

To  rifted  notes  of  song ! 
The  sea  of  life  is  still ;  we  drift 

From  every  soul  apart 
How  gladly  !  and  we  strive  to  hush 

The  beating  of  our  heart 

And  leaning  so,  we  list,  and  yearn. 

To  catch  each  rifted  tone, 
More  sweet,  and  faint  than  echoes  are 

Whose  mystic  wings  have  grown 
Aweary;  jet,  however  fkint 

These  waft  fVom  o'er  life's  sea, 
They  touch  our  hearts,  and  so  we  guess 

What  the  new  song  will  be. 


To  repeat  what  you  have  heard  in  social 
intercourse  is  sometimes  a  sad  treachery; 
and  when  it  ia  not  treacherousy  it  ia  often 
foolish. 


CvsBT  person  complains  of  the  badness  of  \ 
m  memory ;  but  none  of  their  defective  judg- 
eot. 


Conceit  is  to  nature  what  paint  is  to  beauty ; 
it  is  not  only  needless,  but  impairs  what  it 
would  improye. 


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WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  LOST. 


BY  HART  ELLA  HURTT. 


"pITRLS,"    said    Joe    Hendernon,    looking 

VT  meditatively  at  a  pile  of  books  lying  on 
the  table  at  her  side,  "  what  a  grand  thing  it 
must  be  to  be  an  authoress ;  I  would  give  all  I 
possessed  in  the  worjd  to  gain  fame  and  literary 
honors." 

We  all  glanced  up  in  surprise  as  Joe  spoke. 
.  There  had  been  a  perfect  silence  for  the  last 
five  minutes,  broken  only  by  the  whispered 
**  One,  two,  three,"  of  Lily  Armbruatar,  who 
was  busily  crocheting  a  gay  zephyr  tidy,  and 
the  scratching  of  a  pen  over  the  paper  as  an- 
other of  the  party  worked  diligently  in  the 
preparation  of  the  morrow's  lessons. 

We  were  a  party  of  six  merry,  light-hearted 
school-girls,  gathered  that  cold  March  night  in 
Mrs.  Lindenmeyer's  comfortable  sitting-room. 
We  were  inseparable  friends,  attending  the 
same  school,  and  living  in  close  proximity  to 
one  another ;  and  scait^ely  an  evening  passed 
without  finding  us  assembled  at  the  house  of 
one  of  the  girls,  each  bringing  with  her  the 
lessons  for  the  next  day,  to  which  we  would 
devote  the  first  hour;  after  these  were  com- 
mitted to  memory,  we  would  have  a  pleasant 
chat,  or  perliaps  a  quiet  game  of  checkers 
or  cribbage;  sometimes  impromptu  charades 
would  be  the  evening's  programme ;  and  a  more 
innocent,  happier  assemblage  of  girls  could 
never  be  found. 

On  this  particular  evening  we  had  all  fin- 
ished our  respective  tasks,  with  the  exception 
of  Mollie  Archer,  whose  pen  was  gliding 
rapidly  across  the  paper  as  she  bent  over  the 
last  page.  Some  of  the  party  were  reading, 
and  the  others  employed  upon  9ome  light  arti- 
cles of  fancy  work. 

Only  one  of  the  group  was  idle ;  this  was 
Kate  Carroll,  who,  curled  snugly  up  in  the 
comer  of  the  lounge,  was  watching  as  with 
half-closed  eyes.  Kate  scorned  the  insinua- 
tion that  she  was  lazy,  and  would  stoutly  de- 
clare that  no  one  accomplished  moce  than  she 
did,  although  she  owned  she  did  like  to  lounge 
a  little  in  the  evening. 

Joe  Henderson,  who  had  uttered  the  sentence 
at  the  beginning  of  our  story,  was  a  slei^der 
girl  of  fourteen,  with  fair  complexion,  almost 
childish  faoe^  and  wry  light  hair,  cut  short,  and 
standing  out  boldly  in  every  direction ;  no  one, 
to  my  knowledge,  ever  saw  it  parted  straight, 
(336) 


and,  as  Kate  Carroll  used  to  say,  "  The  pari 
Joes  hair  looked  as  if  it  had  lost  its  way,  i 
was  travelling  first  in  one  direction  and  U 
in  another."  She  was  clad  in  a  short,  da 
brown  dress,*  with  fi  little  blue  flannel  jac 
thrown  carelessly  around  her.  Any  strani 
to  have  heard  her  words  and  then  glanced 
her  appearance,  would  have  laughed  outrigi 
but  upon  us,  who  considered  Joe  as  an  ora 
on  any  sul^ject,  her  words  created  a  profov 
sensation. 

Lilj  Armbrustar,  the  youngest  of  the  gro 
who  was  seated  on  a  low  stool  at  Joe^s  si 
looked  up  lovingly,  and  said  in  a  sympath< 
tone :  "  Why  don't  you  write  a  book,  then,  J< 
I  know  you  oould ;"  and  she  slid  her  little  ha 
into  Joe's,  and  laid  her  head  upon  her  knee 

Lily  was  a  delicate  child  of  twelve,  as  fra| 
as  the  flower  whose  name  9he  bore,  and  i 
petted  by  every  one.  In  her  eyes,  Joe  wai 
paragon  of  virtue,  and  Lily  was  never  hap 
when  absent  from  her  side. 

Joe  smiled  kindly  down  upon  the  oplifl 
&ce,  and  said  sorrowfully :  '*  I  wish  I  coo 
darllpg ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  my  ambition 
greater  tlian  my  intellect ;  but  if  Lou  Liodi 
meyer  would  try,  I  know  that  she  would  m 
ceed,"  glancing  at  Lou,  who  was  deep  in  i 
mysteries  of  ''  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  a 
too  much  interested  in  the  fate  of  its  lit 
heroine  to  heed  anything  around  her ;  bat 
she  heard  her  name  mentioned,  she  raised  1 
head  and  said  inquiringly : 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me?" 

"Joe  was  saying  that  you  could  write  a  bo 
if  you  would  try,"  explained  Lily. 

"  /  write  a  book  I"  exclaimed  Lou.  "  Wl 
I  would  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world  i 
could  ;  but  it  is  impossible." 

**  Eureka  I"  suddenly  cried  Kate  Carre 
springing  into  an  upright  position,  and  clt 
ping  her  hands  with  delight.  "  I  know  wl 
we  can  do,  girls ;  let  us  alt  try  together,  and  f 
what  kind  of  a  story  we  can  write.  It  could 
nothing  less  than  grand,  with  bo  much  talc 
employed  in  the  production  of  it. 

**  You  know  the  old  saying  about  too  ma 
cooks,"  said  Mollie  Archer,  who,  having  £ 
ished  her  writing,  had  joined  the  circle,  aj 
now  spoke  for  the  first  time^ 

"But,"  persisted  Kate,  eagerly,  "it  would 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


WHAT    TEE   PUBLIO   LOST. 


837 


lie  easiest  thiDg  in  the  world  to  write  a  novel, 
r  ereiy  one  of  as  would  help.  Ohl  wouldn't 
t  be  splendid ;  just  imagine  seeing  it  in  print, 
nd  saying  to  yourself  *'  I  wrote  that." 

"  But  how  would  we  get  it  published  7"  said 
iOOy  thoughtfully ;  '*  would  we  have  it  issued  ! 
1  book  form,  or  would  we  send  it  to  some 
eriodical  ?" 

''Well,  I  incline  to  the  periodical,"  said 
[ate,  after  a  moment's  thought ;  "  because," 
rgumentatively,  ''  it  would  be  very  thrilling, 
f  course,  and  it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  folks 
ead  it,  and  just  as  they  get  to  the  most  inter- 
iting  part,  they  would  find  that  it  was  'To  be 
ontinued.'  Oh  I  vmildnH  they  be  mad?  I 
rould  just  like  to  see  them  about  that  time." 
Lnd  madcap  Kate  fairly  bounced  up  and  down 
ipon  the  lounge,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  glee. 
'  Yes,  it  certainly  must  be  either  a  magazine 
ir  a  newspaper." 

"  Wm  it  be  very  long,"  asked  Lily,  with 
park  ling  eyes. 

"Oil,  my,  yes !"  said  Kate;  "you  don't  sup-^ \ 
lose  that  six  heads  combined  would  write  a 
kort  story  I    What  do  you  say  to  my  proposal, 
jxlsr 

"  I  can  answer  only  for  myself,"  said  Lou ; 
'  but  I  think  it  is  a  capital  idea." 

"And  I,"  "and  I,"  echoed  Mollie  and  Lily. 

"  I  would  be  as  much  pleased  as  you  are  with 
he  idea,  if  I  thought  we  would  succeed"  said 
roe ;  "  but  as  dearly  as  I  would  love  to  be  an 
lathoress,  still  I  fear  none  of  us  have  the  re- 
[oisite  talent  to  undertake  such  a  difficult  task, 
is  I  know  this  would  be." 

"Difficult!"  said  Kate,  scornfully ;  "why  it 
roald  be  m^e  child's  play.  The  combined 
sflbrts  of  six  intelligent  girls  not  enough  to 
f  rite  one  novel ;  humph !" 

"  Nell,"  continued  she,  turning  to  me,  "  you 
ire  sitting  there  as  demurely  as  a  QuakercBS ; 
rhat  is  your  opinion  of  our  project?" 

"I  think,"  said  I,  bluntly,  "that  Joe  is  the 
»Dly  sensible  one  among  you ;  but,  of  course, 
f  you  are  all  bent  upon  the  undertaking,  I  will 
lot  say  one  word  to  discourage  you,  and  you 
ffe  heartily  welcome  to  any  assistance  I  can 
five  you." 

**  That's  a  darling,"  said  Kate^  giving  me  a 
erocious  hug,  thereby  disarranging  my  collar 
lod  scratching  my  cheek.  I  gave  her  a  gentle 
)inch  to  restore  her  equanimity,  and  then  we 
dl  settled  down  to  discuss  the  projected  stoiyw 

"How  long  do  you  think  it  will  take  to 
nite  it,  Kate?"  said  MoUie,  in  a  perfect 
lutter  of  excitement.  "Can't  we  oommenoe 
ight  ofiT' 


"  Yes,"  replied  Kate,  "  there  is  no  time  like 
the  present,  you  know,  and  if  we  oommenoe  it 
to-night  we  can  very  probably  finish  it  to- 
morrow or  next  day.  Isn't  there  a  proyerb 
that  says,  'Always  take  time  by  the  top- 
senot?'" 

"  JPbreZoc^,"  corrected  Joe,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  horror  at  Kate's  mistake. 

"Well,  forelock,  then  ;  it  don't  matter,  they 
both  mean  the  same  thing,"  said  Kate,  with 
aRperity ;  "  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
subject  in  hand.  Lou,  get  some  paper,  and  we 
will  commence  now." 

Lou  opened  her  desk,  and  after  looking  care- 
fully through  it,  said  in  a  disappointed  tone : 
"  I  can  find  only  one  quire ;  wiU  that  be  enough 
to  commence  upon  ?" 

'*  Well,  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  make  it 
do  for  to-night,"  said  MoUie,  who  was  impa- 
tient to  begin,  "  and  we  can  buy  some  more 
to-morrow." 

Lou  produced  the  paper,  and  we  all  drew 
our  chairs  a  little  closer  in  the  circle,  and  as- 
sumed the  dignified  exprewion  befitting  embryo 
literary  celebrities. 

"Who  is  to  be  the  amanuensis  ?"  inquired  Joe, 
in  a  melo-dramatio  tone ;  "  for,  of  course,  one  of 
us  will  have  to  transfer  to  paper  the  glowing 
words  that  £el11  like  gems  from  the  eloquent  lips 
of  the  respective  members  of  this  assembled 
company.  There  I  wouldn't  that  be  a  splendid 
sentence  for  our  story  7  it  has  rather  a  poetical 
sound,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  capital ;  just  jot  that  down,  Joe,"  said 
Kate,  "  and  we  will  use  it  when  occasion  re- 
quires ;  and  I  guess  you  might  as  well  do  all 
the  writing,  for  Jam  too  lasy,  and  none  of  the 
others  can  write  well  enough." 

"  Why,  Kate  Carroll,"  cried  Lou,  "  whoeyer 
said  you  could  write  better  than  the  rest  of  us  7 
You  blot  every  sheet  of  paper  you  use,  and  if 
you  write  the  book,  we  will  have  to  apply  the 
words  of  a  certain  poet  to  ourselves,  and  repeat 
dolefully — 

*  I  ceristnly  meant  something, 

When  first  this  book  I  writ ; 
Bat  dear  knows  what  this  book  means  now, 

For  I've  forgotten  it.*" 

That  is  the  idea,  but  I  slightly  altered  the  words. 
And  now  I  have  one  request  to  make  before  we 
commence,  and  it  is  simply  this,  I  want  the 
hero  to  be  named  either  '  Fitzmaorice  or  Fiti- 
gerald,'  they  are  my  favorite  names  and  they 
have  such  a  romantic  sound." 

"  No,"  said  Kate,  decidedly,  "  I  was  the  one 
that  proposed  the  book,  and  I  will  not  have  a 
hero  with  JUbJ' 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


ARTHUR;a   LADTS   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


"Don't  be  apiteful,  Kate,"  said  I;  "we  all 
know  that  your  chirogniphy  Is  nothing  to  boast 
of;  but  that  is  no  disgrace ;  and  if  you  spend 
the  evening  in  dippnting,  we  will  never  get  the 
story  commenced." 

"  Yes,  do  begin,''  impatiently  exclaimed  Mol- 
lie  Archer.  "What  is  it  to  be  about— and 
what  is  to  be  the  name  of  itf ' 

"One  question  at  a  time,  if  you  please,"  said 
Joe,  with  an  assumption  of  dignity,  as  she  drew 
her  chair  up  to  the  table,  and  arranged  paper 
and  pen  within  reach  of  her  hand.  "Suppose 
each  of  us  gives  her  idea  of  what  the  book 
ought  to  be  like,  and  whichever  we  think  the 
best  we  can  use." 

"Very  good,"  said  Mollie;  "and  as  Lou  is 
hostess  and  the  oldest  of  the  party,  we  will  hear 
her  views  upon  the  subject  first." 

Lou  spent  several  minutes  in  deep  thought, 
and  then  said  slowly  and  hesitatingly :  "  How 
would  it  do  to  have  the  hero  and  heroine  de- 
votedly attached  to  one  another,  and  on  the 
eve  of  marriage  a  designing  villain  shall  come 
forward,  and  threaten  to  publish  to  the  world 
a  terrible  secret  which  he  has  discovered  in 
reference  to  the  young  lady's  father,  and  will 
keep  silence  only  on  condition  that  she  wUl 
become  his  wife.  *  Fearing  that  her  father  will 
die  of  grief  and  shame  if  his  secret  is  known  to 
the  world,  she  consents  to  mariy  him ;  and  then 
in  the  end  the  hero  can  come  forward  and 
prove  that  the  secret  is  no  secret  at  all,  but 
merely  a  plausible  story  invented  by  the  vil- 
lain to  frighten  the  heroine  into  a  marriage 
with  himself?  Of  course  it  will  end  happily ; 
the  lovers  will  get  married,  and  their  enemies 
will  be  punished  for  their  wickedness." 

Kate  had  listened  with  gradually  widening 
eyes,  and  as  Lou  paused  she  exclaimed :  "  Aint 
you  a  pretty  one,  Lou  Lindenmeyer,  sitting 
there  telling  us  'David  Copperfield'  all  over 
again,  and  trying  to  make  us  believe  that  you 
made  it  up  yourself  I  Why,  any  diUd  could 
see  that  that  was  nothing  but  the  story  of  Agnes 
Wickfield  and  David  Copperfield.  I  own 
Dickens  is  a  pretty  good  author,  but  we  don't 
want  any  weond'haiid  plots." 

"It  isn't  one  bit  like  David  Copperfield," 
said  Lou,  indignantly,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
tearful  eyes ;  *'  I  composed  it  all  myself;  and  I 
think  it  sounds  splendidly." 

"Never  mind,  Lou,"  said  I;  "let  us  hear 
what  Kate  has  to  say ;  I  have  no  doubt  her 
plot  will  excel  anything  ever  befbre  heard  of  in 
American  literature." 

"Well,"  said  Kate,  "I  don't  want  any  of 
your  namby-pamby  sort  of  novels;    I  want 


something  with  a  terrible  mystery  all  throu] 
the  book,  and  the  heroine  getting  out  of  a  sera 
in  one  chapter  only  to  get  into  another  in  i 
next,  and  then  in  the  end  she  can  find  out  tb 
she  isn't  herself  at  all,  but  somebody  else 
stolen  away  when  she  was  a  baby,  you  kno 
And,  oh  I  I'll  tell  you  what  vxndd  be  splendid 
let  her  fall  in  love  with  her  ovon  brother^  a 
just  as  they  are  going  to  be  married  she  c 
discover  who  she  is,  and  faint  away  at  findi: 
it  out ;  and  when  she  revives  she  can  be  clasp 
in  the  arms  of  her  long-lost  parents ;  and  th 
she  can  discover  that  she  only  loved  Victor  I 
Clair  (that  must  be  his  name)  as  a  brother  i 
the  time,  and  she  can  turn  around  and  mar 
some  real  nice  fellow  that  we  can  have  all  rea< 
waiting  for  her  in  the  book.  There  now,"  sa 
Kate,  triumphantly,  as  she  paused  for  breath 
for  she  had  rattled  out  these  words  without 
moment's  hesitation — "who  can  ask  anythi 
better  than  that?  But,  of  course,  we  will  he 
what  the  others  have  to  say  before  we  deci< 
which  plot  we  will  make  use  o("  and  she  look 
complacently  around,  as  if  challenging  us 
excel  her  in  talent,  if  we  could. 

"That  all  sounds  very  well,"  said  Lou,  w] 
was  still  smarting  under  the  imputation  th 
she  had  plagiarized;  "but  if  I  write  a  novel, 
want  the  heroine  to  have  more  stability 
character  than  to  love  one  man  until  the  ei 
of  the  ^ook  and  then  turn  around  and  mar 
another." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  want  her  to  do  ?"  retort 
Kate,  flaring  up.  "  You  surely  don't  want  b 
to  marry  her  brother  I  But  I  have  just  thong 
of  ti  splendid  plan.  Suppose  we ,  say  that,ju 
as  the  lovers  are  plunged  in  grief  at  fiodii 
they  are  so  nearly  related,  they  discover  th 
he  aint  her  brother  after  all,  but  a  foundlii 
left  at  the  door  in  a  basket ;  and,  to  cap  tj 
climax,  he  will  turn  out  to  be  the  son  of  son 
great  count  or  lord,  and  they  can  get  marri< 
in  style." 

"Oh!"  said  Mollie,  "that  will  be  gran 
But  what  do  you  think,  Joe ;  are  you  satisfii 
with  Kate's  proposed  plot?" 

Joe  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  repli< 
slowly :  "  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  make  a  vei 
thrilling  novel.  But  don't  you  think,  girl 
that  an  American  book,  written  by  six  intell 
gent  American  girls,  ought  to  have  some  bett 
object  in  view  than  aflfording  an  hour's  amus 
ment  for  thoughtless  readers?  /  say,  let  tt 
heroine  be  a  good,  loving  Christian  girl,  whof 
noble  conduct  and  loving  self-sacrifice,  throng 
the  entire  book,  will  serve  as  a  model  for  thoi 
of  our  readers  who  are  striving  to  conquer  thei 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


WHAT    TEE    PUBLIC    LOST. 


Its,  and  seeking  to  look  above  the  fooliflh 
rolitiee  of  ibis  world  to  a  better  and  brighter 
lere.  What  a  grand  thing  it  would  be  if  we 
Id  do  even  a  little  good  iu  the  world ;  and  if 
re  is  any  talent  in  our  book,  let  it  be  em- 
jred  in  our  Master's  cause." 
oe's  voice  had  beeome  tremulous  as  she 
key  and  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  all, 
we  all  knew  and  sympathized  with  Joe's 
iDgs  upon  the  subject  of  religion. 
Haven't  you  any  suggestions  to  make, 
lie?"  inquired  Lou,  after  a  few  minutes' 
Be. 

No,"  replied  I ;  "  what  Joe  has  said  ex- 
sea  all  that  I  could  say  on  the  subject ;  and  I 
k  if  we  adopt  that  style  our  story  will  meet 
I  a  more  cordial  reception  than  a  sensa- 
ftl  novel  would." 

0  dear  I"  said  Kate ;  "just  hncy  me  pointed 
by  persons  as  the  authoress  of  a  *  Moral 
y  for  Yonng  Folks.'  I  would  never  dare 
ingh  again ;  and  I  suppose  I  should  have  to 
ike  this,"  and  she  drew  down  the  comers 
er  mouth,  and,  with  a  severe  look  at  each 
I,  said  solemnly :  "  No  levity,  young  ladies ; 
!vity ;  I  c»n  allow  no  jesting  upon  serious 
NJts ;  it  jp^eves  me  to  the  heart  to  see  your 
dliness ;  if  you  will  accept  a  word  of  advice 

1  80  humble  a  person  as  myself,  I  would 
nmend  to  your  perusal  my  book,  entitled 
iet  Clover  for  Lost  Bheep ;' "  and  the  wild 
assumed  such  an  air  of  mock  seriousness 

none  of  us  could  resist  a  smile  at  her 
esentation  of  a  moral  authoress. 
ist  at  this  moment  a  loud  ringing  of  the 
bell  startled  us,  and,  glancing  at  the  clock, 
rere  dismayed  to  find  it  was  half  past  nine. 
)  dear!"  said  Lou,  despairingly,  "there 
M  somebody  after  one  of  you,  and  we  shall 
^  our  book  commenced,  after  all.  If  s  a 
shame.'' 

Twas  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour,'" 
ted  Kate;  "but  we  can  commence  it  just 
ell  to-morrow  night ;  and  I  guess  our  ideas 
'keep.'" 

proved  to  be  a  servant  sent  after  Lily ; 
gathering  up  our  school  books  in  haste, 
rrapped  our  shawls  and  hoods  around  us, 
all  scampered  off;  for  nine  o'clock  was  the 
'  at  which  all  good  children  should  be  at 
e— at  least  so  our  parents  thought. 
i  we  separated,  Kate  said :  "  We  will  cer- 
y  write  our  book  to-morrow  night ;  so  in 
neantira^  yon  can  all  try  to  think  of  some- 
S  excruciatingly  funny  to  put  into  it ;"  and, 

the  expectation  of  seeing  each  other  the 
;  evenbg,  we  parted. 


How  often  it  occurs  that  when  all  seems 
bright  and  beautiful  around  us,  when  our  hearts 
are  bounding  with  delight,  and  when  sorrow  or 
trouble  seems  some  far-off  phantasm  of  the  im- 
agination, that  a  gulf  will  open  at  our  feet,  and 
without  a  moment's  warning  we  find  ourselves 
plunged  in  the  maelstrom  of  grief  or  misfor- 
tune ;  and  those  whose  bright  eyes  and  cheerful 
faces  proclaim  unimpaired  health  may,  by  some 
accident  or  misfortune,  be  brought  in  a  few 
hours  to  the  verge  of  the  grave. 

The  next  day  was  cold  and  stormy ;  Kate, 
with  her  usual  disregard  of  her  health,  sat  in 
school  with  wet  feet  and  damp  clothing.  In 
the  evening  she  complained  of  a  violent  head* 
ache  and  sore  throat,  and  was  too  sick  to  join 
us.  The  succeeding  day  found  her  with  a  high 
fever.  Day  after  day  passed,  and  we  met  with 
grave  faces ;  none  of  us  thought  of  b^inning 
our  book  until  Kate  would  be  with  us  to 
assist. 

At  last  she  began  to  recover,  and  now  an- 
other trial  awaited  us.  Lou  Linden  meyer's 
father  heard  of  a  lucrative  position  in  the  West, 
and  as  he  had  for  a  long  time  thought  seriously 
of  moving  to  one  of  the  Western  States,  he  de- 
cided that  a  better  opportunity  would  never 
offer,  and  after  a  few  weeks'  preparation,  the 
family  left  for  a  far  distant  State. 

Lou  was  almost  broken-hearted  at  leaving, 
all  the  friends  whom  she  had  known  and  loved 
for  so  many  years ;  and  it  was  with  many  tears 
and  sobs  that  we  saw  her  leave. 

Lily  Armbrustar  moved  to  a  different  part  of 
the  city,  and  our  pleasant  party  was  completely 
broken  up. 

Kate's  health  returned  slowly,  and  during 
her  convalescence  she  had  time  to  turn  her 
thoughts  to  subjects  that  she  had  hitherto  dis- 
regarded ;  and  on  her  recovery,  to  the  surprise 
of  every  one,  united  herself  with  the  church* 
She  is  still  a  merry,  light-hearted  girl,  but  her 
wild  spirits  are  toned  down,  and  her  expression 
betokens  a  mind  at  peace. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  "  Our  Novel "  was  never 
written,  and  the  public  little  dream  what  they 
have  lost.  No  doubt  it  would  have  created  a 
sensation  in  the  literary  world ;  but,  alas — 

**  Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  peih» 
The  saddest  are  these :  *  It  might  have  been.*  ** 


It  is  easy  in  the  world  t»  live  after  the 
world's  opinion  ;  it  is  easy  in  solitude  to  live 
after  our  own ;  but  the  great  man  is  he  who  in 
the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  perfect 
sweetness  tlie  independence  of  solitude. 


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"COUSIN  HANNAH^S  SHOPPING  EXPEDITION." 


BY  GERALD. 


THEY,  truly,  afforded  a  striking  contrast  m 
thej  stood,  side  by  side,  equipped  for  their 
morning  tour.  Cousin  Hannali's  tall,  spare 
frame,  clad  in  a  substantial  checked  gown  of 
her  own  weaving  and  making  up,  with  no 
superfluity  in  the  skirts,  and  innocent  of  the 
faintest  approach  to  trimming;  her  heavy  plaid 
shawl  drawn  well  up  around  her  throat,  and 
pinned  squarely  across  her  chest,  for  fear  of 
another  '*  spell  of  the  rheumatiz/'  as  she  ex- 
plained. 

Over  her  gray  hairs,  smoothly  combed 
straight  back  from  her  thin  face,  were  laid — 
first,  a  muslin  cap  of  home  manufacture  with 
a  full  plaited  frill,  and  then  a  comfortable 
black-satin  hood,  made— as  she  told  the  elegant 
Miss  Kose,  who  was  contemplating  the  old 
lady — from  a  piece  Mrs.  Lennex  put  In  the  rag 
bag.  She  hesitated  some  time  about  hamper- 
ing her  hands  with  any  covering,  but  finally 
decided,  as  the  wind  blew  quite  sharply,  that 
she  would  draw  on  her  brown  cotton  gloves, 
*'they  were  more  genteel,- she  'sposed,  than  her 
^blue  yarn  mittens."  Jennie,  or  Jane,  as  Cou- 
sin Hannah  always  called  her,  (being  opposed 
to  ntfu;  /angled  ways,)  looked  the  perfection  of 
neatness  in  her  gray  suit,  with  a  knot  of  blue 
ribbon  at  the  throat,  and  another  holding  back 
the  brown  curls  from  the  radiant  face. 

All  her  appointments  were  in  good  taste,  and 
yet  with  an  eye  to  the  requirements  of  Dame 
Fashion ;  the  boots,  the  gloves,  the  perfumed 
handkerchief,  all  were  in  keeping. 

A  charm  was  there,  but  it  lay  not  altogether 
in  the  beautiful  bloom  of  the  smooth,  round 
cheek,  or  the  brightness  of  the  clear  hazel  eye ; 
not  in  the  soft  clustering  ringlets,  or  in  the 
poise  of  the  graceful  head ;  but  in  the  loving 
soul  which  looked  forth  in  every  glance,  ever 
ready  to  shed  its  brightness  in  ministrations  of 
kindness  to  all. 

Cousin  Hannah  had  for  some  minutes  been 
directing  anxious  glances  toward  the  clouds, 
which  were  gathering  rather  ominously  in  the 
west,  and  finally  exclaiming,  "  I  wouldn't  get 
these  morocco  shoes  wet  through  for  a  power 
of  money— why,  Nathan  Fox,  down  on  the 
plains,  made  'em  for  me  nigh  on  to  six  years 
ago,  and  1  feel  desperit  careful  of  'em,''  left  the 
room  in  search  of  her  leather  clogs  and  "  blue 
umberil." 

(340) 


Hardly  had  the  door  closed  upon  her,  wh 
Rose  Merwin  turned  a  face  of  the  most  inten 
disgust  toward  her  sister,  pettishly  burstii 
forth  with :  "  You  are  a  great  fool  to  be  se 
on  the  street  with  her  in  such  style.  Supp( 
ing  you  should  meet  any  of  our  friends — t 
Lawtons  or  Mortimers — horrors  I  Thank  fi 
tune  she  insists  upon  going  out  so  early ;  I 
then  goodness  knows  how  long  she  will  ke 
you  with  her  innumerable '  arrants '  and  her  i 
terminable  gossip.  Let  her  go  alone.  6i 
her  directions;  she  can  find  the  way  w 
enough." 

'*No,  Kose,"  replied  Jennie,  quietly  clai 
ing  her  portemonnaie  as  she  spoke,  Coai 
Hannah  has  been  too  kind  to  me,  that  I  shoi 
grudge  her  a  little  of  my  time  and  attention, 
"  It  is  not  the  time;  you  have  enough  of  tl 
to  spare,  I  should  hope ;  but  to  go  out  with  su 
a  figure ;  she  looks  like  one  of  her  own  sci 
crows,  and  she  will  be  sure  to  tell  eveiybo 
that  she  is  stopping  down  to  Cousin  Po 
Merwin's.  At  every  store  you  will  be  mortif 
by  her  awkward  ways  and  questions.  I 
wish  that  you  would  give  up  some  of  y( 
Quixotic  notions  of  doing  good  to  such  p 
pie." 

"Don't  feel  so  badly,  Rose;"  and  Jen 
laughed  merrily.  "I  shall  not  be  disgra^ 
by  shopping  with  poor  Cousin  Hannah,  if  i 
is  not  dressed  in  the  mode,  and  has  an  o 
fashioned  fancy  for  calling  things  by  tfa 
right  names.  She  is  thoroughly  good  i 
kind-hearted.  I  shall  not  be  mortified  by  w 
you  call  her  country  ways.  I  would  not  lea 
her  to  find  her  way  about  our  bustling  stn 
alone.  Remember  she  is  nearly  seventy  yc 
old  ;  and  surely  you  cannot  have  forgotten  h 
skilfully  and  tenderly  she  nursed  me  tbroi 
scarlet  fever,  when  I  was  taken  ill  at  her  ho 
years  ago?" 

"  No,  I  have  not  forgotten ;  but  thai  wan 
more  than  her  manifest  duty ;  beside,  mam 
made  her  presents,  which  amply  repaid 
for  any  exertion  which  she  made  in  your 
half." 

**  0  Sister  Rose  I  don't  talk  so,  it  is  unwor 
of  you ;  some  services  can  never  be  repaid  ? 
money  or  anything  which  money  can  b 
Poor  Hannah  envies  mamma  her  two  g 
more  than  aught  else,  and  we  sorely  can  sp 


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COUSIN-   EANNAE*8   SHOPPING    EXPEDITION. 


341 


little  loving  kindneBB  to  brighten  her  lone^ 
ildless  life." 

"  Well,  Jennie,  as  you  say,  only  don't  preach, 
expect  me  to  fall  in  with  your  ideas  of  right 
d  wrong.  I  shall  never  consider  myself  \ 
[led  upon  to  sacrifice  my  respectability  to 
it  upon  awkward  clodhoppers." 
'*  Hash  I  she  is  in  the  front  parlor,"  whispered 
onie,  reprovingly,  with  a  grie?ed  look. 
^That  matters  nothing;  she  has  the  bless- 
\  of  deafness  added  to  her  other  charms,  so 
It  you  can  have  the  pleasure  of  shouting  out 
or  interpretations  ail  through  your  tour ;" 
1  with  a  vexed  laugh.  Miss  Rose  flounced 
t  of  the  room  just  as  Cousin  Hannah  en- 
ed  by  another  door,  at  last  ready.  Even  if  it 
\  rain,  she  announced  ''She  was  neither 
^  or  salt,  and  had  no  finery  to  spile." 
is  they  set  forth  she  gave  her  determina- 
D  to  use  no  street  cars ;  she  wanted  to  visit 
ire  than  one  place,  and  she  should  not  pay 
»  fi&re  every  time  she  took  a  car  on  the 
ae  route;  there  was  no  sort  of  accommoda- 
a  in  them ;  so  on  her  feet  she  should  keep 
the  end. 

They  climbed,  the  ^tairs  to  a  newspaper 
oe  for  the  introduction  to  their  labors,  so  as 
have  *'  that  off  her  mind ;"  where  she  in- 
med  the  amused  editor,  as  she  paid  her 
it's  subscription  in  advance,  that  she  should 
Nsommend  his  paper  to  all  on  the  mountain, 
inding  very  erect  as  she  gave  her  place  of 
»de,)  provided  he  sent  it  regularly,  and 
nted  all  the  news  from  Littleton,  where  she 
ed  all  her  days  until  she  went  on  to  the 
(ditoin  to  live  with  Deacon  Jones's  £B.mily — 
>  first  folks  in  the  village."  He  assured 
■  of  his  wish  to  do  his  best  to  please  all  sub- 
ibers;  and  she  left  the  sanctum  rejoicing 
V  the  amount  of  "proper  comfort"  she 
aid  take  reading  thai  paper  during  the 
Iter. 

rhe  next  call  was  at  a  jeweller's,  where  she 
ihed  to  change  her  glasses.  Here  she  con- 
bed  every  one  within  earshot,  by  the  quaint- 
s  of  her  remarks  concerning  the  pomps  and 
lities  which  on  all  sides  met  her  eyes, 
(er  trying  several  pairs  of  specs,  she  settled 
m  one  as  just  the  article.  A  lady  customer 
ring  laid  down  a  new  magazine  upon  the 
inter,  she  took  it  up  and  tested  her  new 
sees  by  reading,  in  an  extremely  avdibU 
ce,  a  bit  of  poetry  which  attracted  her  at- 
don.  Asshe  read  she  critidxed,  and  ended 
wishing  that  she  was  going  to  stay  at  "ecu- 
Polly's"  long  enough  to  borrow  the  book 
a  thoirottgh  p«rusaL     Having  aarranged 


these  matters  to  her  satisfaction,  the  main 
business  of  the  day  yet  remained  unentered 
upon. 

"Now,  Jane,  I  want  yoQ  to  take  me  to  the  beit 
store  in  town,  for  I  must  match  that  black  silk 
of  mine,  and  it  is  an  amasin  good  piece.  Silks 
used  to  have  some  heft  to  'em  when  I  bought 
that.  Why — ^let  me  see :  that  was  the  winter 
before  brother  Aaron  was  married;  and  their 
oldest  boy  Oscar  Heman  will  be  fifteen  come 
next  April.  Only  one  new  pair  of  sleeves  in 
all  that  time.  What  do  you  think  of  that  for 
economy,  }iifsa  Jane?"  and  she  gave  a  tri- 
umphant shrug  hadcwaird,  whidi  elevated  her 
shoulders  and  her  decided  head  a  few  inches 
more. 

"  Since  I  have  gone  on  to  the  mountain  to 
live,  I  am  Kmehody,  and  I  am  invited  out  to 
quiltins  and  tea-drinkins  with  the  young  folks ; 
the  deacons  all  come,  and  even  the  minister ; 
and  we  walk  out  to  Uie  tea-table  lockin'  arms, 
in  high  style,  same  as  you  do  in  the  city,  I 
'spose.  So  you  see  I  want  to  fix  up  as  smart 
as  any  of  'em.  I  have  got  that  pretty  muslin 
cap  with  the  border  you  worked  for  me,  and  I 
keep  it  for  these  kinder  sociables  like  and 
meetings,  where  I  can  take  off  my  hood." 

By  this  time  tht  store  was  reached,  and  after 
a  critical  survey  of  the  windotws  from  the  out- 
side. Cousin  Hannah  stepped  in.  She  told  the 
gentlemanly  clerk — who  appeared  to  learn  her 
wishes — that  she  should  keep  him  sometime 
busy;  lor  if  he  did  well  by  her,  "she  calculated 
to  trade  a  big  bill.  I  have  come  more'n  two 
hundred  miles  from  the  mountain  where  they 
are  digging  that  great  tunnel.  I  reckon  you 
have  read  of  thai  in  the  paper." 

He  smilingly  assented,  and  confessed  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  tunnel  and  its  whereabouts, 
and  hoped  that  he  should  be  able  to  please  her 
taste  in  the  matter  of  dry  goods,  inquiring  what 
style  she  preferred. 

"  Well,  first,  I  want  some  good  strong  calico 
— no  delaines  or  any  of  the  thin  stuflb  city  folks 
like.  When  I  want  a  woollen  dress,  I  go  to 
the  (oom/  see" — and  she  extended  her  sleeve 
for  the  young  man's  inspection — "  thai  is  home- 
made, and  sets  old,  winter  at  defiance.  We 
have  wild  blasts  on  our  hills,  and  need  to  be 
independent  of  stores  and  factories.  But  now 
I  want  some  dresses  for  next  summer;  and  I 
think  that  light  buff  would  answer  for  one. 
Come,  Jane,  pick  me  out  two  more,  and  that 
will  set  me  up." 

Then  followed  chintz  for  curtains,  and  next 
a  demand  for  some  bright  flowered  calico  for 
a  double  gown.     "I  am  pretty  tough,  but 


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342 


ABTEUB'a    LADT'8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


1 


getting  old,  aod  I  ought  to  get  readj  for  sick 
daj8.  It  is  the  fashion  up  our  way  to  have  gay 
colored  sick  gowns  like,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  get  one  the  next  time  I  went  to  the 
city." 

This  was  soon  accomplished  with  Jennie's 
help,  in  whose  taste  she  placed  implicit  faith. 
Then  she  demanded  to  be  shown  the  htit  black 
silk.  She  was  directed  to  the  silk  counter,  but 
was  unwilling  to  exchange  her  salesman.  She 
told  him  he  was  '^  a  proper  mannered  young 
man,  and  she  felt  kinder  acquainted  with  him, 
so  she  would  thank  him  to  go  down  and  help 
her  through  with  this,  too." 

Finally,  he  displayed  the  silks  for  her  seleo- 
tion,  when,  lo  and  behold  I  the  prices  went  &r 
abore  her  ken,  and  she  waa  at  a  great  lois. 

**  Why,  Jane,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  pushed 
back  her  hood  from  her  face  to  get  a  clearer 
view,  "it  will  cost  more  to  fix  up  that  old  silk 
than  all  my  calicoes,  chintz,  double  gown  and 
all.  Keyer  mind,  Tm  going  to  weave  about 
fifty  yards  of  rug  this  winter  for  Miss  Sophrony 
Bradley,  and  I  guess  I  will  afford  it  for  once. 
Cut  me  two  yards,  and  hold  it  easy  on  the  edge. 
Now,"  she  added,  as  the  clerk  complacently 
fulfilled  her  orders,  "foot  up  the  bill)  and 
mebbe,  as  I  pay  cash  instead  of  dicker,  you  can 
throw  in  a  spool  or  two  of  thread,  or  some 
such  little  matter. 

"  I  reckon  you  donH  sell  oyer  ten  dollars  at 
a  time  every  day,  young  man  ?"  she  said,  as 
she  handed  each  piece  of  money  to  Jennie  be- 
fore giving  it  to  the  clerk,  "just  to  make  sure 
that  she  didn't  pay  out  any  more  fifty-cent 
shinplasters  for  five  cents,  as  she  did  once." 

Being  told  that  her  bundle  would  be  sent  to 
her  residence  on  the  next  round  of  the  errand 
boy's,  she  assured  them  that  she  had  carried 
"  a  bigger  heft  than  that  many  a  time  through 
the  fwrik  woods,  when  she  took  her  butter  and 
eggs  down  to  the  store  to  trade  for  notions," 
and  therefore  insisted  upon  carrying  it  herself. 
Her  reaidmee  was  altogether  too  far  for  them  to 
reach.  So,  taking  the  package  cosily  under 
one  arm,  she  sallied  forth,  uttering  many 
thanks  to  the  shopman  for  his  "good  man* 
ners,"  and  self-gratalations  upon  the  extent  of 
her  purchases. 

"  NoW|  Jennie,  I  most  stop  at  Dr.  Morton's, 
if  you  will  pilot  me  to  the  place ;  I've  almost 
forgot  its  whereabouts;  but  I  promised  them  a 
call  if  I  ever  came  back  to  stay  a  day  again.  I 
used  to  piece  coverlids  and  make  butter  for  his 
wife,  and  it  raly  would  seem  like  old  times  to 
take  a  look  at  them.  On  second  thoughts,  I 
don't  know  but  I'll  stop  over  to  dinner,  as  they 


said,  if  you  will  call  for  me  blme  by.  1 
will  never  be  sorry  you  was  kind  to  an  i 
woman,  Jennie,  if  I  am  a  lot  of  trouble  noi 
With  a  cheery  smile,  the  young  girl  esoor 
"  Cousin  Hannah "  and  her  bundle  to  on< 
the  handsomest  mansions  in  the  city,  wh 
she  was  welcomed  with  hospitable  warmth. 
Before  the  shades  of  evening  had  fai 
closed  in,  they  were  on  their  homeward  w 
Hannah  exclaiming  with  delight:  "I  ki 
3ftM  Morton  and  doctor  would  be  glad  to 
me ;  they  treated  me  as  if  I  was  first  cousiu 
the  queen.  Nothing  stuck  up  there.  They 
not  afraid  if  they  notice  a  poor  old  eoun 
body  like  me  that  they  shall  loee  their  rup 
abiiity.  I  allers  notice  that  those  are  fi 
afraid  who  have  the  leaH  to  loae,  I  ht( 
n^iS^^J  S^^  dinner — all  bnt  the  dder,  t 
was  pale  and  weak,  though  it  fizzed  and  foan 
when  they  poured  it  out ;  but  it  set  my  head 
in  a  buz ;  and  I  let  it  alone  after  that.  C 
cider  don't  agree  with  me." 

On  reaching  home,  after  she  had  displa; 
her  purchases,  she  proceeded  to  measure  n 
outstretched  arm,  from  the  tip  of  her  d< 
what  she  called  {a  good  old-fashioned  jt 
fh)m  her  gay  double  gown. 

She  cut  it  ofi)  and,  presenting  it  to  Jem 
said,  with  a  side  glance  at  Rose :  "  There,  t 
will  make  yon  a  stylish  apron  for  aftemo 
pockets  and  all ;  and  who  knows  what  it  n 
do?  I  had  one  with  the  same  colors  in  it  wi 
my  Reuben  was  keepin'  company  with  me,  i 
he  allers  said  that  the  apron  attracted  him  t 
I  told  you  that  you  wouldn't  be  sorry  for  w 
ing  on  an  old  woman  ronnd." 

Jennie  expressed  her  thanka  for  the  gift  ^ 
a  kind  and  gentle  manner,  perfectly  oblivi 
of  the  scornful  curve  of  Rose's  mouth. 

The  visit  ended.  Cousin  Hannah  retume< 
her  mountain  home,  and  came  to  the  eltj 
more.  Occasionally  the  fiunily  heard  of 
welfare,  and  always  with  a  message  of  tha 
to  Jennie  for  her  kindness  in  their  shopi) 
expedition  added  thereto.  But  one  day  '. 
Merwin  came  in  from  his  library  with  an  o; 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  called  for  his  daugh 
"Here  is  a  letter  from  the  good  J)e» 
Jones  your  rustic  friend  Hannah,  of  the  m< 
orable  down-town  trip,  used  to  speak  o£ 
seems  that  she,  poor  lonely  soul,  is  gatherec 
her  fathers  at  last,  and  has  selected  jon  as 
heiress.  I  always  supposed  her  to  be  q< 
poor,  as  she  was  so  closely  economical,  i 
toiled  at  spinning  and  weaving  so  incessant 
but  it  seems  she  owned  quite  a  snbstani 
form,  which  this  deacon  managed  fbr  herj  i 

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BEECHEB    ON   DIARIE8.—LITTLE   BY   LITTLE. 


343 


)  sandry  shares  in  railroad  stock  np  there, 
Ich  are  oonstantij  increasing  in  value. 
rompsDying  this  is  a  message  in  her  own 
idwriting,  which  she  directed  to  he  delivered 
I  and  Rose." 

To  mj  companion  of  the  shopping  tour, 
I  years  ago,  I  give  my  little  property,  feel- 
Uiat  her  kind  heart  will  appreciate  the  gift, 
haps  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Rose  it  may  corn- 
sate  in  some  degree  for  her  sister  *  making 
rest  fool  of  herself  appearing  on  the  street 
h  Cousin  Hannah  in  sueA  styU^  and  playing 
upreter  throughout  her  walk.'  For  Hose's 
e,  it  was  rather  a  pity  that  deafness  was  not 
ed  to  her  old  cousin's  other  charmsi." 
I  do  not  anderstand  the  drift  of  the  mes- 
B  exactly,  but,  knowing  the  difierenoe  in  the 
iperaments  of  my  two  daughters,  I  think  I 
^itess  it  with  tolerahle  accuracy." 
lose  colored  under  her  father's  meaning 
ice,  but  preserved  a  discreet  silence  then 
always  after. 

[y  moral  needs  no  second  sight  to  pene- 
eit 

'o  Jennie  the  gift  was  opportune,  for  a  little 
rd  in  the  air"  whiRpers  of  a  trouueau  in 
[Muration,  of  a  lover  and  a  new  home  away 
n  the  parent  nest.  Albeit,  I  cannot,  as  a 
bful  chronicler,  say  that  the  "  stylish  apron" 
s  any  part  in  winning  said  lover,  but  im- 
)e  it  ratber  to  have  been  the  unselfish, 
ik  loving  kindness  of  a  pure  heart. 


BEECHEB  ON  DIARIES. 

[enry  Ward  Beecher  has  a  poor  opinion  of 
ries.  He  says :  "Although  my  father  never 
1  anything  to  discourage  the  journal-keepers 
he  fitmily,  I  had  reason  to  believe  that  he 
er  himself  kept  one.  I  ventured  one  day, 
Base  my  conscience  for  having  left  off  this 
ret  duty,  to  ask  him  why  he  did  not  keep  a 
rnal.  His  reply  came  like  a  shot  from  an 
rloaded  gun.  '  A  journal  is  the  devil's  pil- 
r,  and  fools  sit  in  it.  Everbody  sins,  but 
7  need  not  sprawl  out  on  paper  an  account 
it.  If  you  write  the  truth,  you  ought  to  be 
amed,  and  if  you  don't,  you  ought  to  be  still 
re  ashamed.'  Then,  perhaps,  thinking  that 
I  might  be  casting  reflections  on  some  of  his 
i,  he  went  on  to  say  that  perhaps  some  folks 
;ht  be  profited  by  it.  Everybody  was  not 
Ice.  But  he  didn't  want,  when  he  was  dead 
1  gone,  to  have  folks  fumbling  over  his  pri- 
«  feelings,  and  he  didn't  mean  to  give  them 
hance.    That  was  the  last  of  my  journal." 


LITTLE  BY  LITTLE. 

TTTHEN  the  new  years  oome  and  the  old  years 

How,  little  by  little,  all  things  grow ! 

All  things  grow — and  all  decay — 

Little  by  little  passing  away. 

Little  by  little,  on  fortUe  plain, 

Ripen  the  harvests  of  golden  grain, 

Waving  and  flashing  in  the  son, 

When  the  summer  at  lost  is  done. 

Little  by  little  they  ripen  so, 

As  the  new  years  come  and  the  old  years  go. 

Low  on  the  ground  an  acorn  lies, 
Little  by  little  it  mounts  to  the  skies, 
Shadow  and  shelter  for  wandering  herds, 
Home  for  a  hundred  singing  birds. 
Little  by  little  the  great  rocks  grew, 
Long,  long  ago,  when  the  world  was  new ; 
Slowly  and  silently,  stately  and  free, 
Cities  of  coral  under  the  sea 
Little  by  little  are  builded— while  so 
The  new  years  oome  and  the  old  years  go. 

Little  by  little  all  tasks  are  done ; 

So  are  the  crowns  of  the  faithful  won, 

So  is  Heaven  in  our  hearts  begun. 

With  work  and  with  weeping,  with  laughter  and  play, 

Little  by  little,  the  longest  day 

And  the  longest  life  are  passing  away. 

Passing  without  return — while  so 

The  new  years  come  and  the  old  years  go. 

Rev.  John  Hall  thus  wisely  speaks  to 
young  people : 

"  There  are  two  ways  of  setting  up  in  this 
life.  One  is  to  begin  where  your  parents  are 
ending — magnificent  mansions,  splendid  furni- 
ture, and  an  elegant  turn-out.  The  other  is  to 
begin  a  little  nearer  the  point  where  father  and 
mothei^-of  blessed  memory — began.  You  see, 
my  friend,  you  can  go  up  so  easily  and  grace- 
fully, if  events  show  it  would  be  safe;  but  it 
would  be  trying  and  awkward  to  oome  down. 
And  it  costs  much  now  to  live.  And  business 
fluctuates ;  and  health  is  uncertain ;  and  tempta- 
tions from  the  side  of  pride  are  strong;  and 
many  a  young  man  who  did  not  mean  to  be 
extravagant  has  been  led  along,  and  rather 
than  face  the  position  and  descend  manfully, 
has  tried  to  keep  up  the  embezslement,  and 
been  called  a  '  swindler.' " 

It  is  not  high  crimes,  such  as  robbery  and 
murder,  which  destroy  the  peace  of  society.  The 
village  gossip,  family  quarrels,  jealousies,  and 
bickering  neighbors,  nieddlesomeness  and  tat- 
tling, afe  the  worms  that  eat  into  all  social 
happiness* 


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EVENIN-QS   "WITH    THE   POETS- 


A  DOUBTING  HEABT. 

BT    ADELAIDE    AirHE    PROCTER. 

WHERE  are  the  swallows  fled? 
Froien  and  dead, 
Perchance,  npon  some  bleak  and  stormy  shore. 
0  doabtinff  heart  I 
Far  over  purple  seas 
They  wait,  in  sunny  ease. 
The  balmy  southern  breese 
To  bring  them  to  their  northern  homes  onoe  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die  ? 

Prisoned  they  lie 

In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 

0  doubting  heart ! 

They  only  sleep  below 

The  soft  white  ermine  snow 

While  winter  winds  shall  blow. 

To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days; 
Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth  ? 
0  doubting  heart ! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky 
That  soon,  for  spring  is  nigh. 
Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night; 
What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  despair  ? 
0  doubting  heart ! 
The  sky  is  overcast, 
Tet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angel's  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 


SPARROWS. 

BT  MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITWET. 

LITTLE  birds  sit  on  the  telegraph  wires. 
And  chitter  and  flitter,  and  fold  their  wings ; 
Maybe  they  think  that  for  them  and  their  sires 
Stretched  always  on  purpose   these  wonderAil 
strings; 
And  perhaps  the  thought  that  the  world  inspires 
Did  plan  for  the  birds  among  other  things. 

Little  birds  sit  on  the  slender  lines, 
And  the  news  of  the  world  runs  under  their 
feet- 
How  value  rises,  and  how  declines ; 

How  kings  with  their  armies  in  battle  meet ; 
And  all  the  while,  'mid  the  soundless  sighs, 

They  chirp  their  small  gossipings  foolish-sweet 
(344) 


Little  things  light  on  the  lines  of  our  lives ; 

Hopes  and  joys  and  acts  of  to-day ; 
And  we  think  that  for  these  the  Lord  eontrives, 

Nor  eateh  what  the  hidden  lightaingi  say ; 
But  from  end  to  end  his  meaning  arrives, 

And  his  word  runs  undemeatb  all  the  way. 

Is  life  only  wires  and  lightnings,  then. 

Apart  from  that  which  about  it  clings  ? 
Are  the  works  and  the  hopes  and  the  prayers 
men 
Only  sparrows  that  light  on  God's  telogra 
strings, 
Holding  a  moment,  then  gone  again  ? 
Nay,  He  planned  for  the  birds  with  the  lar| 
things. 


MOTHER'S  DARLING. 

BT  JOSEPHINE  POLLARD. 

'*  TTTHERE  has  my  little  Jimmy  gone,  I  w< 

VV         der? 

I've  sought  my  baby  darling  everywhere ; 
There's  not  a  thing  but  what  I  have  peeped  and 

And  hoped  to  find  my  cherub  hiding  there. 
Here  lay  his  toys  in  undisturbed  confusion. 

Just  as  he  left  them — was  it  yesterday  ? 
And  they,  perchance,  are  touched  by  my  delusit 

And  dream  he's  coming  to  resume  his  play. 

"  Where  has  my  little  Jimmy  gone,  I  wonder  ?" 

The  mother's  heart  keeps  asking  all  the  while 
Forgetful  of  the  bitter  blow  that  stunned  her. 

And  quenohed  the  sunlight  of  her  baby's  smi 
''He  wanders,  maybe,  in  the  path  of  danger. 

Away  from  home  and  far  away  from  friends. 
Compelled  to  ask  assistance  of  a  stranger. 

In  tones  that  but  a  mother  comprehends. 

**  The  night  is  coming,  and  his  feet  are  weary. 

Those  little  feet,  so  tiny  and  so  white! 
Whose  home  will  give  a  shelter  to  my  deary, 

My  little  baby,  through  the  cheerless  night?" 
The  house  is  haunted ;  and  she  vainly  wanders 

From  room  to  room,  by  transient  hopes  beguile 
While  on  the  mystery  of  death  she  ponders. 

And  claims  of  Heaven  some  token  of  her  chi] 

"Where  has  my  little  Jimmy  gone,  I  wonder?" 

She  lifts  her  troubled  eyes  with  tears  so  dim. 
And  sees  a  smiling  face  peep  out  from  under 

A  sombre  cloudlet  with  a  silver  rim. 
Her  heart  accepted  life's  sweet  revelation ; 

She  murmured :  "  0  my  darling !  there  yon  ar 
Changed  in  the  glory  of  a  new  er«ation ! 

Changed  to  the  brightness  of  a  shining  star !" 


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EVENINGS    WITH    THE    POETS. 


845 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

BT  HESTBR    A.    BENEDICT. 

^  OOD-NIGHT,  dear  (riead  1    I  say  good-night 
J     to  thee 

AcroBs  the  moonheamB,  tremnlouB  and  white, 
Lridging  all  space  hetween  us,  it  may  he. 

Lean  low,  sweet  friend !  it  is  the  last  good-night ; 

'or  lying  mate  npon  my  eonoh  and  still, 
The  foTer- flush  eraniahed  from  my  face, 
heard  them  whisper  softly :  '"Tis  His  will : 
Angels  will  give  her  happier  resting-place !" 

Lod  so,  from  sight  of  tears  that  fall  like  rain, 
And  sound  of  sobhing  smothered  close  and  low, 
turned  my  white  face  to  the  window-pane, 
To  say  good-night  to  thee  before  I  go. 

k>od-night,  good-night !  I  do  not  fear  the  end. 
The  conflict  with  the  billows  darlc  and  high; 

Lad  yet,  if  I  could  touch  thy  hand,  my  friend, 
I  think  it  would  be  easier  to  die : 

f  I  could  feel,  through  all  the  quiet  waves 
Of  my  deep  hair,  thy  tender  breath  athrill, 
could  go  downward  to  the  place  of  graves 
With  eyes  ashine  and  pale  lips  smiling  still ; 

it  it  may  be  that  if,  through  all  the  strife 
And  pain  of  parting,  I  should  hear  thy  call, 
would  come  singing  back  to  sweet,  sweet  life. 
And  know  no  mystery  of  death  at  all. 

t  may  not  be.    Good-night,  dear  friend,  good- 
night! 
And  when  you  see  the  riolets  again, 
Lnd  hear,   through  boughs  with    swollen    buds 
awhite, 
The  gentle  falling  of  the  April  rain, 

Ivnember  her  whose  young  life  held  thy  name, 
With  all  things  holy,  in  its  outward  flight, 

Lnd  torn  sometimes  from  busy  haunts  of  men 
To  hear  again  her  low  good-night,  good-night! 
LippineoU*»  MayoMiue, 

MY  MOTHER'S  HANDS. 

"  QUCH  beautiful,  beautiful  hands ! 
O  They're  neither  white  nor  small; 
And  you,  I  know,  would  scarcely  think 

That  they  were  fair  at  all. 
I've  looked  on  bands  whose  form  and  hue 

A  sculptor's  dream  might  be; 
Yet  are  these  aged,  wrinkled  hands 

More  beautiful  to  me. 
^  Such  beaatifnl,  beautiful  hands ! 

Though  heart  was  weary  and  sad. 
These  patient  hands  kept  toiling  on 

That  children  might  be  glad. 
I  almost  weep,  as,  looking  back 

To  ohildhood's  distant  day, 
I  think  how  these  hands  rested  not, 

When  mine  were  at  their  play. 


«  Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands ! 

They're  growing  feeble  now ; 
For  time  and  pain  have  left  their  work 

On  hand,  and  heart,  and  brow. 
Alas !  alas !  the  nearing  time. 

And  the  sad,  sad  day  to  me; 
When  'neath  the  daisies,  out  of  sight, 

These  hands  shall  folded  be. 

"  But,  oh !  beyond  this  shadowy  land. 

Where  all  is  bright  and  fair, 
I  know  full  well  these  dear  old  hands 

Will  palms  of  victory  bear. 
Where  crystal  streams,  through  endless  years. 

Flow  over  golden  sands. 
And  where  the  old  grow  young  again, 

I'll  clasp  my  mother's  hands." 

BE  ALWAYS  GIVING. 

THE  sun  gives  ever;  so  the  earth — 
What  it  can  give  so  much  'tis  worth ; 
The  ocean  gives  in  many  ways — 
Gives  baths,  gives  fishes,  rivers,  bays ; 
So,  too,  the  air,  it  gives  us  breath — 
When  it  stops  giving,  comes  in  death. 
Give,  give,  be  always  giving. 
Who  gives  not,  is  not  living; 
The  more  you  give 
The  more  you  live. 

God's  love  hath  in  us  wealth  unheaped ; 
Only  by  giving  it  is  reaped ; 
The  body  withers,  and  the  mind 
Is  pent  in  by  a  selfish  rind. 

Give  strength,  give  thought,  give  deeds,  give  pelf. 
Give  lore,  give  tears,  and  give  thyself. 
Give,  give,  be  always  giving, 
Who  gives  not,  is  not  living ; 

The  more  we  give 

The  more  we  live. 


■  ueoco* 


MY  LITTLE  ONE. 

BT  EDGAR  FAWCET. 

GOD  bless  my  little  one  !    How  fair 
The  mellow  lamp -light  gilds  his  hair, 
Xoose  on  the  cradle- pillow  there. 
God  bless  my  little  one ! 

God  guard  my  little  one !    To  me 
Life,  widowed  of  his  life,  would  be 
As  sea-sands  widowed  of  the  sea. 
God  guard  my  little  one  1 

God  love  my  little  one !    As  clear. 
Cool  sunshine  holds  the  first  green  spear 
On  April  meadows,  hold  him  dear. 
God  love  my  little  one ! 

When  these  fond  lips  are  mute,  and  when 
I  slumber,  not  to  wake  again, 
God  bless,  God  guard,  God  love  him  then, 
My  little  one  1    Amen. 


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THE    HOME    CmCLE. 


KDITED  BY  A.  ULDY. 


A  SWEET  STORY. 


SOME  time  since  we  oat  from  the  New  York  Oh- 
server  the  following  record  of  an  act  that  is 
•weet  with  Christian  charity,  intending  it  for  our 
readers.  It  has  been  crowded  out  of  previous 
n ambers  of  the  **  Home,"  but  we  make  a  place  for 
it  this  month. 

Appeals  for  aid  of  all  kinds  are  made  in  the 
Obaerver,  and  to  most  of  these  there  comes,  from 
somewhere,  the  needed  help. 

"  But,"  sajs  the  editor,  "onr  faith  was  pat  to  a 
severe  test  a  few  months  ago.  A  friend  well  known 
to  one  of  my  associates,  brought  to  his  notice  an 
interesting  case,  but  the  request  was  so  great,  so 
far  beyond  the  ordinary  appeals  for  charity,  that 
we  were  staggered,  and  at  first  were  quite  unwil- 
ling  to  put  it  before  our  readers.  If  it  had  been 
a  petition  for  money  to  build  a  church  or  to  found 
a  hospital,  we  could  have  asked,  believing.  But 
it  was  something  more  than  this;  it  was  a  request 
that  eome  one  would,  for  Christ's  sake,  convert  his 
own  home  into  a  hospital,  and  receive  into  his, 
family  a  helpless  invalid  stranger  as  a  permanent 
inmate !  Was  anything  ever  asked  for  so  unlikely 
to  be  obtained  ?  But  after  much  thoaghtful  con- 
sideration and  inquiry,  to  be  certain  of  the  facts 
and  the  real  merit  of  the  case,  we  wrote  a  few  lines 
like  these,  and  printed  them  in  the  Obterver : 

***A  young  lady  who  was  tenderly  reared,  and 
(m  the  death  of  all  who  were  able  to  aid  in  her 
support,  was  sustaining  herself  by  teaching,  has 
been  prostrated  by  failore  of  health,  and  is  now 
totally  dependent  upon  the  kindness  of  strangers. 
There  is  no  public  institution  provided  for  such 
invalids,  and  it  may  be  that  some  Christian  heart 
may  be  found  willing  to  furnish  the  helpless  suf- 
ferer the  comforts  of  a  home.' 

**  We  offered  to  take  charge  of  any  money  con- 
tributed for  her  relief,  or  to  put  any  one  desiring 
to  receive  her  into  communication  with  the  invalid. 
Several  persons  sent  money,  and  it  was  promptly 
applied  for  the  supply  of  present  wants.  At  last 
came  one,  and  a  second  and  third  letter — no  less 
than  three — proposing,  if  all  things  were  as  they 
had  been  represented,  to  welcome  the  sick  stranger 
into  the  bosom  of  a  Christian  home. 

*'  One  of  these  loving  friends,  who  would  do  onto 
one  of  the  least  of  Christ's  little  ones  as  they  would  do 
unto  Him,  was  put  into  correspondence  with  those 
who  had  brought  the  case  to  our  notice,  and  after 
all  the  necessary  arrangements,  the  invalid  was, 
by  easy  stages  on  the  railroad,  taken  to  the  distant 
city  where  her  kind  benefactors  reside.  At  the 
depot  she  and  her  friend  were  met  by  the  gentle- 
(346) 


man,  with  his  elegant  carriage  and  horses.  1 
received  her  with  great  cordiality,  tenderly  can 
for  her  comfort,  and  then  conveyed  her  to  h 
house,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  city, 
was  a  mansion  in  the  midst  of  wooded  groand 
and  having  every  appearance  of  wealth  and  repos 
The  gentleman  and  his  wife,  both  beyond  midd 
age,  and  with  no  other  family,  gave  her  a  parent 
welcome  to  their  house,  and  the  lady  conducted  tl 
weary  sufferer  to  the  chamber  designed  for  her  rei 
and  enjoyment  It  was  comfort  itself.  Whatev< 
taste,  refinement  and  love  conld  suggest  in  a< 
vance,  to  make  a  room  inviting,  had  been  provide* 
A  fire  glowed  on  the  hearth;  flowers  smiled 
welcome  on  the  toilet- table;  books  and  pictnn 
and  little  objects  of  vertu  spoUe  of  exquisite  en! 
tare.  And  when  the  invalid  was  refVeshed  wit 
rest,  the  gentle  lady  told  her  that  all  her  feai 
had  vanished,  and  she  was  assured  that  she  an 
her  husband  would  find  joy  and  peace  in  the! 
guest,  who  should  be  to  them  as  a  daughter  an 
friend. 

"  She  has  been  there  now  more  than  a  montl 
and  all  parties,  the  benevolent  couple  and  thei 
invalid  guest,  are  happy  in  each  other's  love. 

"  '  So  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.'  It  is  tha 
the  Lord  provides.  Bnt  it  is  not  so  mnch  God* 
goodness  that  I  wonder  at  and  admire,  in  thi 
incident,  as  (hat  in  His  children  there  dwells  i 
spirit  so  much  like  that  of  Him  who  loved  us  am 
gave  himself  for  us.  It  is  no  great  thing  fo 
as,  if  we  have  the  means,  to  give  of  our  abun 
dance  to  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  naked 
or  to  build  asylums  for  the  sick  and  poor.  We  eai 
pay  other  people  to  do  good  for  us — and  that  ii 
charity  in  us,  for  the  money  is  greatly  needed,  anc 
we  make  the  widows  and  orphans  to  sing  for  joj 
when  we  give  freely — but  that  is  quite  anothei 
thing  from  taking  into  your  own  peaceful  home 
where  your  time  and  ways  are  all  your  own,  and 
peculiar  at  that  —  a  sick  girl  to  be  tended  and 
nursed  and  put  up  with,  day  after  day,  and  nighl 
af^er  night,  and  month  on  month;  all  your  habiti 
and  plans  broken  up,  and  another's  home  begun  in 
the  midst  of  your  own.  The  most  of  us  would 
give  a  great  deal  of  money  before  we  would  opes 
our  heart  and  house  to  a  stranger,  and  a  sick 
stranger,  to  live  and  die  with  us.  Bat  it  is  beau- 
tiful. It  is  very  like  Him  who  was  rich,  and  for 
our  sakes  became  poor;  who  saw  as  strangers, 
exiles,  lost,  and  provided  chambers  for  us  in  Bis 
Father's  house,  and  will  take  as  there,  that  we 
may  be  with  Him  in  glory.  The  kind,  loving, 
Christian  friends  who  have  done  this  for  a  poor 
stranger,  will  never  hskve  their  names  soQg  '^ 


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THE   HOME    CIRCLE. 


«47 


niM ;  they  hare  not  done  it  to  be  known  of  men ; 
lej  will  minifter  in  secret  to  the  wants  of  their 
ebie  charge,  do  all  oheerfnlly  for  Christ's  sake, 
bo  has  said :  '  Inasmuch  as  je  have  done  it  unto 
le  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me.' 
be  evening  of  their  days  will  be  hallowed  and 
irhaps  brightened  by  the  presence  of  the  child 
ms,  in  the  person  of  the  stranger  whom  they 
kve  taken  in.  She  may  live  and  recover  health 
d  be  the  light  of  their  dwelling,  and  by  and  by 
inister  with  grateful  tenderness  to  their  wants 
age  and  sickness.  She  may  be  an  angel  of  ' 
irey  at  their  side  when  the  night  ot  death  closes 
upon  them.  But  living  or  dying,  she  and  they 
•  the  Lord's. 
"And  is  it  not  one  of  the  sweetest  stories  you 
•rrMd?" 


WOMEN  AND  WOEK. 

"  Do  jon  know  that  ladies'  underclothing,  well- 

kde,  and  of  good  material,  can  be  bought  in  the 

J  for  one  dollar  a  garment  ?"  asked  a  lady  friend 

B  other  afternoon  as  we  were  travelling  home- 

rd  after  our  day's  duties. 

'Tes,"  we  replied;  ''and   how  much   do  you 

>poM  is   paid  for  the  making  of  these  gar- 

nts?" 

'  I  don't  know.    Twenty-five  cents  apiece  per- 

)8." 

'  No;  eight  cents  apiece,  or  one  dollar  a  dosen." 
rhen  followed  a  conversation  on  the  shamefully 
r  wages  paid  to  the  sewing- women  of  New 
rk — for,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  these  garments 

of  New  York  make. 

'Why,"  asked  our  friend,  "why  don't  you, 
Me  business  it  is  to  write,  make  an  effort  in  the 
^  of  your  magazine  in  behalf  of  these  poorly 
d  women?" 

Vhj  do  we  not?  Because  if  mere  writing 
iled  anything,  the  sewing- women  of  New  York, 
I  of  all  other  cities  would  have  been  dealt  justly 
long  ago.  Pathetic  appeals  to  employers  will 
'ays  be  disregarded.  Equally  useless  is  it  to 
;e  these  women  to  refuse  to  work  at  such  piti- 
prieea.    With  them  the  choice  lies,  or  seems  to 

between  work,  a  life  of  shame,  or  starvation. 
•  root  of  this  evil  is  deeper  than  the  surface. 
I  must  try  patiently  and  long  to  show  to  the 
maaads  of  women,  and  especially  to  the  tens  of 
loaands  of  young  girls  who  in  a  few  years  will 
p  into  their  wretched  places,  that  there  are 
ler  oeenpations  for  women  than  those  of  the 
»dle  and  sewing-maohine. 
[t  is  of  no  nse  to  talk  to  them  of  the  great  West, 
ere  women  are  searee,  and  women's  labor  brings 
^h  prices.  They  have  no  means  to  go  there, 
m  if  they  had  the  inclination.  But  there  are 
teee  they  might  fill  at  home  if  they  only  wonld. 
KTe  are  not  one  of  those  who^  as  soon  as  a  wo- 
mppans  her  month  to  aak  lor  lomething  to  do,  talk 


about  the  incompetency  of  foreign  servants,  and 
tell  her  that  the  kitchen  and  the  position  of  domes- 
tic is  open  for  her,  and  that  if  she  is  reasonable  she 
will  want  nothing  better,  nobler,  or  more  remunera- 
tive. Still  a  small  portion  of  these  suffering  wo- 
men—those whose  health  and  family  relations  will 
permit  it — might  find  a  transfer  from  their  own 
garrets  to  their  neighbors'  wealthier  kitchen  a 
change  for  the  better. 

There  are  others  who  might  go  into  the  country 
during  the  summer  months — into  the  country  im- 
mediately surrounding  the  city — and  find  health- 
ful, pleasing,  and  tolerably  profitable  occupation 
in  performing  the  lighter  portions  of  farm  labor. 
Onion  weeding,  berry,  pea,  and  bean  picking,  and 
other  things  of  a  like  nature,  women  not  only  can, 
but  do  perform  equally  with  men,  and  receive 
equal  pay. 

There  is  still  a  large  class  left  for  whom  there  is 
apparently  no  redemption  from  the  garret  But 
another  generation  might  change  all  this.  There 
are  clerkships,  telegraph  offices,  printing  offices, 
and  a  hundred  other  trades  and  occupations  (Miss 
Penny  makes  it  five  hundred  we  believe)  open  for 
girls  and  women  where  they  will  be  liberally  paid, 
and  can  maintain  an  honorable  independence. 

A  helpless,  dependent,  superficially  educated 
woman,  let  her  belong  to  what  class  she  will,  is, 
when  the  day  of  misfortune  comes,  and  she  finds 
herself  face  to  face  with  the  dire  necessity  of  self- 
exertion,  the  most  pitiable  object  in  creation ;  she 
knows  not  what  to  do,  and  to  save  herself  from 
being  swept  utterly  away  by  the  current,  she 
catches  at  every  straw.  Before  she  has  given 
quite  up  and  passively  resigned  herself  to  fate,  she 
frequently  resolves  to  try  literature.  Editors  are 
constantly  in  receipt  of  letters  running  something 
in  this  wise : 

''  Mr.  Editor,  Drar  Sir  : — I  have  formerly  been 
in  good  circumstances,  but  am  now  left  utterly 
destitute,  with  an  aged  mother  and  invalid  sister 
dependent  upon  me.  As  I  am  unable  to  sew  or 
teach,  I  am  obliged  to  resort  to  my  pen  for  a  liv- 
ing. Will  you  please  to  inform  me  what  you  pay 
for  stories,  essays,  and  poetry,  and  whether  yon 
can  engage  me  as  a  regular  contributor.  I  have 
not  had  much  practice  in  writing,  but  I  will  try 
very  hard  to  suit  you.  I  shall  await  your  reply 
with  fear  and  trembling ;  for  if  your  answer  is  not 
favorable,  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  do.  Please, 
Mr.  Editor,  remember  when  you  yourself  were 
struggling  to  make  a  beginning  in  literature,  and 
give  me  a  favorable  answer.    Yours,  in  suspense." 

There  is  nothing  cuts  one  so  to  the  heart  as  a 
pathetic  letter  like  this.  It  is  a  wail  from  <'onre 
more  unfortunate"  sinking  down  into  an  abyss, 
not  of  wickedness,  but  of  helplessness,  and  misery, 
and  hopelessness.  If  one  only  etnUd  reach  forth  a 
helping  hand  I  Not  that  we  want  omde  writing, 
but  out  of  pure  charitjr's  sake.  But  there  is  only 
one  reply  can  be  made,  and  our  sympathies  foUpw 


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ABTHUB'a    LADTB   MOME    MAGAZINE. 


that  reply  to  its  destination,  and  we  wonder  what 
the  writer  does  and  which  waj  she  turns  when  her 
hopes  prove  delusive.  If  we  knew  the  writer  in- 
dividually, we  might  he  ahle  to  see  some  way  for 
her  out  of  the  darkness;  but  we  can  only  give 
general  advice. 


The  whole  matter  resolves  itself  into  this : 
men  as  well  as  men  should  be  ^ught  to  be 
dependent  and  self-supporting,  and  amonj 
classes  of  women  labor  should  be  made  honor 
and  then  when  the  evil  day  eomes,  as  it  msy 
to  any  one,  it  will  be  deprived  of  its  worst  tei 


FRUIT   CULTURE   FOR   Lj^DIES. 

BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF  *'  QARDENINa  FOB  LADIES." 


CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES. 

STRAWBERRIES,  when  grown  in  hills— the 
most  laborious,  but  at  the  same  time  the  most 
productive  way — should  have  the  runners  cut  off 
as  they  grow.  Keep  the  surface  soil  loose,  if  ne- 
cessary, with  shallow  hoeings,  and  cover  it  lightly 
with  half- rotten  stable  litter.  If  grown  in  beds, 
do  not  let  the  runners  set  too  thickly.  For  a 
mulch,  instead  of  stable  litter,  salt,  or  bog  hay, 
straw,  or  even  cornstalks  may  be  used  advan- 
tageously. 

With  regard  to  runners,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  the  third  growth  after  the  fruiting 
makes  the  strongest,  healthiest  plants  for  forming 
new  beds.  Indeed,  the  best  way  to  grow  straw- 
berries is  to  cut  off  all  runners  until  September  or 
October.  Keep  them  well  hoed  up  to  that  time, 
and  then  allow  the  runners  to  grow  out  and  set 
along  the  row.  This  is  the  plan  recommended  by 
Purdy,  of  the  Small  Fruit  Recorder,  one  of  our 
most  experienced  cultivators.  We  have  tried  it, 
with  the  happiest  result. 

The  same  authority  recommends  the  cutting  off 
of  the  entire  top  of  the  plant  after  it  is  through 
bearing.  If  this  be  done,  the  plant  immediately 
commences  a  new  growth,  and  by  fall  becomes  a 
rank,  luxuriant  hill.  After  eutting,  manure  liber- 
ally, and  mellow  the  ground  thoroughly. 

JUNE  HINTS  FOR  THE  ORCHARD. 

THIS  month  is  generally  recommended  for 
pruning,  where  fruit  is  desired,  or  where  large 
branches  are  to  be  removed.  Young  trees  planted 
out  this  spring  may  be  brought  into  shape  by  rub- 
bing off  shoots  which  start  where  limbs  are  not 
wanted.  This  will  save  much  future  labor  in 
pruning.  Where  a  shoot  seems  to  be  growing  too 
luxuriantly,  the  young  and  tender  end  should  be 
pinched  off.  This  will  equalize  the  growth  of  the 
tree.  Grafts  need  the  same  care  as  young  trees. 
Where  two  cions  are  growing,  and  they  are  likely 
to  become  crowded,  remove  the  weaker. 

The  present  month  is  also  a  good  time  for  thin- 
ning out  the  fruit.    Though  it  m^  go  against  the 


grain,  do  not  neglect  this  truly  beneficial  pra 
Ton  will  gain  Hr  more  in  quality  by  it  thai 
lose  in  quantity,  and  your  trees  will  be  heal 
and  more  likely  to  produce  a  good  crop  next 
Over-bearing  is  undoubtedly  one  cause,  if  n< 
only  one,  of  trees  producing  a  crop  but  on 
every  two  or  three  years. 

During  this  month  the  war  against  insects 
be  waged  vigorously.  Go  among  the  treei 
quently,  and  destroy  the  nests  of  caterpi 
The  eggs  of  some  insects  are  laid  upon  the  U 
and  a  whole  colony  may  be  found  upon  a 
branch.  It  will  be  better  to  cut  this  off  and  bi 

Be  on  the  watch  for  the  little  striped  beetl 
larvao  of  which  is  known  as  the  apple-tree  1 
It  makes  its  appearance  this  month,  coming 
the  tree  by  night,  at  which  time  it  flies  fron 
to  tree  for  food  or  companions,  resting  in  the 
time  among  the  leaves  of  the  tree  on  wh 
feeds.  In  June,  July,  and  sometimes  in  Ai 
it  deposits  its  eggs  on  the  bark  of  the  tree, 
near  the  ground. 

Knowing  this  habit,  many  of  these  eggs  m 
destroyed  by  scraping  around  the  base  of  the 
and  washing  it  with  strong  soap  suds,  durin 
last  week  in  August. 

The  larvsB,  or  young  borers,  fh>m  these  egg 
fleshy,  round,  whitish  grubs,  without  le{ 
wings.  They  eat  through  the  bark  and  n 
there  the  flrst  winter,  marking  their  entr 
by  a  little  pyramid  of  borings,  which  be 
their  hiding-places,  in  which  they  can  be< 
found  and  destroyed.  The  next  seaaon  they 
trate  the  wood,  throwing  out  dust,  or  cnl 
like  saw- dust,  by  which  they  may  be  traced; 
rally  ascending  as  they  proceed  and  boring  d 
into  the  tree.  It  then  becomes  a  fhil-| 
borer. 

The  third  seaaon,  nearly  two  years  from  ii 
trance,  it  approaches  the  surface,  where  it  ai 
goes  its  final  transformation,  becomes  a  beetl< 
leaves  the  tree.  This  borer  aomeUmes  enter 
tree  several  feet  above  the  ground,  and  oces 
ally  enters  the  limbs  near  the  stem. 

Their  presence  m»y  be  Ascertained  by  theii 
tings,  or  dost,  and  the  hole  where  this  has 
east  out  discerned  by  a  little  practice  and 
When  found,  insert  a  wire  with  a  very  small 


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isod  np  on  t^  end,  by  which  the  inTader  may 
)  drawn  ont  and  killed. 

Daring  the  present  month  slngfl  will  be  likely  to 
tpear  upon  the  leaves  of  yotir  pear  and  cherry 
MS.  They  are  little,  unsightly  fellows,  of  a 
eenish  color.  Fill  a  bag,  made  of  coarse  cloth, 
ith  lime,  or  dry  dnst,  and  shake  it  over  them, 
leir  room  is  better  than  their  company. 
Be  careful  to  water  your  newly-planted  fmit 
»e8  in  dry  weather.  Mulching,  after  the  water- 
It  is  highly  beneficial.  Should  they^  leaf  ont 
inly,  it  indicates  some  injury  to  the  roots,  to 
nedy  which  severe  pruning  is  required.  But  do 
it  let  them  bear,  unless  they  are  growing  thrift- 
r.  In  that  case,  a  few  "  specimens"  may  be  left 
the  trees. 

JUNE  MANAGEMENT  OF  GRAPES. 

1  RAPES  first  ooming  into  bearing,  says  the 
r  Oardenert'  Monthly,  should  not  be  allowed  to 
rfect  large  crops  of  fruit.  A  bunch  or  so  may 
allowed  to  fmit,  ''just  to  test  the  kind,"  but  no 
ore.  Vigorous  growth  and  great  productiveness 
e  the  antipodes  of  the  vegetable  world.  En- 
arage  the  growth  of  leaves,  and  aim  to  have  as 
rong  shoots  at  the  base  as  at  the  top  of  the  cane, 
lis  can  be  done  by  pinching  out  the  points  of  the 
roDg  shoots  after  they  have  made  a  growth  of 
e  or  six  leaves.  Young  vines  grow  much  faster 
er  a  twiggy  branch,  stuck  up  for  support,  than 
er  a  straight  stock  as  a  trellis,  and  generally  do 
tter  every  way.  Where  extra  fine  bunches  are 
sired,  pinch  back  the  bearing  shoot  to  about 
ir  or  five  leaves  above  the  bunch.  This  should 
t  be  done  indiscriminately  with  all  the  bunches. 
K>  much  pinching  operates  against  the  produc- 
in  of  g»od  wood  for  next  season. 

PEAR  BLIGHT. 

IS  appearance  is  plainly  that  of  vegetation 
perishing  instantly,  as  if  by  electricity ;  some- 
aes  it  will  be  in  the  middle  part  of  a  limb,  leav- 
K  life  in  either  extremity,  only,  however,  with 
«sibUity  of  living  long  in  the  root  end.  The 
ne  of  its  presence  is  almost  always  immediately 
ter  a  season  of  much  rain,  succeeded  by  intense 
n  heat  My  opinion,  therefore,  of  this  disea^ 
•  that  it  is  the  result  of  an  extra  or  superabun- 
uit  flow  of  sap,  caused  by  very  propitious  grow- 
g  weather,  which,  when  blight  happens,  has 
wn  heated  to  an  unhealthy  temperature  by  the 
tn*  It  therefore  resembles  the  effects  of  a  teald, 
»d  is  like  a  tree  dead  fh>m  the  too  near  applica- 
I  n  of  fire,  excepting  the  presence  of  wilt,  in  the 
•^er.  It  oannot  ocenr  frequently,  in  my  opinion, 
i  a  tree  meagrely  supplied  with  sap.  Its  presence 
generally  manifested,  in  this  latitude,  in  the 
^^(h  of  June,  before  the  period  of  mooh  ripening 


of  wood,  or  A^^^^s^ — 9^^9  ^  generous  season  of 
rain  and  durin^l^TSMF^ot  sun  weather. 

Boot-pruning  iMf  we  believe,  the  only  remedy 
for,  or  better,  perhaps,  preventive  of  pear  blight 
It  has  been  shown  that,  to  produce  pear  blight, 
there  is  nothing  surer  than  to  use  the  pruning- 
knife  freely  on  a  thriftily-growing  tree  in  June. 
Should  the  roots  of  such  a  tree  be  pruned  at  the 
same  time  with  the  branches,  blight  will  not  ensue. 
We  have  seen  the  experiment  tried,  with  ju&t  such 
results. 

GENERAL  HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

Currants. — If  your  currant  bushes  throw  up 
many  suckers,  take  out  a  portion  now,  instead  of 
waiting  till  winter  to  cut  them  away.  Set  soAe 
pieces  of  gummy  fly-paper  among  your  bushes,  to 
catch  the  currant-borer  beetles.  The  larvss  of 
these  beetles  are  great  pests,  eating  out  the  pith  of 
the  young  shoots,  and  causing  them  to  grow  poorly 
and  bear  but  small  fruit  next  year.  Mulching 
around  the  bushes  will  be  of  great  service,  if  the 
weather  is  dry.  Be  on  the  watch  for  the  currant 
worms.  The  surest  remedy  against  their  attacks 
is  to  dust  the  bushes  with  powdered  white  helle- 
bore, by  means  of  a  fine  dredging-box.  Air- 
slacked  lime,  in  fine* powder,  is  also  said  to  be  a 
certain  remedy.  As  hellebore  is  a  deadly  poison, 
it  should  be  used  with  great  caution,  and  not  at 
all  until  you  have  tried  the  powdered  lime  and 
found  it  to  be  of  no  avaiL 

The  same  general  directions  will  apply  as  well 
to  gooseberries. 

Blackbbrrub. — Do  not  let  the  new  canes  grow 
higher  than  four  or  five  feet  Pinch  off  the  tops, 
and  many  side  branches  will  be  thrown  out,  which, 
in  their  turn,  are  to  be  pinched,  when  from  a  foot 
to  a  foot  and  a-half  long.  Remember  that  a  black- 
blackberry  is  not  necessarily  a  ripe  one.  When 
the  berry  parts  readily  from  the  stalk,  and  not  till 
then,  it  is  ripe.  It  is  then  sweet  and  luscious,  and 
totally  unlike  the  hard,  sour  things  one  usually 
has  to  buy  for  ripe  blackberries. 

Raspberries.— It  is  recommended  to  let  but 
four  new  canes  grow  to  a  stool,  all  others  being 
removed  unless  needed  for  planting.  We  ha^ 
found  it  of  great  advantage  to  pinch  back  the  new 
shoots  as  directed  above  in  regard  to  blackberries. 
A  very  cheap  and  simple  plan  for  training  rasp- 
berry bashes  is  given  by  Mr.  Fuller,  in  his  Small 
Fruit  Culturift,  It  is  to  drive  a  stake  each  side  of 
a  stool,  and  nail  a  barrel  hoop  to  them,  at  a  suffi- 
cient height  The  canes  are  to  be  trained  up 
through  the  hoop,  and  fastened  to  it,  so  as  to  pre- 
vent them  Arom  blowing  about  Our  amateur 
growers  must  bear  in  mind  that  raspberry  canes 
bear  fruit  but  onoe.  After  the  fVuit  is  off,  the  old 
canes  must  be  removed,  and  the  new  ones  trained 
up  to  take  their  places. 


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iDY'a   HOME   MAGAZIh^^ 


IT  maj  be  that  some  of  our  4^^  readers  find  the 
aeatoesB  of  their  flower-be^s  sadly  marred  at 
times  by  that  little  worker  in  the  dark,  the  mole. 
For  their  benefit,  we  olip  the  following  paragraphs, 
which  we  find  eommunioated  to  the  Cineinnati 
GaB9tU: 

"  Doubtless,  moles  do  good  in  certain  eases ;  and 
if  the  soil  is  infested  with  <  wire-worms,'  or  other 
worms  on  which  they  are  known  to  feed,  they 
should  be  encouraged. 

"  But  if  there  are  none  of  these  worms  about, 
and  if  one  happens  to  have  a  fancy  for  tulips. 


hyaohiths,  and  lilies,  (pity  thaCmore  did  not  he 
this  faney,)  then  friendly  relations  with  th 
moleships  oan  hardly  exist  The  dimiaati 
quadruped  Kill  not  comprehend  how  the  Chal( 
donian  lily  should  bo  worth  fifty  cents  merely 
look  at,  when  it  will  make  him  so  good  a  diuDei 
**  And  so  to  sare  the  bulbs,  erect  a  scare-mo 
wbieh  is  nothing  more  than  the  little  windn 
made  by  the  boys  as  a  plaything.  Set  it  on  a  p' 
of  any  kind,  at  an  elevation  of  six  or  eight  fc 
so  that  it  can  turn  and  rattle  with  every  wii 
This  will  protect  a  circle  of  thirty  feet  diamet 
The  little  creatures  don't  seem  to  like  the  noi 
the  sound  of  whioh  the  post  readily  conducts 
the  ground,  and  therefore  they  soon  make  the 
selves  scarce." 


HOUSEKEEPERS'  DEPA-RTIVIENT. 


RECEIPXa 

Charlottb  Rubse.— Boil  together  a  half  a  pint 
of  milk  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  sugar ;  then 
beat  up  the  yelks  of  four  eggs,  add  them  to  the  milk, 
and  let  it  come  to  aboil,  and  then  take  it  off  the  fire. 
Have  dissolved  in  half  a  pint  of  warm  water,  about 
a  quarter  of  the  quantity  of  gelatine  contained  in 
a  box,  and  put  this  into  the  milk  after  it  is  removed 
from  the  fire  ,*  flavor  it,  and  stir  into  it  one  and  a 
half  pints  of  cream  which  has  been  beaten  to  a 
froth.  Set  the  preparation  away — stirring  it  ooca- 
iionally — and  let  it  remain  until  it  congeals  sufB- 
oiently  to  bear  the  impression  of  a  spoon.  The 
previous  day  to  making  this  custard,  bake  a  sponge 
cake,  and  when  ready  to  use  it,  cut  off  the  top, 
oarefuUy,  and  hollow  out  the  body  of  the  oake, 
and  then,  when  the  custard  is  sufliciently  stiff,  (as 
stated  above,)  pat  it  into  the  oake,  and  plaee  the 
portion  whioh  was  ont  off  over  it,  as  a  corer.  If 
you  wish  to  serve  it  Tory  nioely,  iee  it. 

Potted  Shad. — After  thoroughly  cleaning  your 
shad,  cut  off  its  head,  and  cut  it,  crosswise,  into 
four  pieces,  and  put  it  into  a  stone  jar,  on  the  bot- 
tom of  which  sprinkle  an  onion — finely  cut — some 
cloves,  and  allspice;  then  a  layer  of  fish;  then 
doves  and  spices,  with  plenty  of  ground  cayenne 
and  black  pepper;  and  in  the  centre  another  onion 
IBnely  sliced.  Continue  this,  layer  upon  layer,  un- 
til you  have  disposed  of  your  fish,  making  the  last 
layer  to  be  of  spices,  etc.  Then  pour  in  plenty  of 
strong  vinegar,  tie  up  the  Jar  with  several  thick- 
nesses of  muslin  and  paper,  and  bake  for  ten  or 
twelve  hours  in  a  slow  oven. 

Stewbd  Giblets. — Clean  the  giblets  well,  and 
boil  them  the  day  before  they  are  to  be  used.  Cut 
them  up  fine,  butter,  and  season  them  well,  and 
stew  them  nicely,  adding  a  small  portion  of  flour 
to  the  gravy. 

To  SoRAMBLB  EooB. — Put  a  small  pieoe  of  bntter* 
and  a  little  salt  and  pepper,  into  a  spider.  As  soon  aa 


hot  (do  not  let  the  butter  sooreh),  break  the  eg 
in  quickly,  and  stir  very  briskly  until  done  enon[ 
Be  sure  that  they  do  not  get  too  hard ;  they  1 
eook  very  quickly. 

Omblbttb  Soufflb. — Separate  the  whites  fin 
the  yelks  of  six  eggs,  taking  care  to  remove  \ 
specks;  add  to  the  yelks  two  spoonfuls  of  c 
powdered  sugar,  and  a  little  lemon-juice;  w( 
them  well  together.  Whip  the  whites  until  tb 
are  firm,  and  then  mix  them  with  the  other  ing 
dients.  Put  a  small  piece  of  butter  into  a  fryii 
pan,  let  it  melt  over  a  slow  fire ;  then  add  in  I 
omelette,  taking  great  care  that  it  does  not  bni 
turn  it  out  upon  a  dish,  and  strew  sugar  over 
then  put  it  into  the  oven.  When  it  has  risen,  str 
more  sugar  over  it,  and  serve  it  Orange-floi 
water  may  be  used  instead  of  lemon-juice. 

Prepared  Codfish. — Soak  or  boil  the  cod! 
sufficiently  to  free  it  fyom  salt,  and  then  pick 
into  flakes.  Mix  it  with  mashed  potatoes  and  bai 
boiled  ggs,  chop  it  all  together  very  fine,  and  ba 

it  until  it  is  well  done.     Serve  it  with  egg  sauc< 

• 
CoMPOBiTion  Cake. — Cream  one  pound  and 
quarter  of  butter,  and  then  add  into  it  three  quart 
of  a  pound  of  sugar.  Have  ready  six  eggs,  a 
beat  one  egg  at  a  time  into  the  butter  and  augi 
afterwards  gradually  pour  in  half  a  pint  of  mi 
Flavor  with  nutmeg  or  essence  of  lemon.  Add 
a  pound  and  a  half  of  sifted  flour.  Dissolve  a  U 
spoonful  of  soda,  and  a  teaspoonful  of  tarta 
acid,  or  two  teaspoon fuls  of  cream  of  tartar  se[ 
rately,  in  small  portions  of  warm  water.  Stir  i 
soda  first  into  the  batter,  and  then  the  aoid.  Les 
out  of  the  quantity  of  milk  as  much  of  it  as  « 
equal  the  quantity  of  water  used  for  the  soda  a 
acid.    Bake  the  oake  for  one  hour. 

Purrs.— Hare  ready  ntae  eggs,  one  quart 
sweet  milk,  twelve  tablespoonf^ls  of  flour,  and 
pinoh  of  salt.    Bake  the  pnffk  for  twenty  or  twent 
flTe  miautet. 


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351 


ToKATO  Soup. — Patyoar  Btew-psn,  with  a  little 
wmter  in  it,  on  th«  stoye,  and  them  put  in  yonr  to- 
matoeB,  baring  first  taken  the  skine  off  by  scald- 
ing^ and  while  oooking  chop  them  fine.  When 
dene,  pour  in  hot  water  enough  to  make  a  thin 
lonpi  salt  to  your  taste^  and  pepper  enough  to  make 
pretty  hot.  Pour  out  in  yonr  soup  plates,  and  put 
i  lump  of  butter  the  sise  of  a  large  hickory-nut 
in  each.    Eat  while  hot. 

G'BBM AN  PcFrs. — Melt  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of 
^tter,  and  mix  it  well  with  half  a  pound  of  flour; 
idd  one  quart  of  milk,  8  eggs — well  beaten— some 
irated  nutmeg,  and  some  cinnamon.  Beat  the 
ingredients  well  together,  and  bake  the  mixture 
in  cops.  Fill  your  cups  but  half  full,  as  the  puff 
rises  rery  high. 


CusTABD  PAJiCAiLEa.— Beat  well  together  5  eggs, 
one  pint  of  milk,  eight  or  nine  spoonfuls  of  flour, 
and  a  small  portion  of  salt  Ibis  quantity  of  ma- 
terial is  sufficient  for  two  cakes.  Bake  them  in 
lard,  as  you  do  other  pancakes. 

A  RiLiSH  FOR  Brbaktast  or  LtTNCH.  Take  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  cheese,  good  and  fresh ;  out 
it  up  in  thin  slices  and  put  it  in  a  "spider,"  turn* 
ing  oTer  it  a  large  cnpfiil  of  sweet  milk,  and  a 
quarter  of  a  teaspoonf^l  of  dry  mustard,  a  dash  of 
pepper,  a  little  salt  and  a  pieoe  of  butter  as  large 
as  a  butternut ;  stir  the  mixture  all  the  time.  Have 
at  hand  three  Boston  crackers,  finely  pounded  or 
rolled,  and  sprinkle  them  in  gradually ;  as  soon  as 
they  are  stirred  in,  turn  out  the  contents  into  a 
warm  dish  and  serve.    It  is  rery  delicious. 


NETV   I>UBLIOu^TIOISrS. 


Pbtsioal  TsAnmca  or  GmLDixn;  or,  Advice  to  Parents,  i 
By  Fye  Henry  Ghavasse,  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Ck)l-  < 
lege  of  Surgeons  of  England ;  author  of  **  Advice  to 
a  Wife  on  the  Management  of  her  o«m  Health,"  etc. 
With  a  Preliminary  Dissertation  by  F.  H.  Getchel, 
M.  D.«  Clinical  Lecturer  on  the  Diseases  of  Women 
sod  Children  at  the  Jefferson  Medical  College,  etc. 
Philadelphia:  New  World  Publishing  Company f  No.  2 
Booth  Seventh  Street 

Though  holding  certain  prejudices  against  sub- 
leription  books  generally,  we  yet  find  much  in  the 
[irssent  volume  to  recommend  it  favorably  to  par- 
mts,  to  whom  it  is  particularly  addressed.  It  is 
irritten  in  a  popular  style,  and  in  language  easily 
mderstood.  Though  more  in  consonance  with 
Bngliah  than  American  notions,  its  teachings  and 
Itreetions  ar«,  in  the  main,  sensible  and  judicious. 
Parents  will  find  it  a  reliable  guide  and  adviser,  in 
ill  that  relates  to  the  bodily  care  and  training  of  \ 
their  children  from  the  moment  of  birth  to  puberty, 
[a  the  medieal  treatment  of  the  diseases  of  chil- 
iren,  the  author  is  a  follower  of  what  is  called  the 
"regular"  system;  Uiough,  for  the  most  part,  he 
•eems  to  rely  more  upon  f^esh  air,  exercise,  bath- 
ing, and  diet,  than  upon  physic.  A  copious  index 
raiders  the  work  oonvenient  for  reference  in  cases 
of  sudden  emergeaey.  It  is  beautifully  illustrated 
with  highly  finished  steel  engravings.  Being  pub- 
lished on  subs<»^>tioBy  it  is  to  be  obtained  only  of 
igeats. 

HiAvnwABn  Lkd;  or,  The  Two  Bequests.  By  Jane  B. 
Somers.  Philadelphia:  Porter  it  Ooatea,  822  Chest- 
nut Street 

This  seems  to  us  te  be  the  first  effort  of  a  young 
I  id  inexperieneed  author.  It  is  not  without  a 
eiBtam  iateiesti  but,  as  a  literary  performance, 
has  slight  elaimi   to    any  special  recommenda- 

UOR. 


Miknisota;  its  Character  and  Climate.  By  Ledyard 
Bill,  author  of  "A  Winter  in  Florida,"  etc  New 
York:  (Food <« iToIbroo^  16 Laight Street 

Tourists  and  health- seekers  will  obtain  from  this 
little  volume  much  information  of  practical  value. 
Emigrants,  also,  will  find  in  it  many  useful  hints. 
For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Claxton,  Remsen  A 
Haffelfinger. 

Ovsa  TEX  Ookah;  or,  Sights  and  Scenes  in  Foreign 
Lands.  By  Curtis  Quild,  Editor  of  the  Boston  Com- 
mercial Bulletin.    Boston :  Lee  dt  SK^pard, 

A  lively,  gossiping  book  of  European  travel,  in 
which  the  author,  by  giving  many  minute  particu- 
lars of  things  passing  under  his  observation,  which 
are  generally  considered  of  too  little  importance  to 
be  written  about,  has  succeeded  in  presenting  to 
his  readers  a  pleasant  and  interesting  record  of  his 
wanderings  in  foreign  lands.  Though  his  subject 
is  an  old  one,  bis  mode  of  treating  it  possesses  the 
charm  of  novelty.  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co.  have  the 
book  for  sale  in  this  city. 

Thx  Duxl  bktwbxn  Fbaitob  and  GsRHAirr,  with  its  Les- 
son to  Civilization.  Lecture  by  Charles  Sumner. 
Boston:  Lee <i Shepard. 

A  brilliant  and  forcible  lecture,  in  which  the 
recent  contest  between  Fra'tace  and  Germany  is 
Inade  the  text  for  an  earnest  appeal  for  the  abro- 
gation of  war  as  a  means  of  settling  disputes  be- 
tween nations.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Turner 
Brothers  A  Co. 

GumiBiaQ,  Aim  thb  Abt  or  Puhtiho.  By  Emily  C. 
Bearson,  author  of  "Ruth's  Sacrifice,"  ** Prince 
Paul,"  etc.  Boston:  Noyest  Holmes  di  Co.,  U7  Wash- 
ington Street. 

The  greater  portion  of  this  entertaining  volume 
is  devoted  to  an  account  of  the  life  and  labors  of 
John  Gutenberg,  of  Mentz,  the  father  of  the  art  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


352 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


printing.  The  story  is  one  of  romantic  intoresty 
and  graphically  depicts  the  struggles  of  the  famous 
inventor.  We  get  in  the  coarse  of  the  narrative 
many  delightful  pio tares  of  Gatenherg's  home-life, 
in  which  his  faithful  and  loving  "  lady  Anna,"  with 
her  taste  for  flowers  and  her  cheery  words  of  com- 
fort for  the  struggling  Artisan,  forms  an  attractive 
feature.  The  Uter  chapters  give  a  succinct  ootline 
of  the  history  of  the  progress  of  printing  to  the 
present  time.  The  book  is  one  that  exhibits  mooh 
research,  and  is  a  valuable  contribution  to  our 
knowledge  of  the  subjects  upon  which  it  treats. 
For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippinoott  A  Co. 

Tu 6a»-Gok8DMJDi*b  Gums.    Boston:  AUxtaider Moore 

This  is  a  useftQ  little  hand-book  of  instruction  in 
regard  to  the  proper  management  and  economical 
use  of  gas.  It  also  contains  a  full  description  of 
the  gas-metre,  with  directions  for  ascertaining  by 
it  the  amount  of  gas  consumed.  The  chemistry  of 
gas-lighting  and  ventilation  have  each  a  chapter 
devoted  to  them.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J. 
B.  Lippinoott  &  Co. 

Thb  Wovdbss  Of  ENORAvnro.  By  Georges  Duplessis. 
Illustrated  with  thirty-four  wood  Engravings.  New 
York :  CharUt  Seribner  dt  Cb. 

Those  desirous  of  obtaining  a  pleasantly  written 
and  interesting  history  of  engraving,  together  with 


an  insight  into  the  various  processes  of  the  art,  will 
find  this  little  voiame  quite  an  aoeeptable  one.  It 
belongs  to  the  "  Illustrated  Library  of  Wonders," 
a  series  that  has  done  much  towards  popularizing 
the  arts  and  seienoes,  especially  with  the  young. 
For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippinoott  A  Co. 

Geuden's  Computs  Conoobdaiicb.  a  Dictionary  and 
Alphabetical  Index  to  the  Bible.  By  Alexander 
Cruden. 

No  student  of  the  Bible  can  do  withcut  thli 
work.  We  are  glad  to  see  a  new  edition  at  a 
greatly  reduced  price ;  not  pooriy  made,  but  well 
printed  on  fine  but  thin  paper,  and  substantially 
bound.  The  old  price  in  cloth  was  $4 — this  is  sold 
at  $2.75 ;  or  for  $3.50  in  sheep  instead  of  $5.  This 
work  is  a  complete  dictionary  and  alphabetieal 
index  to  the  Bible  and  the  Apocrypha ;  it  gives 
the  signification  of  the  principal  words,  by  which 
their  true  meanings  in  Scripture  are  shown;  it 
gives  an  account  of  Jewish  customs  and  oere- 
monies,  illustrative  of  many  portions  of  the  sacred 
record ;  and  a  concordance  of  the  proper  names  of 
the  Bible,  with  their  meaning  in  the  original.  For 
sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Claxton,  Remsen  A  Haffsl- 
finger. 

Mad  MoircToir ;  and  Other  Tales.    By  Wilkie  CoIIina 

One  of  Collins's  earlier  works.  Published  by  T. 
B.  Peterson  dk  Brothers,  Philadelphia. 


EDITORS'   DEP^HTMENT. 


PHII1ADBI4PHIA  HOUSIfi  OF  RSFUQIE. 

We  have  received  a  copy  of  an  address  delivered, 
at  the  laying  of  the  oomer-stone  of  the  new  build- 
ings of  the  white  female  department  of  the  House 
of  Refuge,  by  Jamei  J.  Barclay,  President  of  that 
Institution. 

It  is  now  forty-two  years  since  the  first  build- 
ings designed  for  a  house  of  refuge  were  dedicated. 
They  were  situated  on  Coates  Street,  between  fif- 
teenth and  Sixteenth  Streets.  Twenty-four  years 
later,  the  corner-stone  of  the  present  extensive 
structure  was  laid.  The  new  buildings,  the  corner- 
stone of  which  was  laid  in  September  last,  are  to 
be  erected  on  lots  on  Twentyseoond  Street,  be- 
tween College  Avenue  and  Poplar  Street,  and  im- 
mediately adjoining  the  present  buildings.  They 
will  front  forty-six  feet  on  Twenty-Second  Street, 
and  have  a  depth  of  two  hundred  and  twenty-two 
feet,  with  two  wings,  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
feet  in  length,  at  right  angles  with  the  main  build- 
ing, at  a  distance  of  flfty-two  feet  fh>m  the  line 
of  the  front.  The  buildings  will  be  three  stories 
in  height,  and  built  of  brick  above  the  basement. 
The  front  is  to  be  of  pressed  brick,  with  an  orna- 
mented portico  and  window  dressings  of  Franklin 
stone.    The  most  approved  methods  for  lighting. 


ventilating,  and  warming  have  been,  adopted. 
The  plan  of  the  new  buildings  will  allow  of  a  far 
better  olaseifioation  of  the  inmates  than  is  now  ii 
use.  They  will  be  divided  into  four  clussi^ 
and  graded  according  to  their  moral  character. 
The  larger  girls  will  have  separate  sleeping-roomi 
as  at  present ;  but  the  smaller  ones  will  occupy 
one  large  chamber  under  the  immediate  super- 
vision of  a  monitress. 

When  the  new  buildings  are  finished  and  ocen- 
pied  by  the  girls,  the  apartments  they  now  use 
will  be  appropriated  to  a  portion  of  the  white  boys. 
This  will  affbrd  an  opportunity  of  making  a  mors 
judicious  classification  of  them,  by  separating 
them  into  four  classes,  graded  according  to  tfcs 
moral  advancement  of  their  numbers. 

Though  at  the  time  of  its  establishment  con- 
sidered by  many  as  an  experiment  of  dottbtfnl 
utility,  the  operations  of  the  House  of  Refuge 
notwithstanding  occasional  alleged  mismanage- 
ments, have  given  the  most  convincing  evidei  ^ 
of  the  advantages  of  such  schools  of  refbrmati<  ^ 
When  the  comer-stone  of  the  first  building  w-. 
laid,  there  was  but  one  similar  institntion  in  the 
country.  Now  few  of  the  leallag  eiUes  of  the 
Union  are  without  one.    Nor  are  they  confined  (s 


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353 


nerie*.  In  Grtat  BriUin,  Belgium,  Holland, 
irmany,  and  Franoei  nnmerouB  reformatory 
lools,  laoh  a«  ifl  our  Houpe  of  Refuge,  have  been 
Ablished,  everywhere  performing  an  nndoubt- 
ly  good  work.  The  most  celebrated  is  that  at 
sttray,  near  Tours.  To  its  success,  a  distin- 
ished  philanthrophist,  M.  de  Metz,  has  conse- 
nted bis  life,  his  talents,  and  his  fortune. 
During  the  forty-two  years  of  its  existence,  the 
mae  of  Refuge  has  afforded  instruction  and 
>ral  training  to  ten  thousand  five  hundred  young 
noiM,  of  both  sexes.  "  We  do  not  hope,"  says 
r.  Barclay,  **  we  dare  not  hope,  that  sJl  of  this 
rge  number  have  beoome  virtuous  members  of 
rietj ;  but,  if  space  permitted,  I  could  adduce 
ndreds  of  instances  in  which  our  wards  have 
untaiued  an  excellent  reputation.  Many  of 
em  are  quietly  and  unobtrusively  pursuing  their 
oeations,  while  few,  very  few  of  them  are  known 
'  as  to  have  committed  crime  or  to  have  been  in 
llj," 


M  THB  HAIVK  AND  THB  DOTE.*' 

The  picture,  thus  entitled,  which  we  present 
IB  month,  is  designed  to  illustrate  an  incident 
id  to  have  occurred  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
M>d  of  a  city  in  Mexico.  The  story  is  told  of  a 
»torious  brigand,  long  famous  for  his  ferocity  and 
ood-thirstiness — the  terror  not  only  of  traT^ellers, 
it  of  the  people  of  the  entire  district  which  was 
le  theatre  of  his  exploits.  He  had  carried  off  to 
is  stronghold  in  the  mountains — so  the  story 
ma — a  little  girl,  the  only  child  of  a  wealthy 
laater,  expecting  to  obtain  from  its  parents  a  rich 
insom.  But  the  innocent,  artless  ways  of  his 
ittle  captive  seem  to  have  found  a  tender  spot  in 
le  heart  of  this  eruel  outlaw.  In  vain  the  be- 
taved  parents  endeavored  by  ever-inereasing 
iisrs  of  gold  to  induce  him  to  give  back  to  them 
heir  darli6g.  His  love  for  the  child  had  become 
tronger  than  the  desire  for  money ;  she  was  dearer 
D  him  even  than  life  itself;  and  neither  bribes  nor 
hreats  eould  shake  the  tenacity  with  which  he 
low  elung  to  her. 

Finally,  the  parents  induced  the  authorities  to 
ake  the  matter  of  the  child's  recovery  earnestly 
n  hand.  Parties  of  troops  were  sent  out  to  scour 
be  eonntry  in  every  direction.  The  wild  region 
n  which  the  brigand  lurked  was  surrounded. 
[)riven  from  one  secret  place  to  another,  he  yet 
dung  constantly  to  his  little  captive,  no  peril,  no 
Jiance  of  escape,  being  sufficient  to  induce  him  to 
;>artwith  her.  At  last,  his  expedients  were  all 
ixbaasted.  Discovered  in  his  last  hiding-place, 
le  was  driven  from  it.  He  fled  to  the  summit  of 
I  %ll  cliff,  where  finding  all  further  effort  useless, 
i  tamed  on  bis  pursuers,  whom  be  saw  advancing 
\  /ard  him  on  every  side.  He  made  no  attempt 
Eo  use  his  weapons,  fearing  to  provoke  a  contest 
irhieh  might  result  in  injury  to  his  little  captive. 
[Jlasping  the  ohUd  ia  his  arms,  he  covered  it 


with  kisses,  and  then  placing  it  where  it  was 
in  no  danger  and  could  easily  be  discovered  by 
those  in  pursuit  of  it,  he  deliberately  put  a  pistol 
to  his  temples  and  fired.  When  his  pursuers 
reached  him,  the  miserable  man  was  lifeless.  Even 
in  death  he  seemed  to  have  thought  only  of  the 
innoceat  child  that  he  had  loved  so  strangely,  and 
yet  with  such  depth  of  devotion ;  for  his  eyes  wefe 
turned  toward  the  spot  where  he  had  laid  her,  and 
a  soft  smile  shed  a  tender  light  over  his  otherwise 
stem  and  ferocious  features,  as  if  at  the  supreme 
moment  his  heart  had  gone  out  to  the  little  one. 

The  artist  has  pictured  the  brigand  at  the  mo^ 
ment  when,  having  gained  the  summltof  the  rock, 
he  turned  to  look  back  at  his  pursuers.  The  scene 
is  brought  vividly  before  our  eyes,  and  the  picture 
is  one  that  will  bear  study. 

SIBIPIjICITT  and  BLBGANOfi. 

Under  this  head,  7%«  Golden  Age,  Mr.  TUton's 
new  paper,  has  some  excellent  thoughts,  which  we 
transfer  to  the  Home  Magazine.  Let  them  be 
read  and  pondered.  American  social  life  is  losing 
all  its  sweetness  through  a  vain  ambition  for  dis- 
play. It  is  high  time  that  a  new  order  of  things 
began : 

**  One  of  the  lessons  our  people  greatly  need  to 
learn,"  says  The  Oolden  Age,  "  is  the  superiority  of 
simplicity  and  elegance  to  that  extravagance  and 
display  which  are  fashionable  everywhere  among 
us  at  the  present  time.  The  style  of  living,  the 
furnishing  of  our  houses,  the  mode  of  dress,  the 
equipage,  and,  in  short,  the  entire  arrangements  of 
our  life,  are  quite  as  offensiye  to  refined  taste  as 
they  are  seriously  objectionable  on  economic 
grounds.  Ostentation  takes  the  place  of  elegance, 
and  the  ambition  to  outdo  the  others  in  the  matter 
of  expense  is  more  conspicuously  apparent  than 
any  refinement  of  culture  or  serviceable  end. 

''It  would  be  well  if  more  of  our  people  would 
study  the  best  models  of  style  among  the  aristoc- 
racy for  whom  they  affect  so  much  veneration.  In 
the  families  of  many  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of 
England,  possessing  an  unusual  income,  which  of 
itself  would  be  an  ample  fortune,  there  is  greater 
economy  of  dress,  and  more  simplicity  in  the  fur- 
nishing of  the  dwelling,  than  there  is  in  many  of 
the  houses  of  our  citizens,  who  are  barely  able  to 
supply  the  daily  wants  of  their  families  by  the 
closest  application  to  business.  They  have  more 
servants  than  we  do,  but  labor  is  much  cheaper 
there  than  here.  But  English  ladies  make  more 
account  of  one  silk  dress  than  ours  do  of  twenty. 
They  generally  dress  in  plain,  substantial  gar- 
ments, neatly  trimmed,  reserving  their  costlier 
articles  and  jewelry  for  great  occasions;  and 
would  look  with  suspicion  upon  the  woman  who 
decked  herself  in  drawing-room  attire  for  a  shop- 
ping excursion,  sweeping  the  street  with  her  trail. 
Instead  of  turning  their  nimitnre  out  of  door  every 
two  or  three  years  and  replacing  it  with  new  and 
fashionable  styles,  they  take  pride  in  preserving 
the  articles  that  were  used  by  their  ancestors,  and 
value  them  quite  as  much  for  their  simplicity, 
solidity,  and  age  as  for  the  associations  connected 
with  them.  Even  their  carpets  are  used  years 
longer  than  ours  before  they  think  of  replacing 
them,  and  their  chinawaie  has,  in  many  instanoe^ 


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854 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   EOUE   MAGAZINE. 


been  in  and  oat  of  fashion  twenty  times  since  it 
wss  made.  How  much  belter  it  would  be  for  our 
people  to  oatch  the  spirit  of  such  a  conservatism  as 
this,  and  exchange  extravagance  for  elegance, 
vulgar  ostentation  for  simplicity  and  refinement ! 
The  amount  of  waste  in  our  American  homes  in 
useless  and  essentially  vulgar  display  is  appalling 
even  to  oontemplate.  A  wholesome  reform  in  this 
particular  should  be  lABtitated  at  once.'' 


BTIBS  TIBHNA  DBMOIUBBT. 

Miss  Vienna  Demoresti  the  daughter  of  Madame 
Demorest,  the  New  York  leader  of  fashion,  is 
achieving  quite  a  reputation  as  a  musician.  As  a 
composer,  she  displays  rare  abilities,  and  her 
polkas,  mazurkas,  and  galops  are  played  by  Dod- 
worth's.  Baker's,  and  other  bands.  She  also  bids 
fair  to  excel  as  a  vocalist  Those  who  are  qualified 
to  Judge,  deelare  her  voice  to  possess  <' exceeding 
beauty,  flexibility,  and  strength,"  together  with  a 
register  possessed  by  very  few.  The  New  York 
Herald  says:  "A  year  or  two  in  Europe  will  de- 
velop Miss  Demorest  into  an  artist  of  whom  Ame> 
rica  may  be  proud ;"  and  adds  that "  there  is  every 
reason  to  expect  in  her  a  prima  donna  for  the 
operatic  stage. 

One  of  Miss  Demorest's  songs,  "Birdie,"  has 
been  accepted  by  Madamoiselle  Nilsson,  and  that 
songstress  makes  very  encouraging  predictions 
oonoerning  that  yonng  lady's  future. 

FINK  gU^VBR-PI^ATBD  1¥ARB. 

The  use  of  fine  plated  ware  has  almost  entirely 
superseded  that  of  solid  silver.  AH  the  newest 
and  most  beantifnl  patterns  are  produced,  and  the 
table  service  looks  as  rich  in  plated  as  in  solid  ail- 
ver.  The  g^in  is  twofold — gain  in  price,  and  gain 
in  risk.  Burglars  don't  care  for  plated  goods.  One 
feels  easier  with  fifty  or  a  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  plated  silver  in  his  house,  than  if  he  had  two  or 
three  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  solid  silver. 

In  buying  plated  ware,  get  the  best.  In  this 
eity,  no  ware  superior  to  that  of  Garrett  1  Son, 
No.  618  Chestnut  Street,  is  made.  See  their  adver- 
tisement in  this  number  of  Home  Magasine.  We 
nse  their  ware  for  our  premiums,  because  we  can 
rely  upon  its  quality.  All  that  we  have  ordered 
for  our  subscribers  has  given,  we  are  gratified  to 
know,  the  highest  satisfaction. 


BOI7ND  VOl^UMAS  OF  "  THB  OHUi- 
DKBK'8  HOUR." 

These  finely  printed  and  elegantly  illustrated 

books  for  children,  we  send  by  mail,  postage  paid, 

to  any  parts  of  the  United  States. 

8  volumes,  each $1.00 

The  whole  set 7.00 

4  double  volumes,  each  .    .    •    1.75 

The  whole  set 6.00 

The  set  contains  over  250  choice  engravings. 

We  know  that  no  cheapw,  purer,  or  more  elegant 

books  for  ehildren  oaa  be  found. 


TRB  DRAGON  HUSBAND. 

Gail  Hamilton  somewhere  draws  this  marital 
portraiture,  which  not  a  few  of  our  readers  will 
recognize.  After  speaking  of  those  selfish,  un- 
sympathizing  wives,  who  care  not  how  dreary  may 
be  the  lives,  how  ungratified  the  tastes,  nor  bow 
unsatisfied  the  hearts  of  husbands  and  fathers,  so 
that  they  can  pursue  their  round  of  useless  and 
senseless  frivolity,  says: 

''Let  not  these  women  be  confounded  with  those 
saints  and  martyrs  who  are  connected  with  miserly 
and  self-willed  men — women  whose  lives  arOeon- 
stant  effort  to  fetch  water  out  of  a  rook;  high- 
spirited  women,  who  know  that  there  is  money 
enough,  who  know  how  to  spend  money  judicioadj, 
yet  who,  to  insure  even  a  scant  supply,  are  forced 
to  expend  upon  their  crabbed  bondholders  an 
amount  of  igenuity  and  persistence  that,  properly 
applied,  would  have  tunnelled  the  Hooaae  Moun- 
tain years  ago.  Their  life  seems  to  be  a  prolonged 
Battle  of  the  WUderness;  but  they  look  at  theii 
young  in  the  rear,  set  their  teeth,  and  square  them- 
selves for  the  fight  And  they  generally  come  off 
conquerors.  They  educate  their  children,  intro- 
duce them  to  and  keep  them  in  good  society,  and, 
hardest  of  all,  varnish  their  old  dragon  himself 
with  a  thin  coating  of  humanity,  and  hold  him  np 
to  a  shufliing  shambling-amblinK  alongside  them- 
selves. Sometimes  Heaven  is  kind,  and  he  dies. 
Then  a  sweet  peace  suffuses  their  lives,  and  their 
faces  shine  witn  a  lustre  not  to  be  hidden  by  all  the 
crape  wherein  they  swathe  themselves  withaL" 


HOMCBOPATHT. 

In  our  January  number  we  called  nttentioB  ts 
the  pioneer  Homoeopathy  Life  Insurance  Com- 
pany, of  America— the  Hahnemann,  of  Glere- 
land,  Ohio— and  recommend  all  who  desired 
insurance  to  investigate  the  speoial  advaotsgei 
offered  by  this  company,  via.  the  reduced  rates  to 
the  patrons  of  HonKBopathy->whioh  they  can  well 
afford  to  do,  owing  to  tile  greater  longevity  of  (he 
patrons  of  this  school  of  medicina.         * 

As  Life  Insurance  to  Homesopathistsatredneed 
rates  is  no  longer  an  experiment  the  oompaay  in- 
tends making  an  effort  to  seeure  a  fiair  share  of  the 
life  business  done  in  America,  by  astabUshing 
agencies  in  every  town  and  hamlei  in  the  conntiy. 

Men  or  women  desiring  the  position  of  either 
general  or  local  agent,  or  solicitor,  or  any  infoims- 
tlon  regarding  the  company,  oan  obtain  the  mm 
by  calling  on  or  addressing  the  Manager,  Br.  J» 
A.  Cloud,  at  705  Walnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 

INTTBRESTING  TO  LADIES. 
I  have  tested  the  Grever  A  Baker  Maehi&e  is 
all  qualities  and  varieties  of  sewing,  and  find  it 
entirely  satisfactory.    I  have  need  one  needle  'it-  ^ 
erally  **  through  thick  and  thin"  for  two  y«  r^  y 
without  removing.    I  consider  it  superior  to  maj 
other  for  family  sewing. 

Mas.  L.  E.  HoLBBii, 
Euolid  Ave.,  East  Cleveland,  0. 


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**  Heftiing  no  reply  to  ber  words,  the  child  finally  relapeed  into  dlenoe,  and  watohed  her 
mother  ai  the  prepared  the  tea  for  Mn.  Xarini."— Page  16. 


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A  R  T  H  U  R'S 


ADY'S   HOME   MAOAZmE: 


EDITED  BT  \\K 


T.   S.   ARTHUR 


MISS    VIBGINIA   F.   TOWNSBND. 


VOL.  XXXVIII. 


|tttg  to  §mmUt. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T.   S.  j^RTHUR  «fc   SON". 
1871. 


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IISTDEX 


TO 


RTHUR'S  LADY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


VOLUME  XXXVIII.— JULY  TO  DECEMBER,  1871. 


PAGK 

^llar  »  Day.    By  Virginia  F.  Toirnsend... 

23,  97,  160,  223,  272,  331 
[erder's  Experience  in  Soathern  California. 

ly  Delia  Day 268 

xia 207 

Acting  Charade.    By  S.  Annie  Frost 33 

Evening  Scene.     By  Stevadson  A.  Hail....  317 

nnie  Laurie"  in  Jerusalem 109 

onng  Girrs  Influence.    By  Jennie  E 148 

nty 109 

sie's  First  School.     By  L.  A.  B.  C 323 

ter  than  Oar  Fears.     By  T.  S.  Arthur 157 

is  at  the  Window 85 

D  Rulers 96 

's'  AKD  GiuLs'  Treasort  : 

An  Hungered,  and  Ye  Gave  Me  Meat" 113 

hat  Phelan  Boy ;  by  Mrs.  E.  C.  K.  Davis..  295 
he  Neglected  Toad 350 

sing  the  Butterflies.  By  Eatherine  King- 
on  Filer .?. 37 

na  and  its  Bridges.     By  C 141 

teh  Him  Who  Can 84 

•me  to  Mother!" 343 

Drmity.     By  "Gerald" 169 

deuce 342 

roRB'  DBPARTMBNT...64,  124,  184,  243,  302,  357 

ning.     By  Hester  A.  Benedict 337 

ivivas  WITH  THE  Poets  : 
ittle  Jerry,  the  Miller;  by  J.  G.  Saxe — 
Disillusion;  by  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen — 
The  Sad  Disciple ;  by  Louise  V.  Boyd — 
Alone;  by  Ada  Power— My  Baby's  Birth- 
days; by  Eben  E.  Rexford 67 

on't  Run  in  Debt:  by  Frances  D.  Page — 
The  Bootblack— The  Beautiful  Village  of 
Yule ;  by  Hezekiah  Butter  worth — Work; 

by  Alice  Cary 117 

[ehetabel;  by  Lucy  Larcom — A  Song  of  a 
Nest;  by  Jean  Ingelow — Our  Baby;  by 
Phoebe  Cary — "  Consider  the  Lilies  of  the 

Field" 176 

[other's  Song— Angel  Footfalls;  by  R.  W. 
Easterbrooks— My  Old  Love— Life's  Pity 
—Faith;  by  Phoebe  Cary— Two  Songs;  by 

Rev.  L  N.  Tarbox 234 

ly  Baby;  by  Annie  Clyde — Cottage  and 
Hall;  by  Alice  Cary  —  Before  Flying 
Southward- Prayer;  by  J.  G.  Whittier...  299 
^pen  the  Door  for  the  Children :  by  Mrs.  M. 
A.  Kidder— Follow  Thou  Me— Art  and 
Nature ;  by  James  Freeman  Clarke — The 
Little  Frock;  by  Emily  Hermann — The 
Isle  of  Song;  by  Hester  A.  Benedict — 
Loving  and  Forgiving;  by  Charles  Swain  354 


PAGE 

Polly.     By  Mary  E.  Macmillan 19f 

Fruit  Culture  for  Ladies  : 
Budding — Thinning  Out  Fruit — Strawberry 
Beds — The   Summer  Pruning  of  Grape- 
vines— Mulching   Bearing  Fruit  Trees — 

Pot-lavered  Strawberries 60 

The  Apricot — Crystal  Basket — Rose  Cut- 
tings— Currant  Cuttings — Criterion  of  a 
Good  Pear — Figs  in  the  Open  Air — Hints 

for  the  Month  119 

Work  for  the  Month — Apple-tree  Borera — 

Ashes  for  Peach-trees 181 

Preparing  and  Planting  an  Orchard — Ther- 
mometers    in     Fruit     Rooms  —  Raising 
Grapes  from  Seeds — Hints  for  the  Month  238 
Late  Pruning  of  Pear-trees— Look  for  Bor- 
ers— Cherry  Grafts — Scions  and  (buttings 

—Hints  for  the  Month 301 

Fun    with    the    Doctor.      By   Kate   Suther- 
land   327 

Going  Home.    By  Hester  A.  Benedict 197 

Hard  Words  and  Kind  Words.     By  T.  S.  Ar- 
thur    288 

Health  Dkpartmbnt: 

On  Brown  Bread 178 

Eggs  vs.  Meats— Condensed  Milk  for  Babies 
^Milk  and  Dyspepsia. 349 

Heroic  Women  of  the  Olden  Time.. 318 

HOUSRKBKPERS'  DEPARTMENT: 

Contributed  Receipts 62 

Putting  Things  Away — A  Neglected  Duty- 
Cleanse  and  Ventilate  your  Cellars — Chlo- 
ride of  Lime— Warfield's  Cold-water  Self- 
washing  Soap— Contributed  Receipts 179 

In  Sunshine  and  Not  in  Shadow.     By  T.  S. 

Arthur 315 

In  the  Twilight.     By  Hester  A.  Benedict 76 

Into  the  City.     By  Mrs.  E.  B.  DuflFey 229 

Into  the  Country.     By  Mrs.  B.  B.  Duffey 16 

I  Wish.     By  Katherine  Kingston  Filer 168 

King  James.     By  Katherine  K.  Filer 233 

Lat  Sermons  : 

Built  on  a  Rock 53 

The  Living  Vine 292 

A  Poor  Cripple; 346 

Let  in  the  Sunlight 166 

Love  and  Fear.     By  T.  S.  Arthur 104 

Love  Song.     By  Katherine  Kingston  Filer 341 

Ludwig  von  Beethoven 110 

Making  Children  Happy 266 

Minna's  Day.    By  Miss  Mary  Hartwell 278 

(iii}  .  T 

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INDEX. 


HoTHBRs'  Dbpartmbnt: 

A  Mother's  Story  for  her  Boja ^    6& 

Buttercaps  and  Daisiea — Govern  with  Love 
and   Reason,  to   Promote   Phyaieal  and 

Mental  Uealthj  bj  Uattie  Hopeful 347 

Music : 

Eiftelle  Galop 73 

Meet  Me  Tonight „ 255 

The  Exile 313 

Music  Under  the  Willows.  By  Geo.  Klingle...  280 
My  House  in  the  Pear  tree.  By  Rosella  Rice  338 
My  Treasure.     By  Mary  Ella  Hnrtt. 15 

New  Pcblicatiohb 63,  121,  182,  240,  358 

New  School-houses 267 

No  Sorrow  Like  Mine.   By  Josephine  Fuller    21 

Only  a  Sprig  of  Jasmine 261 

Other   People's    Windows.      By   Pipsissiway 

Potts 38,  87,  142,  200 

Our  Forgotten  Blessings.     By  Jane  0.  De 

Forest »  286 

Pansies  "for  Thoughts."     My  Mrs.   B.  M. 

Conltlin 168 

Praise  Among  the  Married.     By  Mrs.  M.  A. 

Denison 344 

Presentiments.    By  C 322 

Respeotthe  Body i 52 

Sara's  Sweetheart 44 

Signs  in  the  Hand 287 

Summer  Evening — A  Sonnet.     By  Mrs.  E.  B. 

Duffey 166 

Sunshine  in  Dwellings 326 

That  One  Drop 94 

The  Better  Land.     By  Emily  A.  Hammond...  277 

The  Carpenter's  Dream 345 

The  Earnings  of  Married  Women... 337 

The  First  Marriage  in  the  Family 30 

The  Hills 271 

The  Hills  Beyond  the  Bay.     By  Eben  E.  Rex- 

ford 330 

The  Home  Circle: 

Patchwork :  the  Artistic  Side  of  the  Ques- 
tion—The Heart  of  the  Home— The  Way 

a  Boy  Wakes  Up 59 

My  New  Silk  Sacque— The  Two  Weddings 

— How  Bridget  Mended  the  Stockings 115 

Spring,  Summer,  and  Autumn — Marriage — 
The  Pillow  Fight— Saved;  by  Mrs.  M.  0. 

Johnson — Occupation 173 

The   Lions    in    the    Way — Whom   Women 
Should    not  Marry  —  Woman's    Natural 

Guardians — Men  and  Matrimony 236 

Spinsters  and  Mothers — A  Woman  on  Chil- 
dren— Arrangement  of  Rooms — Men  as 

Cooks— Infants  in  Turkey 297 

Murmuring — The   Early   Engaged    Young 
Man— An  United  Interest — The  Freedom 

of  Marriage 352 

The  Little  Maple  Monument.    By  Sarah  J.  C. 

Whitdesey 326 

The  Mother  of  CromwelL    By  C 108 

The  Prairie.     By  C 29 

The  Preacher's  Daughters.     By  Rosella  Rice  257 
There  are  Better  Restoratives  than  Stimulants. 

By  Hdttie  Hopeful 112 

The  Sea  of  Galilee «  167 

The  Sensitive  Plant     By  C 260 

The  Two  Paths.    By  Mary  A.  Ford.. 156 


The  Wounded  Heron.  By  Henry  Qillman..... 
"Thou  Hast  all  Seasons  for  Thine  Own,/) 

Death ! '    By  Mrs.  A.  H.  Develling 

Toward  the  Heights.  By  S.  Jennie  Jone8..76, 
Travelling  with  a  Baby.    By  Martha  D.  Bar- 

die 

Trifles 

Trusting.     By  Rosehart 

Two  Cities.    By  Eben  E.  Rexford 

Waif.    By  Josephine  Fuller « 

Waifs.     By  Hester  A.  Benedict 

What  are  the  Pine  Trees  Saying  ?    By  Hestei 

A.  Benedict 

Where  They  Dwell.    By  Sarah  J.  C.  WhitUe- 

sey 

Will.    By  N.  B.  Turner 

Working  and  Waiting.    By  MiO*** 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

JtrLT.- 1.  Frontispiece.  2.  "The  Hafi 
Time."    3.  Stylish  Travelling  Costumes  fur 

4.  Linen  Costume— The  Norwood  Basque— < 
Suit — Louise  Sleeve — Juanita  Sleeve — I'he  G< 
etU  Overskirt  — The  Isadora  Postillion  — 
Apron.  5.  The  Corinne  Wrapper — Celeste  C 
skirt.     6.  The  Carlotto  Dress. 

August. — 1.  Frontispitoe.  2.  Summer  Cost 
for  1871.  3.  Victoria  Lawn  Suit— Ethie  Ovei 
-Marcetta  Overskirt— The  Irma  Sleeve- 
Sleeve— Insertion.  4.  Lionel  Suit — Rosai 
Dre8i> — Ida  Apron— Elaine  Basque— The 
Basque— Edj(ing.  5.  Edging  in  Muslin  Em 
dery — B  aiding  Pattern — Insertion  Muslin 
broidery — Designs  for  Cuthions  and  Mats  in  Pi 
work. 

Sbptbmbbr. — 1.  Frontispiece — Summer  1 
ing.  2.  Spring,  Summer,  and  Autumn.  3.  I: 
Toilets  for  September.  4.  The  Circle  Wrap] 
Infant's  Double  Circle  Cloak— Infant's  C 
Robe.  5.  Norina  Overskirt — Aurelia  8Ie< 
Nerissa  bleeve— Infant's  Quilted  Bib— IdI 
Sack  Shirt.  6.  Redelia  Basque.  7.  Early 
Fashions  for  Children. 

October. — Frontispiece — A  Visit  to  the  Arn 
2.  A  Beauty  of  Modern  Greece.  3.  Autumn  S 
for  1871.  4.  Berenice  Polonaise— The  U 
Overskirt^The  Effie  Suit— The  Roland  S 
Jessie    Apron — Lillie  Apron — Braiding   Pal 

5.  Lady's  Plain  Polonaise— Felicia  Basque— 1 
for  Marking. 

NovBMBBR. — 1.  Cartoon— The  Puppies'  Nui 
2.  Frontispiece— The  Children's  OlTering.  3. 
tumn  Styles  in  Hats  and  Bonnets,  1871.  4. 
cretia  Wrapper — The  Nonpareil  Adjustable' 
— Carolyn  Overskirt — Marquise  Mantle.  5. 
Adelaide  Basque — Lavaoea  Jacket — Winona  S 
— Lillah  Sleeve— D I  ess  of  Brown  and  Black  St 
Silk— Dress  for  a  Little  Girl  of  White  Piqu^ 
Butterfly  Pincushion— Embroidery  Watch-p< 
of  Blue  Silk— Border  (Darning  on  Net)— Insc 
(Darning  on  Net) 

December.— 1.  Cartoon— "  Check."  2.  Frc 
piece—"  Kept  In."  3.  Costumes  for  Early  Wi 
1871.  4.  Alina  Basque— Leonie  Casaqne— 
ing— Patterns  for  Work-Uble.  5.  Hats  and 
nets  for  Winter,  1871— Hilda  Overskirt— Silk 
broidery,  in  Colors  on  Cloth,  for  the  Back 
Music  Portfolio— Crimson  Gros-grain  Sash— 
der  (Chain-stitch.)    6.  Trarelling  Costumes. 


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eft 


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i 


llOXtSS'T. 


THE  QEOROBTTB  0VER8KIRT. 


A  simple  stvie  of  overskirt  which  recommends  itself  for  piqa6  and  WMhh 
matpriaiR,  as  it  can  be  po  easily  ^done  up,"  and  is  rery  stylish  for  any  materii 
not  too  thin.  For  pioa^,  the  handsomest  trimming  is  Hamburgh  embroidery  wi 
a  heading  of  black  yeWet.  Summer  silks  look  nicely  made  in  this  design,  trimnu 
with  lace  or  fringe  headed  with  full  ruching. 


^'t 


i?.,^ 


Walking  c 
ruffles,  edge 
ble  plaitings 
above,  and  t 
deep  polona 
Dieted  by  a  1 
fermingasl 


THE  ISADORA  POSTILUON. 


the 


A  convenient  and  stylish  arrangement  to  be  worn  with  a  round  waist,  impartii 
le  full  effect  of  a  postillion  basque.    The  front  forms  two  points,  siroufating 


▼est.  and  the  shielc)  shaped  piece  at  each  side  is  provided  with  a  Docket,  thi 
Gomoining  utility  with  ornament.    It  is  economical,  also,  as  it  can  almos 
dI  cut  out  of  the  pieces  which  are  ordinarily  left  after  making  a  dress. 


This  grac 
the  season, 
and  makes  *" 
The  style  o« 
•cm  and  bi^* 
slaves  to  b 


DIDO  APRON. 
An  especially  desirable  styfe  of  apron  for  little  girls  from  six  to  ten  years  of  af| 
It  is  a  full  protection  to  the  dress,  and  has  the  effect  of  a  tunic.  It  is  prettily  roa« 
in  white  washing  goods,  trimmed  with  embroidered  edgitw  or  mming.  Brow 
linen  trimmed  with  scarlet  braid,  or  black  silk  trimmed  with  narrow  velvety  ali 
looks  very  nicely  made  in  this  design. 


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THE  COBINNB  WRAPPSB. 

Fof  eambrio,  Chamberj,  peroiaes,  lawiia,  and  kiadrod  geodm  the  "*  Coriime  "  wrapper  is  all  thaA  ooald '  he 
Mmd.  aa  it  ia  a^iah^  oomfortable,  and  easily  *'doi\e  up."  Tiie  ftilneas  in  the  baok  of  the  waiat,  and  the 
PVtial  fulneaa  in  the  fronts,  render  tt  more  becoming  to  slender  persons  than  the  plain  Qabrielle,  althouffk 
we  effect  of  one  is  preserved  to  a  graceful  extent  by  the  continuation  of  the  yoke  in  front  to  the  waist.  The 
vimmlng  should  be  entirely  of  the  material  of  the  robe.  The  original  one  is  in  rose-colored  cambric,  trimmed 
With  crimped  ruffles  attached  through  the  centre  with  a  cord,  the  sash  and  bows  on  the  sleeves  simply  hemmed. 


CELESTE  OVBRSKIRT. 


Decidedly  one  of  the  most  stylish  orenkirts  of  the  season,  which  makes  a)>  elegantly  in  silk  and  kindred 
w«na1s,  and  is  Just  the  style  for  grenadine  and  thin  goods.  The  sashes  are  attacheato  the  draped  apron, 
^gdean  be  arranged  In  a  variety  of  ways,  either  to  snsiain  the  looping,  as  in  the  illustration,  or  simply  ilea 
^ose  to  the  waiat,  or  low  down,  according  to  fiinoy.  The  most  appropnate  trimming  is  lace  or  fringe,  with  a 
'*<*diBg  of  ailk  niching. 

m.XXXTIII.-l.  Digitized  by  G($ei^le 


THE  CARLOTTA  DRESS. 

A  tMiah  little  oostnme  for  white  pique,  to  be  trimmed  with  Uiusk  velvet  ran  under  Btntpe  of  the  materiil,! 
very  effective  trimmiog  end  easily  removed  for  weshing.    The  suit  consists  of  a  skirt  and  very  slylitb  PolenaiM. 


STYLISH  TRAVELLING-CX)STUMES. 

(Su  double-page  engraving.) 

No.  1.— A  serviceable  lady-like  travelling  costnme.  an  exponent  of  the  style  which  will  be  much  in  rogue 
this  season.  The  dress  is  in  almond-colored  foulard.  Just  the  mat(»rial  for  a  handsome  travelling-suit  for  sam* 
mer.  the  short  skirt  trimmed  with  broad  bias  bands  of  the  material,  bound  with  golden-brown  poult  de  loie, 
set  between  ruffles  deeply  indented  and  bound  in  the  same  manner,  a  shallow  plait  in  each  scallop  imparting 
the  necessary  fulness.  The  two  lower  bands,  only,  encircle  the  skirt,  the  rest  being  arran^^ed  en  tablier.  TIm 
waist  is  plain  and  high,  with  no  trimming  **zcep(mg  a  band  with  the  scallops  on  the  upper  edge,  placed  aroand 
the  armhole,  and  the  coat  sleeves  are  trimmed  with  the  same  garnifMre  diapoeed  as  a  cuff.  An  over^kirtimy 
be  provided  to  replace  the  long  linen  blouse,  which,  when  travelling,  should  be  buttened  down  the  front,  bat, 
when  looped  at  the  sides,  forms  a  simple,  ntylish  overdress.  The  one  illustrated  is  of  ecru  linen,  trimmed  wWi 
broad  velvet  ribbon  and  a  deep  velvet  collar  which  can  easily  be  removed  for  washing.  It  is  cut  in  the  Gsbri* 
elle  style,  two  deep  box-plaits  in  the  back  giving  the  necessary  fulness.  Gipsy  bonnet  of  brown  English  stnv, 
trimmed  with  brown  ana  almond-colored  gros-grain  ribbon,  and  an  ostrich  tip  of  each  shade. 

No.  2.— A  mountain  suit  made  in  invisible  rreen  summer  waterproof  cloth,  consisting  of  a  short  skirt;  reach* 
ing  half  way  between  the  knee  and  ankle,  a  snort  coat  basque  with  pockete  and  vest,  and  full  pants,  gathered 
into  a  band,  reaching  to  the  top  of  the  substantial  leather  boots,  which  are  provided  with  heavy,  rough  soles, 
and  broad  heels.  The  skirt  is  made  with  only  eufflcieni  fulness  to  be  comfortable,  and  is  entirely  wiihoot 
trimming,  excepting  the  large  rubber  buttons  down  the  front.  The  vest  is  buttoned  to  the  throat,  and  finish^ 
with  a  plain  linen  collar  and  narrow  necktie,  and  the  Jacket  is  outlined  with  broad  Hercules  braid.  Soft  w^ 
hat  with  a  broad  brim. 

No.  3.— A  costume  suitable  for  a  short  journey,  or  a  morning  toilet  in  the  country,  made  in  nndresFed  HBen. 
the  Bkirt  bordered  with  a  deep  flounce  attached  In  clusters  of  slnglo  plaits,  the  intervening  spaces  ornamented 
with  brown  braid  disposed  in  a  Grecian  design,  the  heailing  arrange«i  to  match.  The  graceful  overskirt  and 
Jaunty  Jacket  are  bordered  with  braid  in  the  same  design,  the  former  looped  very  high  on  the  sides,  the  Utter 
about  half-fltting,  slanhed  on  the  hips  and  in  the  t>ack.  the  openings  filled  with  side  plaits  disposed  infitos* 
The  sleeves  are  arranged  to  match,  and  it  is  open  in  front  over  a  wnite  linen  chemisette. 

Broad-brimmed  Leghorn  hat,  trimmed  with  a  blue  gause  veil. 


NEW  STYLES  OF  ARRANGING  THE  HAIR. 

Toung  girls  and  ladies  with  moderately  thick  hair  are  not  now  obliged  to  wear  false  hair,  as  fashion  admits 
•f  saob  a  variety  in  the  ooiffhre  that  they  can  make  almost  any  disposition  of  it  they  choose. 

The  simplest  method  for  young  ladies,  and  the  one  most  in  vogue  amono;  young  and  married  ladies,  ai*^ 
is.  to  braid  their  own  hair  in  loops,  ornamented  with  bows  of  ribbon.  A  switch  of  false  curls  majrtbeD  o^ 
added,  at  a  moment's  noticei  which  completes  a  vexy  pretty  coiflfUxe,  without  ii^iuioaa  padding  or  w«4ght  upoo 
the  head. 


14 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


iBTHUfi's  LiDY's  Home  Magazine. 


JULY,    1871. 


f^ 


WHAT  ARE  THB  PINE  TBBBS  SAYING. 


BY  HESTEB  A,  BE27EDXC7* 


ITHAT  wf  Um  piM  tTMt  MijiBf  t».iiiglit, 
If    I>«WB  bj  tti«  hav^or  wheM  Ito  the  shipi, 
bera  tlie  waret  kaap  ainging  for  aya,  daapite 
Fbe  deathfal  oalm  on  their  aleepert'  lips  f 
ij  do  thej  thrill,  like  a  bell  that  tolls 
rhe  terrible  night  of  a  moamer's  Voe  ? 
d  whj  do  thej  (hirer  and  moan,  like  seola 
rhat  into  the  black  of  eternity  go? 

17  da  thaj  ahriak  from  the  wind's  light  toneh, 
La  thaogh  oaresses  ware  worse  than  rain  ? 
itrvaltel  ^ea  I  \mr%  they  teamed  ao  mneh 
)f  luuiaa  paasioB,  of  hnmaa  pain  ? 
p  dallyiDf  wind  I  avagr !  awiy 
f  ilh  year  tandar  toiis^  and  your  light  careas ! 
hATe  toyed  with  the  pine  trees  all  the  day — 
Sat  their  might  will  be  lonely— nevertheless. 

now  what  the  pines  are  whispering  there 
Sjthe  harbor — close  to  the  white-winged  ships; 
now  what  they  say  of  a  maiden  fair 
Pfhoee  life  went  out  in  her  loTe's  eclipse ! 
now  why  they  shrink  when  the  light  wind's 

breath 
ronehea  the  aheen  of  their  glittering  leatet ; 
id  I  ksow'— da  I  knew  thay  whisper  of  death  ? 
[>r  la  it  a  daaaaa  that  my  laBoy  wearas  ? 


a*  In  thair  ahadows  the  lWa4oBg  day—  \ 

Eka  aeant  of  thair  boaglis  in  my  loosened  hair,  ) 

id  wapt»  whan  the  waters  grear  black  in  the  bay,  ( 

For  the  mother  who  taught  me  my  eyening  ^ 

prayer  J  j 

it  the  darkness  passed,  and  the  pale-faced  moon  ) 

&rose  from  her  oonoh  like  a  lonely  queen ;  ; 

kd  wildly  I  reached  for  my  life's  lost  June,  > 

forgetting  the  years  that  are  lying  between.  ) 

^  aorrowIM  pines  t  throvgh  the  aarrowfhl  night  \ 

fa  talk  to  my  heart,  and  it  makes  reply ;  ; 

idyvtaUmatatoaintbadfaaasfiiilight  ^ 

ITonld  ateitU  the   winds  if  the  whida  were  >^ 

nigh.  ) 


I  liat  ysanr  aaoaning,  tha  allant  hoars, 
And  wnteh  tha  haak  o(  jonr  ahadawj  ha»«i» 

Baaehing  my  own  for  the  balmfal  flewera 
Blooming  in  radiant  mamory-laada; 

Ah !  beantiful  pines — they  are  far  away ! 

Sob  on  by  the  billows  that  laugh  in  glaa ! 
There  oometh  truly  the  morning's  gray— 

But  noTor  its  crimson  te  you,  or  to  me. 
And  yet,  oh,  tenderest,  humanest  friends ! 

I  give  ye  love  for  your  love  divine, 
And  only  ask  for  my  life— when  it  ends, 

To  shadow  Its  resting— a  royal  pine. 


MY  TBEASURE. 

BT    MABY    BLLA    HUBTT. 

STBPPINa  gantly,  breathing  lightly, 
BtaaUng  softly  up  the  stair, 
Fearing  lest  the  lamp  too  brightly 
Baming,  set  to  naagkt  mj  oare. 

Little  head  upon  my  shoulder, 
Little  form  within  my  arms, 

Heart,  be  still!  while  thns  I  hold  her. 
Lest  thy  beating  her  alarms. 

Ponthig  Hps,  bat  half  revealing 
(Heam  of  baby  teeth  between ; 

Jealous  eyelids,  quite  concealing 
PrIoalesa  gams  of  liquid  aheen. 

Rounded  limbs  of  pearly  whiteness. 
Put  to  shame  the  sculptor's  art; 

Tangled  curls,  whose  golden  brightness 
Gleams  like  sunshine  o'er  my  heart 

Angels  I  guard  my  alaaplng  traaaaia ; 

By  thy  holy  prasenaa  blaaaed, 
One  onbrokan  dream  of  pleaaara 

ShaU  ha  ham,  to  soothe  bar  reat 


'^) 


Digitized  by 


byVjOogle 


INTO  THE  COUNTRY. 


BY  MB8.  ^  B.  DUFFKT. 


JUL  oomiDg!"  and  little  Nellie  Guneion 
scrambled  hurriedly  into  the  house. 

'*  You  had  better  wash  jour  &ce,  then/'  waa 
mother's  reBponse,  as  she  hastened  to  the  door 
to  meet  **  Miss  Liixie." 

Nellie  didn't  know  .aajthisg  about  "mud 
pies/'  but  she  found  the  sand  of  her  native 
State  beautifully  adapted  to. the  making  of 
graves.  So  she  laid  out  whole  cemeteries,  set- 
ting up  a  clean  white  clam  shell  at  the  head  of 
each  grave.  The  cemetery  she  waa  just  now 
engaged  upon  was  ezacUy  before  the  gate,  and 
certain  to  be  demolished  by  the  irst  passing 
footstep.  But  ^e  left  it  only  half  completed, 
and  hurried  to  make  her  toilet,  and  by  the  aid 
of  an  elder  sister  to  change  her  sand-stained 
frock  and  apron  for  garments  fresh  and  clean. 

Meanwhile,  mamma  met  '*  Miss  Lizzie,"  and 
gave  her  a  cordial  welcome. 

The  children  had  learned  to  call  this  lady 
**  Miss  Lizzie  '*  while  she  was  Miss  Arkwright ; 
but  she  was  Mrs.  Marius  now,  having  been  a 
wife  for  more  than  half  a  year.  She  and  Mrs. 
Gameron  were  old  friends,  and  the  marriage  of 
the  former  had  in  no  way  disunited  them. 

Mrs.  Marius,  many  of  her  acquaintances 
thought,  had  not  done  quite  as  well  as  she  de- 
served in  marrying  her  husband,  a  man  almost 
literally  penniless.  But  she,  always  one  of  the 
independent  sort,  had  pursued  her  own  course 
in  the  matter,  not  even  asking,  still  less  taking, 
advice.  Nor  was  it  yet  apparent  that  she  re- 
gretted the  step  she  had  taken. 

''I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  said  Mrs. 
Cameron,  drawing  her  friend  into  the  sunny 
parlor,  which  was  thrown  open  to  the  warm 
air  of  a  May-like  April  day.  "  I  have  been  so 
busy  I  have  found  no  tisae  to  go  and  see  you, 
and  I  am  really  anxious  to  hear  how  you  are 
coming  on." 

"  Why,  just  the  same  as  ever,  only  more  so. 
The  cloud  that  was  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand  when  I  saw  you  last,  has  very  nearly 
overspread  the  whole  sky.  John  and  I  do 
little  else  than  quarrel  on  the  subjects  of  board- 
ing and  housekeeping.  He  holds  that  the 
former  ia  the  oheaper,  while  I  am  equally 
positive  that  the  latter  is  more  desirable." 

''I  am  sorry  matters  have  reached  such  a 
dreadful  pass.  Lie  down  and  rest  yourself  a 
(16) 


Ultle,  while  I  go  out  a«d  g«t  joa  m  eap  o 
You  see  I  haven't  forgotten  your  old-mi 
prodivities." 

**  Please  remember  another  old-maidial 
clivity  of  mine,  and  put  no  sugar  in  m; 
Come  here.  Miss  Nell.  What  do  you  su] 
I  have  in  my  pocket  7" 

This  to  Nelly,  who,  her  toilet  oomp 
had  stolen  silently  into  the  room. 

The  child  had  no  doubt  as  to  what  the  p 
contained.  ''Miss  Lizaie"  never  eame 
her  pocket  empty.  The  paekag«  of  s 
plums  came  forth,  and  little  Nelly  irtarte 
in  search  of  brothers  and  sislen  to  shar 
treasures  with  them. 

**  Mother,  Miss  Lizzie  gave  me  some  cai 

"  Did  she  ?"  was  the  respoase  absently  i 

*'  Yes ;"  and  then  followed  a  detailed  ao 
of  the  candy,  and  the  disposal  of  it 
mother  was  busy  thinking,  and  heard  litl 
any,  of  the  child's  ohalteff.  Hearing  no : 
to  her  words,  the  child  finally  relapsed 
silence,  and  watched  her  mother  aa  she 
pared  the  tea  for  Mrs.  Marius.  It  was  al 
made,  and  Mrs.  Cameron  poured  it  int< 
delicate  china  cup,  little  Nelly  watching 
steaming,  frsgrant  stream. 

**  I  wonder  why  Miss  Lizrie  likes  tea 
out  sagar? 

**  I  like  my  tea  with  sugar  in  it 

**  I  would  rather  have  sugar  without  tea 
tea  without  sugar." 

So  the  prattle  went  on.  What  moth 
there  who  does  not  know  how  this  isl 
steady  stream  that  foils  monotonously  as  c 
ping  water,  which  no  entreaty  or  conn 
can  check  more  than  momentarily,  and  \ 
which  utter  inattention  has  scarcely  i 
effect  A  battle,  that,  if  mother  is  ordini 
well,  she  gets  used  to^  and  fklls  into  the  hal 
answering  mechanically ;  but  if  her  nerves 
out  of  order,  she  is  driven  nearly  distra 
by  it 

**  I  wish  Miss  Lizzie  lived  here  in  the  \ 
house.    Don't  you  ?" 

"  It  would  be  very  nice." 

''  Beeauee  maybe  dke'd  |^ve  me  candy  e^ 
day." 

The  tea  was  poufod  out,  and  Mis.  Osan 
carried  it  hot  and  steaming,  as  all  tea-drinl 
love  it,  to  her  friend  in  the  parlor. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


JJTTO    TEE    COUITTBY. 


"Hov  tail  M  mU  akottl  ywr  ftio«bl«." 
*'lf^  Jim  kB€m  JahD  and  I  «re  tryimg  to 
itlfe  tlM  ]iroU«Bi  of  Ik>w  w«  can  bart  lira  on 
tvalfa  ar  iftaan  hundnd  doUan  a  yaar.    And 
<wr  azparinMBti  hava  ao  &r  bean  ntter  lul- 
warn  aaeoiding  to  mj  wi^  of  thinking.    Fivat 
aa  paj  twant j  doUaia  par  waak  to  faaaid,  and 
thmUtaranrwaahing  bill  ia  paid  Ihcra  laTarj 
littla  left  for  incidental  ezpenaat.    I  do  not 
know  how  we  get  along  at  all.    John  won^l 
taUina  how  hia  a&irs  atand,  for  fear,  I  aap- 
pQia,of  wonying  ma;  and  he  inaiataon  my 
\njiag  whatever  I  want  lagardleM  of  oonae- 
foocta.    So  I  Umjt  we  moat  be  getting  dread- 
fbUy  inrolTed.'' 
'^Tan  know  yonr  aotoal  income  7" 
''I  do  not  know  onr  actual  income^  but  I 
bave  an  idea  aa  to  lis  limiti^  and  I  know  we  are 
CKCMding  tliem ;  and  aomething  must  be  done." 
''What  do  yon  propose  doing?" 
''I  know  what  I  would  do  if  I  only  had  my 
nlf  to  oonsalt.     I  would  rent  a  couple  of  rooms 
in  some  retired  atreet  that  ahonld  not  cost  us 
above  one  hmidred  and  eighty  or  two  hundred 
doUars  a  yeai^    I  would  furnish  them  as  well 
li  I  could  with  the  stock  we  have  now  on  hand. 
And  then  wewonld  Uveas  plainly  and  humbly 
as  we  found  it  necessary  until  we  could  afford 
to  put  on  alyle.    Thoae  of  our  friends  and  ao- 
qnaintanoeswho  did  not  choose  to  racogniae  na 
ooold  pass  na  by.    But  that  isn't  John's  idea. 
He  cannot  get  over  the  notion  that  he  most 
live  as  he  alwaya  has  lived,  and  that  I  must 
bate  luxury  and  ease  whether  I  want  them  ot 
iK>t    His  figures  are  six  hundred  dollars  to  a 
bouM^  while  he  says  eight  hundred  or  one 
thousand  dollars  is  the  least  we  should  allow 
te  household  expenses  without  including  sar- 
^vitt.    And  then  there  is  the  famishing  which, 
be  mysy  excloaive  of  piano,  will  cost  at  least 
one  thousand  dollars.    I  dare  say  it  would  if 
be  was  left  in  charge  of  it." 
"But  your  expenses  needn't  be  so  heavy." 
''Oh,  yes ;  if  he  has  the  ordering  of  things 
tbsy  will  eaaily  reach  these  figures.    He  thinks 
voiit  turkey  with  cranberry  sauce  one  of  the 
nccetsities  of  life,  and  would  not  think  it  possi- 
ble to  make  a  dinner  on  plain  boiled  mutton ; 
not  but  that  he  would  like  the  mutton  well 
OMVgh  if  he  tried  it.    Something  has  got  to 
^  done  neverthdess,  and  that  quickly.     I 
have  already  been  out  house-httsting,  and  have 
>®^  very  desirable  houses  in  a  quiet  though 
not  exaedy  a  tohionaUe  locality,  for  three 
bondssd  doilara  a  year.    Some  of  these  daya  I 
"ball  invite  my  lord  and  master  to  come  home 
^  dinner  to  one  of  them,  and  we  will  tdlk  over 


the  matter  of  toniaMng  and  aMoketbig  after- 
ward. 

"The  tot  is,  I  am  uttorly,  uttaiiy  ak^ef 
boarding-houae  life.  It  is  enough  to  spoil  any 
woman  to  set  her  up  in  a  boarding-hoaBa  with 
nothing  to  do  aa  soon  aa  ahe  gets  OMrried.  If 
she  Kves  the  lilb  teo  long,  she  is  spoiled  to 
h0me  life  and  domastidty  forever  ator.  She 
haa  nothing  to  do  tom  morning  till  nigh^ 
bat  diesB  keaself  and  eritidaa  the  dress  of 
ethers;  make  calls  and  reoaive  calls;  goahop- 
ping  and  spend  money ;  talk  about  the  lady 
boardeia  behind  their  backsand  iirtwith  their 
husbands.  Flirtation  pervades  the  atmospheM 
of  a  boarding-house  aa  diaeaaa  doea  a  malari- 
oua  district.  Neither  men  nor  women  can 
help  flirting.  I  find  John  playing  the  agraaac 
ble  to  other  married  woman  in  a  way  that  ha 
would  be  aahamed  of  were  he  anywhere  but  in 
a  boarding-house.  And  as  for  jealousy,  it  ob- 
tains the  rankest  growth  thera 

''Oh  I  we  have  an  agreeable  time^  I  aasne 
you.  There  is  Mrs.  MacDufl^  who  worshipa 
her  husband,  and  thinks  there  never  was  a  man 
walked  the  earth  who  could  compare  with  him ; 
while  Mrs.  Osborne,  the  young  and  pretty 
wile  of  an  <M  and  rich  husband,  who  has  left 
her  safely  sheltered  in  this  boardingrhouaa 
while  he  is  away  on  bnsinesB,  takes  a  maliiaons 
pleasure  in  worrying  poor  Mrs.  MaoDufi*  out 
of  Iter  aenses,  by  monopdiaing  »U  the  time 
and  attention  of  her  husband.  Mia.  MacDufi*  is 
w(»ih  a  doaen  of  her;  but  Mrs.  Osborne  is  at- 
traotiveand  bewitching,  and  Mr.  MacDuffii 
flattered  by  her  seeming  preference,  and  ne- 
glects his  wifis  shamefully.  He  left  her  sick 
at  home  the  other  evening,  while  he  took  Mhl 
Osborne  to  aconeert.  She  'dotes  on  music' 
so,  and  in  her  tolom  oendition  while  her  hus- 
band is  absent,  has  no  one  to  take  her. 

"And  then  how  beantiihlly  we  slander  and 
backbite  each  other!  To  take  one  another's 
words  for  it,  we  are  none  of  us  much  better 
than  we  should  be.  While  the  truth  is  we^  any 
and  all  of  ua,  wonld  be  quite  respeobable  and 
well-behaved,  to  aay  nothing  of  being  happiea, 
[^aced  in  homes  of  oar  own.  If  John  is  wiae^ 
he  will  take  me  cot  of  such  a  life  beiare  I  am 
utterly  demoraliaed. 

*'And  then  the  poor  ohildren?  They  aie 
cheated  out  of  their  entire  childhood.  Thc^ 
step  at  once  from  infenqj  into  a  prenkatora  and 
sickly  manhood  and  womanhood.  They  put 
onairsandi^  themaaneraanddMasof  gtosna- 
np  people  in  a  way  that  would  be  really  fnnaj 
if  it  waanH  so  sad.  Eh,  Mim  Hell,  what  is 
your  last  baU*dres8  Uke?" 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


n 


U 


ARTEUB'8   LA'3TS   MOMBMIAGAZINE. 


*'  Nelljr  optBfld  htf  qraa  ia  wonder* 

"Tell  Mrs.  Marias  yoa  don't  know  m\M  » 
'Ml  My  qbIms  it  be  &  croquet  ball,  and  jroar 
I  fcr  tbat  18  a  nioe  calico  freok  and  apran 
a'tsbowdkIL" 

''  How  can  yoa  be  lo  neglectfiil  of  jowr  dul* 
dean's  intor«*ts  7  TbaTs  aot  the  waj  we  bring 
up  ^Udivn  in  oar  boordingoboiue.  I  dare  aa;f 
HHfy  htf  never  been  to  dandng^eobool,  nor 
met  had  a  ]Minier  to  her  dresi^  or  a  floonoe,  or 
an  oreriktrty  or  a  aaok— ^' 

''Oh,  yes,  I  have  got  a  dren  with  an  over- 
eUrt  and  a  lath,  too.  Mannna  made  it  oot  ni 
her  old  blue  dlk." 

''Poeh!  The  litde  girie  I  know  hare  new 
ailka;  and  their  BMunmaa  don't  make 
either.  The  dreaimaker  makee  them ; 
and  thej  wear  them  every  day.  And  they 
have  th^  hair  nicely  cnrled— -not  all  tumbled 
on  one  eide  like  youra-^and  they  wear  nice 
bronse  gaiters,  and  riagt^  and  braoelell^  and 
iteins,  and  ear*ringa.  And  they  wear,  kid 
giovee,  and  eany  pretty  little  pink  parasols 
when  they  go  out  into  the  street  What  do 
yon  think  of  thatf 

'  Nelly  looked  eeber  a  moment.  Eridently 
the  love  of  drees  was  inherent  in  the  miniatore 
woman,  and  the  new  blue  siik  with  brome 
gaiten,  the  jewelry  and  paraeol,  had  strong 
charms  for  her.  But  the  childish  instincts  for 
witrammeled  iVeedom  never  having  been  curbed 
or  subdued,  were  stronger. 

''  I  don't  care  I"  said  she.  ''  I  would  like  a 
new  silk  dress  for  Sunday,  but  if  I  was  dressed 
up  every  day  I  couldn't  play  in  the  sand." 

''That  is  right,  Nelly,"  said  mamma;  "sack 
to  your  native  sand,  even  if  it  sticks  to  you." 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  specimen  of  our  veiy 
young  America.  One  of  the  boys  at  our  board- 
ing-house, a  lad  of  about  ten  years,  wanted  to 
go  out  making  calls  on  New  Year's  day,  with 
tome  other  boys  of  the  same  age,  and  his  mother 
gave  her  oonscnt.  But  the  other  boys  were  all 
dressed  in  tmiform,  with  pearl-colored  neck- 
tine  and  lemon  kid  gloves,  and  our  young  lad 
woaldn*t  go  because  his  mother  reftyised  to  get 
these  <br  him.  He  had  a  nice  black  neok-ti^| 
and  brown  kids,  but  these  wouldn't  do. 

"And  the  aira  and  graces  these  young  puppets 
pot  an  I  Little  giris  scaroely  older  than  Nelly 
tiMrewill  flirt  with  boya  of  their  own  ages  with 
aa  much  art  as  Mrs.  Oebonm  herself. 

"One  has  no  home-life  nor  privacy  of  any 
aoit  in  k  beavding-hoose.  I  was  going  to  ao- 
eompUsh  so  much  after  I  got  married ;  bat  I 
haven't  finished  three  picturss.  if  I  resolve  to 
devote  a  day  to  work,  one  of  the  ladies  will 


want  me  to  ge  ««t  dmpping,  m  Urn  m  Ihi 
idlen  wMl  ^rep  into  my  aeoa,  and  lfiei|^ 
anehachatterthatatlaiftl  kgrandemyp 
lette  and  brushes  in  dhgbet.  Aaithm^hi 
is  aaatlua  matter  to  be  CBasideved.  One  m 
always  drsm  in  such  a  plaoe ;  and  oMmb  i 
worn  and  shabby,  and  have  to  be  replai 
nmoh  sooner  than  they  weald  in  a  qniet  hoi 
where  one's  best  could  be  reserved  for  epet 
oecasfens. 

"There,  I  have  told  you  all  my  troobl 
Nowhdpmeootof  them.  8haU  I  take  tl 
house  I  tell  you  of,  buy  two  plates,  two  ei 
and  saneers,  two  pewter  spoons,  tike  a  d 
goods  box  for  a  dining-table,  and  nee  our  tra 
for  chairs,  until  we  have  the  means  in  hand 
increase  our  stods  of  fomitmre  ?  I  know  lihi 
would  be  a  dlitnrbance  in  the  family,  but  a 
I  believe  I  am  equal  to  the  emeigem^;  an^ 
I  invited  John  home  to  dinner,  theag|h 
might  come  under  protest,  yet  I  think  he  wdi 
come  and  stay." 

"  J  have  been  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Gsasan 
slowly,  "that,  with  all  dmir nonsense, childi 
sometimes  talk  sense.  Nelly  wants  to  kn 
why  you  can't  oome  and  live  next  door  to  i 
And  why  can't  yon?  It  is  the  very  best  Ud 
you  could  do." 

"  I  never  thon^  of  that  I"  said  Mm.  Msri 
with  a  gasp  of  sniprise. 

"Well,  think  of  it  now.  Theheasakenp 
The  rent  is  cheap  compared  with  city  renti 
two  hnndred  dollars  a  year.  And  you  w 
And  living  in  the  oounftvy  much  km  expend 
than  city  living.  There  is  a  garden  stock 
with  fruit,  which  will  save  one  heavy  item 
expense.  It  is  the  right  season  of  the  yesr 
prspare  a  vegetable  garden;  and  there  is  i 
other  item  saved.  Bat  then  I  needn't  tell  y 
about  it.  You  know  our  inoome  is  leas  th 
youm  even  now,  and  yet  we  live  eomiortab^ 

"  Indeed  you  do ;  but  then  you  own  jo 
house." 

"We  do  now;  but  we  didn't  at  first.  Ai 
tbeogh  we  managed  very  ecenomioaUy  to  p 
for  it^  stMl,  thaidES  to  oar  garden,  we  ire 
always  able  to  set  a  luxurious  table." 

"You  are  right.  Where  are  the  ksys! 
believe  in  always  striking  when  the  iron  is  hi 
Letusgoandtakapossesmon.  The  only  dm^ 
back  is  that  John  hasn't  any  gnat  £uioy  i 
the  edontry,  and  will  mim  his  oatyfiiendBai 
eby  haunts." 

"It  is  time  yoa  began  to  domeotioats  hii 
He  ought  to  get  enough  of  the  eity  darii 
bosinem  houre." 

"Dld^J  tell  yoa  John  was  comiiv  down  c 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


IS  TO    TKE    OOUNTRT. 


19 


i1m  dx  «^ol^Gk  tnuA  wUh  Mr.  GimetoB?  So 
wa  miwt  Bi«ke  up  on  minds  siKrat  the  ouUtar 
Wfen  Uie  tisin  Mwam  in," 

It  iras  a  pretly  mnamfarj  hoose^  lif^t,  airy, 
and  oool,  with  porches  to  the  sooth  for  sua  and 
abater,  and  porohes  to  the  north  for  oool  and 
flhade. 

''I  needn't  fhraish  it  all  to  begin  wiih,  jon 
know/'  said  Mrs.  Marins.  "Talk  abont  a 
tboanukl  dollars  for  famishing  here!  It  is 
the  kind  of  a  house  for  moslin  and  chintz^  and 
all  Mnds  of  home-made  contrivances.  My  first 
expenditure  will  be  for  a  set  of  carpenter's  tools; 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  made  all  my  fur- 
nitore  myself,  like  the  heroines  of  the  wonder- 
ibl  stories  in  our  agricultural  papers.  And 
that  reminds  me  an  agrieultural  paper  must 
come  second  on  my  list  of  neceasitiesy  if  we  are 
to  grow  our  own  com,  beans,  and  potatoes. 
JokB  will  not  hare  much  time  for  that,  eyen  if 
ke  knew  whether  potatoes  grew  on  trees  or 
kuhes ;  and  I  expect  I  will  ha?6  to  be  head 
gardener." 

"The  third  aom  of  money  you  pay  out  must 
ke  to  Vick,  the  prince  of  Beedsmen ;  for  you  see 
JOQ  must  have  a  flower  garden  here." 

Mr.  Cameron  and  Mr.  Marius  came  from 
the  train  together.  The  two  gentlemen  never 
Nemed  to  quite  take  to  one  another.  Mr. 
Marius  was  one  of  those  precise  men  who 
always  look  as  though  they  had  just  come  out 
tf  a  band-box — whose  hats  always  retain  their 
first  glossy  and  whose  clothes  seem  in  some 
ittysterious  way,  to  preserve  their  original  folds. 
He  was  a  man  very  well  in  his  way,  but  of  no 
ipecial  brilliancy.  He  always  appeared  to  the 
kest  advantage  in  the  society  of  bis  wife ;  and 
ainoe  his  marriage  his  character  had  developed 
ia  a  manner  that  astonished  many  of  his  ac- 
qaaintances. 

Hr.  Cameron,  on  the  other  hand,  was  almost 
loo  careless  in  the  matter  of  dress,  and  set  too 
mall  store  by  it.  His  wife  said  he  needed 
ker  attention  in  this  particular  as  much  as  any 
tf  her  children;  and  if  she  were  to  relax  her 
vigilance  there  was  no  knowing  what  might  be 
the  consequences.  He  did  once  travel  to  town, 
>nd  walk  into  his  office  in  a  battered  old  hat 
^at  he  had  picked  up  and  worn  about  his  gar- 
den at  home,  in  serene  unconsciousness  of  the 
appearance  he  was  presenting,  until  he  was 
^Tised  of  it  by  smiles  and  jests. 

These  two  men  came  the  homeward  way, 
keeping  up  an  appearance  of  civility  after  the 
manner  of  men  in  such  circumstances  who  do 
»ot  care  one  straw  for  each  other.  They  made 
remarks,  and  asked   one  another's  opinions 


abont  things  that  interested  neither  of  tkeniy 
just  because  they  oonld  think  of  nething  bettor 
to  say ;  and  both  were  only  too  |^ad  when  thoj 
joined  their  wiVes,  and  their  enfoioed  sem- 
hility  was  at  an  euL 

Now,  of  course^  they  were  told  all  about  the 
houae^  when  Mr.  Cameron  became  a  warm  par- 
tisan of  the  two  ladies,  and  Mr.  Mariiv  was 
won  ovor  by  the  force  of  argument  and  en- 
treaty. Do  you  think  so?  Then  itiserideBt 
you  axe  not  a  woman. 

There  was  not  a  word  said  or  the  snbjeet; 
they  only — had  asparagus  for  supper— A^sh, 
sweet,  and  tender,  as  newly  cut  asporagos 
always  is,  and  as  market-bought  asparagus 
never  is— asparagus  and  cream.  Mr.  Marins 
ate  with  a  relish,  and  said  it  was  the  font  time 
he  had  ever  tasted  real  asparagus,  and  ha 
would  never  touch  the  city-bought  trash  agaifi. 

Gardening  was  Mr.  Cameron's  hobby.  He 
required  but  the  slightest  encouragement  to  go 
off  foil  canter  over  the  whole  ground.  I  be- 
lieve a  man's  most  vulnerable  point  is  his 
stomach ;  and  though  Mr.  Marius  might  not 
have  been  specially  interested  in  the  inMte 
optrofndi  of  iruit  and  vegetable  growing,  still  ha 
listened  appreciatively  to  the  detailed  merits 
of  fresh  fruit  and  vegetables. 

"  You  onght  to  oome  into  the  oountry  yonr- 
.  belf  to  live — everybody  ooght,"  remarked  Mr. 
Cameron,  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  with- 
out a  suspicion  of  the  plottings  of  the  two  wo- 
men. 

"I  am  afraid  Elisabeth  wouldn't  like  to 
leave  the  dty,  and  all  her  Mends  and^  ao- 
quaintances." 

<'  If  that  is  all,  I  think  Ellen  could  persuade 
her." 

'<  Well,  I  don't  know,"  r^oined  Mr.  Marias, 
hesitatingly.  ''  I  am  not  sure  it  would  be  the 
best  thing  for  us.  It  is  so  expensive  living  in 
the  country,  you  know." 

''  Did  I  tell  you,  EUen,"  remarked  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, to  his  wife,  "we  are  going  to  loee^one  of 
our  neighbors  ?" 

"No;  which  one?" 

"The  Stephenses.  They  are  going  to^the 
city  to  live." 

"  Why  do  they  do  that  T" 

"He  thinks  he  will  get  better  wages;" and 
then  I  suppose  they  both  have  an  idea  that  it 
will  be  nicer  living  in  the  oity  thaajn  the 
country," 

"  I  am  s<nTy  for  his  wife." 

"Why?    She  is  as  eager  to  go  as  he." 

"  Weill  I  am  soiry  for  them  both.  Theyac* 
making  a  great  mistake;    Sc^posing  his  warn 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ARTHURS  a   LADTB   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


tote  dooUed,  his  «xp«u;6ft  will  be  doubled, 
too.  And  then  aucli  a  pleoe  as  the  cify  is  to 
bring  up  a  fiunil  j  of  children  I  Stephens  has 
been  dobg  moch  belter  of  InteJ  I  haren'i  seen 
him  go  to  the  tavern  for  some  time.  Bnt  when 
he  gets  in  town  there  will  be  saloons  on  evezy 
ade  ef  him,  and  plenty  of  people  to  tempt  him 
in,  and  the  chances  are  that  he  goes  back  to 
his  (dd  habits  again.  Then  what  will  become 
ef  has  wife  and  iamily?  Any  one  makes  a 
great  mistake  who  goes  into  the  city  if  they 
can  stay  out.  And  every  one  makes  an  equally 
great  mistake  who  stays  in  the  city  if  they  can 
getont!" 

''Why/'  exclaimed  Mr.  Marios,  ''I  had  an 
idea  that  this  living  in  the  coontiy  was  some- 
thing expensive.  I  know  what  it  meant  with 
my  fether.  His  country  seat  cost  him  twice 
as  mnch  in  every  way  as  his  city  hoose.  He 
used  to  say  his  grapes  cost  him  a  dollar  a 
bnnch." 

''I  dare  say  they  did.  And  no  doabt  you 
axe  right  when  you  talk  about  country  seats, 
with  conservatories,  and  gardeners,  and  car- 
riages, and  all  that  contributes  to  style  in  the 
country.  Bnt  country  places  like  this  and  the 
vacant  house  next  to  us  do  not  involve  any 
such  expense.  Do  you  know  it  costs  us  less  to 
Hve  with  our  large  family  than  it  does  you  two  V^ 

**  Is  it  possible  t  Elizabeth,  what  do  you  say 
to  coming  dewn  and  living  as  neighbors  to 
your  friends  here?" 

The  two  men  caught  a  telegraphic  glance 
between  the  two  women,  but  Elizabeth  an- 
swered demurely :  "  We  mi^t  talk  the  matter 
over." 

''Why,  don't  you  know  Miss  Lizzie  pro- 
mised mamma  to-day  that  she  would  come? 
She  said  she  didn't  need  more  than  two  hun- 
dred dollars  to  buy  fumitore  with.  Have  you 
got  two  hundred  dollars  to  give  her  ?  Because 
if  you  haven't,  I  wish  I  had.  I  have  got  a 
dollar  and  fifty-nine  cents,  anyhow,  that  I 
earned  myself  weeding  for  papa,  and  I  will 
lend  her  that  if  she  wants  it." 

It  was  a  little  piteher  who  spoke.  She  took 
them  all  so  by  surprise  that  she  had  time  to 
go  the  full  length  of  her  speech  before  any  of 
them  recovered  sufficiently  to  interrupt 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  and  at 
their  wives  for  amoment,  hopelessly  bewildered. 

''Yon see  the  thing  is  all  settied,"  at  last 
aaid  Mrs.  Cameron. 

"  Yes ;  and  the  house  furmshed— in  imag- 
ination. I  have  only  left  to  you  the  vulgar 
and  oommonplaoe  details  of  arranging  mat* 
ten  with  die  laadiord,"  added  Mrs.  MeriiM. 


"  Now  don't  be  put  out,  John.    As  the  matter 

alandsy  the  preposition  comes  from  yon.    Yoa 

have  assumed  your  prerofative  as  bead  of  the 

,   femily  in  directing  its  movements,  while  I  have 

}.  merely  aoquiesoed— in  advance." 

"  Abont  the  same  way  women  usually  do»  I 
suppose,"  Mr.  Marius  muttered ;  but  the  doad 
that  threatened  to  settle  there  deared  fam  his 
brow. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Cameron  took  tk 
early  train  to  town  alone,  while  Mr.  and  Mn. 
Manns  waited  for  the  boat,  and  in  tbsmeHi' 
time  visited  the  vacant  house. 

A  week  from  that  day  found  them  freed  kit- 
ever  from  the  ills  of  boarding-houses,  and  er 
tablished  snngly  and  economically  in  theiroooii* 
try  residence,  while  Mrs.  Marios  said  she  wm 
certain  she  could  easily  lay  aside  forty  dollan  t 
month  toward  inmishing  it  She  would  not 
have  one  cent  expended  upon  either  house  sr 
furniture  before  it  was  honestly  thdr  own. 
And  there  she  was  right. 


THE  WOUNDED  HEBON. 

BT  KBUBT  eiLUCAir. 

DOWN  among  the  reeds  and  nukes. 
Smitten  with  the  orimson  ILwthti 
Of  departing  day, 
The  wounded  heron  lay. 

Stricken  with  the  barbed  ited— 
With  a  wound  no  art  ean  heal- 
Thus  he  laiFering  lies — 
Thus  he  bleeds  and  dies. 

Hatted  hangs  his  plumage  gray, 
Dripping  from  the  bloody  spray. 

And  his  freaaied  eje 

Stares  into  the  sky. 

Wrenched  the  arrow  with  his  beak, 
Fast  the  purple  eurreots  leak. 
While  the  marish  moss 
Brinks  his  deadly  loss. 

Ah  I  what  dumb,  dark  questioniag 
Beats  the  ground  with  angiy  ring- 
Wings  that  beat  the  air 
Late  so  strong  and  fair. 

Through  the  humid  atmosphere 
Rings  a  cry  intensely  olear, 

Like  a  chieftain's  shoat, 

As  the  day  goes  out. 
Homeward  orer  the  dusty  read 
The  belated  hunter  strode^ 

And  as  he  hurried  past 

A  lengtbenfaig  shadow  oast 
Far  behind  him,  to  the  wes^ 
Prostrate  lies  a  rigid  orest 

Down  among  the  resds— 

Bet  he  little  heeds. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


NO  SOREOW  LIKE  MINE. 


BY  108BPHINB  ItTIiLBR. 


LL  know  the  bltterneBs  of  their  own  Bor- 
L  rows.  Few  think  much  about  the  anhap* 
less  of  others.  Many  say^  "There  is  no 
lictioD  like  nine/'  regardless  of  the  fact  that 
every  hnmaa  breast  is  the  canker  of  grie^ 
matter  how  carefully  conoeakd  from  human 
servation. 

A.  lady  sat  in  a  tasteftilly  furnished  room. 
Basant  voices  of  intimate  (Hends  were,  around 
r,  but  they  could  not  bring  smiles  to  her  sad, 
stracted  countenaace^  for,  though  she  list- 
ed to  their  conversation  with  a  show  of 
idly  interest,  she  heard  only  childish  tones, 
ir  stilled  ibrever,  saying  ^in  low>  tenderly 
iathed  words :  "  Mother,  dear  mother." 
i  wistful,  dreamy  smile  for  one  instant 
mbled  on  her  sorrowful  lips ;  then-  yielding 
i  sadden  impulse  of  anguish,  she  exclaimed : 
[ow  can  I  give  up  my  only  child,  my  loving 
le  daughter  1  Sorely  there  is  no  misery  like 
ne." 

}he  did  noi  realize  that  the  mercifhl  Father 
i  taken  her  affectionate  girl  from  the  thresh- 
,  of  life  because  He  knew  that  she  was  too 
iflitive  for  the  rugged  places  in  a  harsh, 
igh  world.  She  did  not  then  consider  that 
vas  in  her  power  to  shortly  join  her  darling 
a  home  where  partings  come  never.  Be- 
106  she  could  not  now  see  her  idolized  child, 
»   mourned  unreasonably,  as  one  without 

§L  man's  worldly  goods  had  been  swept  away 
e  chaff  before  the  wind;  even  the  little 
me  for  which  he  had  worked  so  long  and 
red  so  frugally;  his  household  furniture, 
t,  which  he  had  prized  more  than  the  rich 
their  costliest  gems,  for  he  remembered  the 
ight  glow  of  happiness  in  his  wife's  face  that 
d  welcomed  the  advent  of  every  new  article. 
>w  proud  and  thankful  she  had  been  cm  the 
y  when  they  were  first  able  to  call  a  small 
Me  of  land  their  own  I  How  with  him  she 
d  enjoyed  the  pleasing  task  of  beautifying  it ! 
i  recollected  that  she  had  then  said  the  trees 
ey  had  planted  would  be  large  and  wide- 
reading  when  the  children  were  grown, 
ley  were  babes  now,  tender,  helpless,  and 
mstomed  to  more  comforts  than  had  been 
sir  parents  in  childhood.  He  feared  they 
ruld  not  thrive  on  coarser  &re ;  and  when 
\  thought  of  all  these  things  he  wrung  his 
YdM  xxxvm.— 2. 


hands  and  said  bitterly :  "  There  is  no  sorrow 
like  mine," 

He  did  not  reflect  that  health  remained  to 
hi^iself  and  his  loved  ones ;  that  he  and  his 
wife  cherished  for  each  other  a  priceless  affec- 
tion rare^  known  to  kings  and  queens ;  that 
the  kind  Father  had  in  wisdom  and  mercy 
taken  from  him  the  trifles  lent  for  a  season. 
He  only  saw  the  sudden  darkness^  only  felt  the 
chill  of  disaster,  and  bowed  his  head  in  the 
dust. 

The  vigor  of  a  young  student's  eyes  had  de- 
parted. In  vain  he  surrounded  himself  with 
many  choice  volumes,  written  by  the  great,  the 
wise,  the  good.  Only  a  few  moments  each  day 
was  he  ^labled  to  look  at  any  of  their  contents, 
though  he  prized  them  all  so  highly.  With 
what  satisfaction  had  he  pored  over  the  science 
of  metaphysics  I  How  reflectively  had  he  read 
the  details  of  history  and  biography  I  With 
what  rapture  had  he  tasted  the  sweets  of  poetry 
and  fiction  I  With  what  curiosity  had  he  dwelt 
on  the  ooDstruction  of  different  languages  I 
How  pleased  with  the  stateliness  of  one,  the 
harmony  of  another,  and  the  intimate  relation 
between  many  I  All  these  he  had  courted  with 
more  than  a  lover's  ardor,  and  in  them  he  had 
found  a  happiness  that  nothing  else  had  yet 
given  him.  Pale  as  marble  looked  the  fragile 
youth  as  he  raised  his  weak  vision  toward 
Heaven,  and  despairingly  exclaimed:  "How 
can  I,  who  have  lived  secluded  in  dainty  places, 
go  forth  into  the  rude  haunts  of  men  ?  How 
can  I,  who  have  luxuriated  in  the  sublime 
truths  of  philosophy,  endure  their  petty  pr^'u- 
dioes?  How  can  I  exchange  my  dream-land 
for  the  world's  realities?  Alas,  there  is  no 
sorrow  like  mine  1" 

He  had  not  yet  learned  that  we  must  live  for 
others  as  well  as  ourselves ;  that  knowledge  is 
not  confined  to  books,  but  may  be  found  by  the 
diligent  seeker  amongst  even  the  unlettered, 
the  frivolous^  and  stupid.  The  streets  of  popu- 
lous cities,  as  well  as  unbroken  forests,  are  full 
of  instruction  to  him  who  will  heed  it.  But 
this  was  not  yet  plain  to  the  scholarly  devotee. 
He  believed  that  he  could  no  longer  render 
suitable  homage  to  his  Divinity,  and  the  whole 
earth  seemed  henceforth  barren  of  delights  to 
him. 

A  beautiful  and  brilliant  woman  sat  alone  in 

(21) 


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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


'I 


an  elegant  apartment  The  light  from  am- 
ber-stained windows  was  like  the  coloring  in 
fairj-land,  as  it  illumed  the  rare  pictures  on 
the  stately  walls.  It  softlj  tinged  the  diamonds 
on  the  fkir  lady's  rounded  arms  and  in  her 
silken  hair,  but  it  could  not  penetrate  the 
gloomy  recesses  of  her  lonely  heart  For  her 
starving  spirit  could  not  be  fed  on  wealth  nor 
adulation.  Its  yearning  hunger  could  not  be 
satisfied  with  such  empty  husks.  Nor  could 
she  appease  with  gayety  the  longing,  the  crav- 
ing, the  ceaseless  pain  of  her  fiimishing  soul. 
There  was  an  aching  void  in  her  life  that  she 
could  not  fill.  It  followed  her  always  during 
her  waking  hours,  and  at  night  entered  the 
chambers  of  her  brain,  causing  in  her  slumbers 
memories  of  the  day's  distress.  And  in  the 
solitude  of  her  magnificence  she  moaned :  **Vm 
weary  of  living,  for  I  am  a  wife  unloved  and 
nn loving.    No  sorrow  can  be  like  mine.'' 

She  never  essayed  once  to  create  in  herself 
an  afibction  for  her  husband,  nor  did  she  make 
the  slightest  attempt  to  win  his  love,  but  neg- 
lected to  cultivate  a  tenderness  that  would  have 
been  a  crowning  blessing  to  both.  She  did  not 
know  that  our  inclinations  are  under  our  own 
control,  that  by  habit  disagreeable  situations 
may  be  rendered  not  only  tolerable,  but  often 
even  pleasant.  She  did  not  understand  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  look  away  from  her  grief  as 
mucli  as  possible,  and  endeavor  to  make  others 
happy.  Had  she  been  wise,  instead  of  exhaust- 
ing her  strength  in  pitying  herself  she  would 
have  grieved  over  her  husband's  undesirable 
lot,  and  would  have  finally  remedied  the 
mutual  evil  she  so  deplored.  She  would  then 
have  banished  from  her  thoughts  the  bitter 
self-upbraidings,  which  are  so  closely  linked  to 
a  consciousness  of  wrong,  and  have  been  fitted 
at  last  for  an  abode  where  love  is  never  min- 
gled with  harshness,  nor  is  ever  a  sin,  but  is 
always  rich,  deep,  and  unfathomable  as  the 
waves  of  eternity. 

"Poor  cripple,  what  a  sad  fate  hers  must 
be  I"  was  thoughtlessly  spoken  of  one  who  for 
years  had  not  walked.  But  no  gloomy  shadows 
rested  on  the  sufferer's  countenance.  There 
was  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes,  and  an  almost  holy 
calm  on  her  face.  Around  her  floated  an 
atmosphere  of  love  that  irresistibly  won  all 
hearts  to  her  own,  and  from  her  mouth  issued 
words  of  wisdom  and  cheerfulness.  Yet  the 
Father  had  often  held  the  cup  of  bitterness  to 
her  lips,  until  she  drank  it  to  its  very  dregs. 
Bereavements  and  illness  had  been  her  por- 
tion; still  she  never  murmured,  only  asked 
Qod  for  strength  to  bear  her  burdens  rightly. 


Gratefully  she  accepted  every  blessing  that 
bestowed  on  her.  Bravely  she  smothered 
own  pain  to  give  healing  to  those  who  cam 
her  with  spirits  weary  and  sore  from  ear 
oooflict  To  the  lonely  she  gave  sympathj 
the  friendless  she  was  a  friend  ;  to  those  x 
to  unkindness  she  gave  the  tenderest  aocei 
and  never,  either  by  word,  looh,  or  act, 
she  purposely  add  to  another's  woe. 

It  was  not  strange,  then,  that  God  filled 
spirit  with  oontimial  sunshine,  which  she  r 
ated  on  all  who  came  within  her  presence, 
that  she  often  said :  "  Heavenly  Creator,  I 
abundant  to  me  are  Thy  mercies  P' 

Nor  was  it  surprising  that  the  good  Fai 
gave  her  beautiful  fiuicies  to  cheer  her  wak 
nights,  and  instructed  her  in  that  wist 
which  teaches  contentment,  a  firm  belief 
GKmI's  love  for  us  all,  and  an  unwavering  I 
that  He  orders  ei^rything  for  o€ur  good. 


'/pi 


WHERE  THEY  DWELL. 

BT  8ABAH  J.  C.  WHITTLKSET. 

"^IS  May  in  my  •arth-home,  'tis  May  wi 
they  dwell — 
The  rich  crimson  rose  and  the  white  lily-bell 
Have  risen  in  beauty  from  nature's  oold  tomb, 
And  sprinkle  my  pathway  with   iweetness 

bloom ; 
"  How  long  ?"  ii  my  query ;  the  red  roses  say, 
In  soft,  dropping  petals:  '^Ah,  only  a  day!" 

Aye,  only  a  day  in  this  earth-home  of  mine 
Will  the  lily  buds  seent,  and  the  red  roses  sbb 
And  merry  bfrds  warble  in  dewy  green  leaves, 
And  golden  blooms  cluster  about  the  brown  ea 
But  ever,  forever,  the  lily's  white  bell, 
And    roses  will    blossom    up  there~  where 
dwell. 

If  God— the  dear  God  who  bath  called  tbem  s 
From    earth's    bitter  winter  to  Heaven's  a 

May- 
Would  give  them   again  from  the  blissful 

skies, 
Would  I  call  tbem  down  here,  firom  the  » 

paradise, 
To  sorrow  and  suffer  on  timers  withered  stem  ? 
No,  no !  I  would  rather  be  taken  to  tbem. 

'Tis  May  hi  my  earth-home,  'tis  May  in  the  sb 
My  May  is  fast  fading,  th£ib  May  never  diesj 
Down  beart-aehes  1  hush  sighs !  for  the  dearest 

best. 
They  are  waiting  for  us  in  the  land  of  the  blei 
There  fadeless  the  rose  and  the  fair  lily-bell— 
Homeward  bound!  homeward  bound!  ap  ^1 

thrjf  dwell  I 


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A  DOLLAR  A  DAY. 


BT  VTROINIA  F.  TOWNBENO. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

rH£  mimmer  had  gone  again,  and  autumn 
was  rounding  out  the  grand  circle  of  an- 
Jier  year.  The  days  were  in  the  front  rank 
r  October,  warm,  sensuous,  luxurious  days, 
rooning  off  in  brown  atmospheres,  and  the 
Id  miracle,  yet  new  as  the  dawn  of  creation, 
r  October  sunsets. 

Forsyth  had  closed  his  house  during  most  of 
le  summer.  His  rheumatism  had  proved  per- 
stent,  and  the  doctors  had  recommended 
svel  and  the  Adirondacks.  So,  in  rather  of 
grumbling  mood,  he  had  posted  off  with  his 
mily,  leaving  his  handsome  home  to  silence 
)d  the  servants. 

One  consideration,  however,  had  gone  far 
ward  reconciling  Forsyth  to  the  change.  It 
ould  have  a  tendency  to  break  up  Ramsey's 
te  associations  and  companionships. 

Whatever  had  transpired  in  the  interview 
at  memorable  night,  betwixt  the  father 
id  the  son,  was  their  own  secret ;  neither 
id  divulged  it,  and  nobody  in  the  family  had 
loded  to  it. 

Ramsey  had  seemed  a  good  deal  sobered  for 
metime  afterward ;  indeed,  such  a  hurricane 
id  not  swept  through  the  family  atmosphere 
ithout  leaving  its  mark — not  in  wreck  and 
isery,  thanks  to  Creasy.  It  had  rather  cleared 
e  air.  Each  one  was  a  little  softer  and 
aver  for  a  few  weeks  that  followed ;  and  if 
orsyth  had  made  his  family  more  immedi- 
ely  conscious  of  his  authority,  its  manifesta- 
>tis  were  less  salient  and  arrogant. 
In  the  spring,  too,  Cressy  had  a  touch  of 
ver,  and  was  just  ill  enough  to  be  cross  and 
jtted,  and  to  be  tortured  with  a  morbid  crav- 
g  for  all  sorts  of  dainties,  which,  when 
t>cured,  and  set  before  her  in  the  most  tempt- 
g  fiuhion,  only  made  her  turn  away  with 
effible  loathing. 
One  day  when  she  had  tided  over  the  worst 

her  illness,  she  was  lying  on  a  lounge  by  the 
indow.  Just  outside,  pear  and  peach  trees 
ere  in  full  bloom,  clouds  of  snow  and  fire, 
ith  a  very  den  of  life  in  their  fragrance, 
id  such  a  laughter  of  May  sunlight  shin- 
g  and  sparkling  over  the  whole  green 
)rld.  ^ 
Poor  Cressy !  she  felt  abused.    She  wanted 

be  out,  and  Ae  could  only  drag  about  her 


room.  She  was  hungry,  and  yet  the  choiceBt 
little  messes,  got  up  with  immense  pains,  failed 
to  tempt  her  appetite. 

Suddenly  Ramsey  entered  the  room.  He 
carried  a  small  basket,  which  he  brought 
straight  to  her,  lifting  the  cover  and  saying : 
**  Don't  these  l')ok  nice,  Cressy  !" 

Inside  there  were  a  dozen  fresh  river  trout. 
The  girl's  eyes  brightened.  "  Oh  I  I  do  believe 
those  will  touch  the  spot,"  she  said.  "  Where 
did  you  find  them,  Ram  f 

"  I  went  off  to  Roaring- Brook  and  caught 
'em.  Plump  little  fellows,  aren't  they  ?  Fll 
bet  they  won't  stick  in  the  crop,  but  slip  down 
smooth  as  a  raw  oyster." 

"  Did  you  go  off  and  get  them  for  me  on 
purpose?"  inquired  Cressy,  with  a  good  deal 
of  surprise.  She  was  not  used  to  such  atten- 
tions on  the  part  of  her  big  brothers. 

"  Yes;  I  knew  you  used  to  be  death  on  fresh, 
broiled  trout,  so  I  thought  I  would  fix  you  up 
a  treat" 

"Oh,  you  dear,  good,  aggravating  old  Ram- 
sey," said  Cressy.  "  Wait  until  I  get  well, 
and  see  if  I  don't  do  as  much  for  you  ?" 

Ramsey  looked  at  his  sister,  and  his  whole 
fiice  seemed  to  grow  softer  and  graver.  "  You 
have  done  something,  Cressy ;  I  thought  of  that 
when  I  set  off  for  the  trout." 

"  What  was  it  that  I  did  ?"  asked  the  girl, 
surprised  and  curious. 

Ramsey  spoke  low,  drawing  a  little  nearer 
his  sister.  "I  know  all  about  that  jewelry, 
Cressy." 

Her  face  flushed  instantly.  "  Oh,  I  didn't 
suppose  papa  would  tell  you  I"  she  said. 

Ramsey  did  not  speak.  She  went  on :  "I 
would  have  given  everytliing  I  possessed  in 
the  world  to  save  you,  Ramsey.  You  are  my 
brother,  you  know. 

"I'm  a  kind  of  a  bear  of  a  brother,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  touched  and  soft  as  Cressy 
had  never  heard  it,  except  that  night  when  he 
talked  of  his  mother 

Just  then  somebody  came  in,  and  this  talk 
was  never  resumed  between  the  two. 

Cressy  had  her  broiled  trout,  and  for  a  won- 
der they  reluthed,  and  from  that  time  she  began 
to  regain  her  strength  and  appetite. 

But  ail  this  had  happened  away  in  the  spring, 
and  the  face  of  the  earth,*  which  then  wore  the 

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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


gladnesB  of  Maj,  wore  now  the  Bplendor  of 
autumn. 

The  Fonyths  had  come  hack  to  Thoml^, 
and  I  helieye  everybody  was  glad  to  get  home, 
even  to  Bamseji  though  he  let  out  an  occa- 
sional growl  about  the  "  slow,  poky  old  town." 
He  had  had  a  rough  time  camping  and  tramp- 
ing among  the  Adirondacks  with  a  set  of  '^  good 
fellows/'  but  on  the  whole  a  great  improyement 
on  those  he  had  left  behind.  His  father  was 
satisfied  on  this  point. 

Creasy  had  come  home,  too,  with  a  healthy 
tinge  of  brown  on  her  glowing  cheeks,  and  with 
several  inches  added  to  her  height,  this  being 
the  case  with  her  brothers  also. 

One  day,  gbing  over  his  morning  letters, 
Forsyth  put  down  one  with  a  clinch  of  his 
hand  and  a  loud  oath.  The  boys  stared,  and 
Cressy  threw  a  frightened  glance  toward  Kam- 
sey ;  but  her  father's  speech  relieved  her  fears 
the  next  moment. 

•*  Confound  it  I  They  want  me  in  New  York 
over  that  miserable  bank  afiair.  No  rest  for  a 
man  in  this  life.  Couldn't  have  come  at  a 
worse  time.  I'd  rather  give  a  precious  sum 
than  start  off  at  tliis  juncture." 

He  kept  on  in  this  way  for  awhile. 

"  Send  somebody  in  your  place,"  suggested 
Eamsey,  at  last. 

*'Who,  young  man?"  answered  his  father, 
angrily. 

**  Me,"  winking  at  the  others. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Bamsey,"  was  the  polite 
rejoinder,  as  Forsyth  gathered  up  his  papers 
and  went  off  in  a  lowering  mood  to  his  own 
room. 

'*  He's  too  old  a  chicken  to  be  caught  that 
way,  Ram,"  remarked  Proctor,  fancying  he  had 
detected  the  feeler  which  his  brother  had  put 
oat  for  a  chance  to  get  down  to  tlie  city  once 
more. 

Ramsey  turned  it  all  off  with  a  coarse  jest, 
too ;  but  meanwhile  his  father  was  turning  over 
his  son's  suggestion  in  his  own  mind,  and 
secretly  inclining  more  and  more  toward  it 
Just  now  he  was  extremely  reluctant  to  leave 
home,  being  occupied  with  some  additions  to  his 
house,  and  some  improvements  of  his  grounds. 

Under  his  father's  directions,  there  was  little 
doubt  that  Ramsey  could  act  as  deputy  in  the 
New  York  business,  the  danger  lying  in  trust- 
ing the  boy  to  his  own  devices  in  the  great  city. 
It  certainly  was  a  risk,  and  Forsyth,  knowing 
the  youth's  character  and  the  temptations 
likely  to  beset  it,  hesitated  a  long  time.  In- 
deed, had  his  reluctance  toward  leaving  Thorn- 
ley  just  now  been  a  Srhit  less,  the  man  never 


would  have  consented  to  place  his  son  in  a 
position  BO  fraught  with  danger.  For  there 
waa  no  tellidg  how  long  Ramsey's  stay  in  New 
York  might  be  prolonged — not  unlikely  for 
eeveral  months.  But  his  father  reflected  that 
Ramsey  had  '*  tried  his  hand  once  at  sowing 
his  wild  oats,"  and  had  had  a  lesson  therein  he 
would  not  be  likely  to  forget  in  acme  time. 
At  any  rate^  the  man's  resolution  waa  taken  at 
last,  and  he  announced  it  at  breakfast,  a  good 
deal  to  everybody's  surprise  and  Bamaej's  im- 
mense delight. 

Forsyth,  however,  to  quote  his  own  expres- 
sion, did  not  intend  to  give  the  youth  a  '*  long 
rope ;"  and  his  interdicts  and  limitations  were^ 
it  must  be  admitted,  likely  to  press  rather 
heavily  on  a  youth  of  Ramsey's  age  and  spirit. 
His  hotel,  his  theatre^  his  croniesy  were  all 
duly  prescribed,  and  to  all  Ramaey  promptly 
promised  obedience;  although,  when  these 
very  reasonable  rules  were  supplemented  by  a 
host  of  small  observances,  Ramaey  did  grow 
restive,  and  privately  confided  to  Proctor  his 
opinion  that  "  the  old  man  was  getting  into  bis 
second  childhood,  and  fancied  his  children  had 
not  cut  their  eye  teeth." 

But  Forsyth  summed  up  in  his  last  warning, 
which  he  delivered  almost  with  solemnity,  the 
essence  of  all  his  commands :  '*  Now,  remem- 
ber, young  man,  to  keep  your  neck  out  of  all 
scrapes.  If  you  run  into  trouble  this  time,  yoa 
do  it  at  your  own  risk,  only  don't  look  to  me 
to  pull  you  out." 

Ramsey  made  ample  promises,  and  on  the 
whole  his  father  was  satisfied  that  the  youth 
meant  to  keep  them. 

So  Ramsey  went  off  to  the  city. 

When  the  time  of  parting  came,  Cressy 
actually  hung  upon  her  brother's  neck  a  mo- 
ment, and  whispered :  "  You  will  he  good, 
won't  you,  Ramsey,  and  not  make  the  folks  at 
home  any  trouble  ?" 

"Yes,  Cress,  I  will  behave  jolly  good— I 
swear  it,"  giving  her  arm  a  brotherly  pinch, 
and  her  cheek  something  betwixt  a  squeese 
and  a  kiss,  as  there  rushed  upon  the  boy  the 
memory  of  one  act  of  Cressy's  which,  however 
low  he  might  sink,  he  would  never  foxget,  and 
which,  if  all  other  cords  frayed  and  broke, 
might  yet  prove  the  one  tie  which  would  draw 
him  back  at  the  last  moment  to  honor  and 
manhood. 

That  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  Ramaey 
left.  Proctor  and  his  sister  drove  into  Thomley. 
Coming  out  of  the  dry-goods  store,  and  cany- 
ing  her  head  a  little  loftier  than  usual— it  vas 
natural  to  Cressy  to  carry  it  pretty  high  at  ail 


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25 


[mes,  and  she  had  an  agreeable  consciousness 
f  the  sensation  her  presence,  or  that  of  any 
lember  of  her  family,  was  sure  to  create  in 
16  town — the  girl  happened  to  overhear  a  re- 
lark  which  the  upper  salesman — who  was 
stching  her  with  a  kind  of  disagreeable 
nirk,  obseqnions  as  he  had  been  a  moment 
efore — made  to  the  book-keeper. 
"Mighty  grand  airs,  now,  isn't  it,  for  a 
imbler's  daughter  I  Such  folks  ought  to  be 
sminded  of  the  hole  from  which  they  were 
ag,  and  how  her  father  made  his  money, 
ake  the  whole  down  a  peg,  I  reckon." 
Cressy  had  sharp  ears,  else  they  would  not 
ive  overheard  this  speech,  which  you  may  be 
ire  the  bland  salesman  who  had  waited  on  her 
moment  before  had  not  the  remotest  inten- 
}n  she  should.  She  reached  the  carriage,  her 
sins  on  fire,  her  very  limbs  trembling  with  rage. 
"Did  you  heartliat?"  she  said  to  Proctor, 
king  her  seat. 

"No;  what  was  it?"    He  had  been  a  little 
advance  of  her  leaving  the  store. 
Cressy  went  over  with  the  coarse  speech, 
rector's  face  flushed  fire. 
"  Oh,  I  could  wring  the  wretch's  neck  I"  he 
id. 

"I  could  have  turned  round  and  killed  him 
the  spot  I"  stamping  her  feet  on  the  carriage 
g  in  her  excitement.  ''  How  dare  he  utter 
ch  a  black,  horrid  lie  I  Papa  a  gambler !" 
"  Wish  the  words  had  choked  his  old  throat," 
ittered  Proctor. 

"  Bat  it  was  such  a  bare-faced  lie,"  persisted 
e88y.  "And  the  other  fellow  laughed  and 
Qckled  as  though  the  base  slander  was  really 
le,  you  know." 

"  Mean,  low  envy  and  jealousy,  the  whole  of  \ 
"  muttered  Plroctor. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  or  tone 
lich  struck  Cressy.  She  turned  and  looked 
her  brother. 

"  But  it  was  a  lie — ^yon  know  it  was  a  lie, 
■octor." 

"Well,  who  said  it  wasn't f  turning  angrily 
K)n  her. 

"Yes,  but  you  didn't  say  it  was." 
"  Wdl,  what  are  you  going  to  make  of  that, 
lyhow?" 

Cressy  did  not  answer  this  time.  She  sat 
ill,  the  color  going  out  upon  her  face,  and 
me  gravity  and  trouble  succeeding  it 
She  was  so  quiet  at  supper  that  her  father 
ked :  "  What's  the  matter.  Cress  ?  Don't  you 
el  well  r 

"Oh,  yes,  perfectly,  papa,"  she  answered, 
losing  herself. 


After  the  meal  was  over,  she  went  and  laid 
her  head  down  on  his  knee  while  he  was  busy 
with  his  paper. 

Turning  it  over,  he  caught  sight  of  the  up- 
turned face,  with  some  strange  softness  and 
tenderness  in  the  bright  eyes  that  stared  at 
him. 

"Well,  what  is  this  little  girl  thinking  about 
me?"  he  asked,  pinching  her  chin,  and  rising 
out  of  Richard  Forsyth,  hard  and  coarse,  into 
his  best,  tenderest  self. 

"  That  you  are  a  dear,  good,  blessed  papa  to 
me,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  smiling  at  her  with 
eyes  in  which  the  pride  and  fondness  were 
plainly  visible. 

She  hovered  about  the  man  all  that  evening, 
her  manner  unusually  serious  and  tender,  as 
one  might  have  expected  it  to  be  if  some  trouble 
or  disgrace  had  fallen  on  him ;  and  all  the  time 
there  was  a  kind  of  half-shocked,  half-pitiful 
look  in  her  eyes. 

Proctor  had  gone  up  to  his  room,  and  was 
taking  off  his  coat,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  Cressy  came  in. 

"Proctor,"  she  began,  in  a  voice  hardly 
above  a  whisper,  as  soon  as  she  had  closed  the 
door,  "  I  want  to  know  if  that  was  really  true — 
what  the  man  said  about  papa  to-day  ?" 

"Just  like  girls,"  said  Proctor,  tugging  at 
his  coat  sleeve;  "always  prying  round  into 
things.  What  good  is  it  going  to  do  you, 
whether  it  was  or  'twasn't  ?" 

Cressy  did  not  answer  this  question.  She 
even  allowed  the  slur  on  her  sex  to  pass  un- 
challenged. 

"But,  Proctor,'^  she  said,  very  decidedly, 
"  papa  was  a  speculator.  That  was  the  way  he 
made  his  money." 

"  Of  course  he  was,"  replied  Proctor.  "What 
do  you  want  to  go  and  ask  uncomfortable  ques- 
tions for.  Cress?" 

The  girl's  lip  quivered.  "  It  was  a  dreadf\]l 
thing  to  say  of  papa.  It  makes  me  shudder  to 
think  of  it  And  I  see  you  don't  deny  it. 
Proctor;  and  I  know  you  would  if  you  could." 

Proctor  looked  rather  driven  to  bay.  He 
was  sorry  for  Cressy,  and  half  angry  with  her, 
and  both  feelings  made  him  explode  suddenly. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  screw  it  out  of  a  fellow, 
here  goes.  All  I  know  is  what  Bam  told  me. 
There  was  a  time  when  the  old  gentleman  kept 
a— gambling  places"  One  oould  see'  the  word 
stuck  in  Proctor's  throat.  "  It  wasn't  one  of  your 
mean  kind,  either,  but  all  nice  and  genteel,  and 
respectable.  Mamtia  u^ed  to  cry  about  it  a 
good  deal.    Bam  can  remember  that,  too.    I'd 

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26 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOME    MAGAZINE, 


like  to  know  vhose  businera  it  is,  either/'  wax- 
ing hot  in  the  face.  "  I  guess  Richard  Forsjth 
is  as  honest  a  man  as  any  of  the  hypocrites  and 
pious  twaddlers  going.  Only  mean,  low,  yen- 
omous  scallawags,  who  envy  our  money,  would 
ever  think  of  dragging  that  up  to  the  light.'' 

Poor  Cressyl  She  felt  as  though  a  taint 
clung  to  her,  and  as  though  she  could  neyer 
carry  that  pretty,  round  head  of  hem,  as  she 
had  done  through  Thornley  streets.  The 
tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "Poor  mammal 
she  said.  "It  must  have  been  an  awful  thing 
for  her  to  bear." 

"Come,  Cress,  don't  take  it  to  heart  so! 
Hold  your  head  higher  than  ever,  and  let  these 
curs  take  it  out  in  barking.  Let  them  say 
what  they  will,  father's  as  good  or  better  than 
most  men,  and  made  his  money  quite  as  hon- 
estly." 

Cressy  tried  to  bolster  her  spirits  up  against 
this  view  of  the  case,  but  the  prop  was  rather 
uncertain,  at  best. 

"I  should  have  thought  Ramsey  would 
have  thrown  it  up  in  some  of  our  fights,"  she 
said. 

Proctor  looked  at  his  sister.  His  eyelids 
had  strengthened  with  the  rest  of  his  physique 
this  summer,  and  it  was  actually  with  round, 
unwinking  eyes,  that  he  said:  "That  was  a 
sword  which  would  eut  both  ways.  If  you  were 
in  the  mud,  Cress,  he  was  as  deep  in  the 
mire." 

Cressy  laughed  a  little,  and  then  she  drew  a 
deep  sigh  and  thought  that  a  gambling-house 
had  a  dreadful  odor  about  it.  She  had  never 
dreamed  it  could  cling  to  her  or  hers. 

"  I  think  father  was  hard  on  Ramsey  last 
spring,  considering  he  had  been  in  the  same 
boat,"  said  Proctor. 

"Perhaps  that  was  the  very  reason,"  an- 
swered Cressy. 

The  brother  and  sister  did  not  talk  much 
more  together,  but  they  bade  each  other  good- 
night more  kindly  than  usual. 

When  Cressy  arot  to  her  own  room,  the  very 
first  thing  she  did  was  to  have  a  hearty  cry. 
The  coarse  talk  of  the  salesman  haunted  and 
made  a  sore  place  in  her  soul  for  years  after^ 
ward. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Ramsey  Forsyth  went  down  to  New  York, 
with  a  solemn  determination  to  obey  his 
father's  orders  substantially,  and  especially  to 
"  keep  himself  out  of  all  scrapes." 

Moreover,  Ramsey  was  a  good  deal  on  his 


mettle.  He  was  proud  of  being  intrusted  with 
these  business  affairs,  and  wanted  to  do  hink- 
self  credit  in  their  execution. 

So  he  carried  himself  steadily,  and  went  to 
work  bravely.  He  eschewed  all  the  inter- 
dicted places,  avoiding  all  associations  and  re- 
sorts to  which  his  father  would  have  raised  any 
serious  objections. 

Forsyth  was  highly  pleased  with  the  intelli- 
gence and  shrewdness  which  Ramsey  dhiplayed 
in  acting  as  his  father's  deputy,  and  began  to 
hope  that  the  first  crop  of  wild  oats  in  this  field 
would  prove  its  last  one. 

So  time  went  on,  one  month  and  then  an- 
other, and  the  bank  business,  having  a  good 
many  hinges  and  ramifications,  still  kept  Ram- 
sey in  Kew  York,  and  his  father's  uneasiness 
gradually  diminished,  and  Ramsey,  for  his  owb 
part,  had  the  pleasant  consciousness  that  his 
record  had  been  a  clean  one. 

This  was  certainly  to  the  credit  qf  a  youth  of 
Ramsey's  age,  thrown  on  his  own  devices  amid 
the  temptations  and  seductions  of  New  York. 

They  had  come  in  Ramsey's  way  also,  and 
in  resisting  them  he  had  to  exert  some  moral 
courage,  and  encounter  some  ridicule  from  bis 
companions. 

But  Ramsey  waa  tolerably  carefnl  of  his 
company,  and  if  the  moral  tone  of  the  busiDess 
circles  in  which  he  was  thrown  was  not  of  a 
high  order,  it  was^  at  least,  on  a  level  with 
that  in  which  Ramsey  had  been  brought  up* 

One  night  he  went  with  some  "jolly  Western 
fellows,"  who  were  stopping  at  his  hotel,  to  the 
French  opera. 

Two  of  these  had  roughed  it  some  years  ago 
on  the  frontier  and  in  California.  They  met 
here  an  old  comrade,  who  had  recently  ar- 
rived in  the  city,  and  whom  they  greeted  with 
boisterous  cordiality  and  introduced  to  Ram- 
sey, assuring  the  latter  that  the  stranger  was  a 
capital  fellow  on  the  plains,  in  a  buffalo  host, 
or  among  the  "  diggings." 

Ramsey  took  it  for  granted  that  eveiythiag 
was  right,  and  joined  with  the  rest  of  his  yeais 
in  the  jokes  and  hilarity. 

When  it  comes  to  describing  this  retoned 
Califomian,  there  really  seems  no  very  salient 
points  about  him.  His  cronies  called  him 
Mark,  or  "Ropes;"  but  when  he  re-wrote  his 
name,  which  he  did  in  a  free  running  hand,  li 
was  Jonathan  Marcus  Ropes. 

He  had  a  good  figure,  broad  chested  and 
sinewy,  an  inch  or  two  above  medium  height 
He  was  rather  good-looking,  at  least  on  a  M 
glance.  Whatever  defects  the  lower  part  of  the 
face  possessed,  they  were  concealed  by  a  hand- 


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A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


27 


tme  be^rd;  the  eyes  were  keen,  bold,  and 
lack ;  yet  if  700  watched  tkem  they  would  not 
Mur  acqiuuDtaiice,  the  Devil  down  anderneath 
lem  leaping  ap  eometioieB  in  a  hard,  fartive 
litter ;  but  this  fiamsey  would  not  be  likely 
» diBoover  BOOB. 

Ropes  might  be  anywhere  from  thirty  to 
wp  in  his  forties.  His  ikoe  was  well  bronzed 
ith  travel,  and  he  had  altogether  the  easy, 
l^hand  air  of  a  man  of  the  world. 
To  use  his  own  words,  Hopes  **  lived  by  bis 
its;"  but  that  meant  with  him  anything  bat 
le  steady,  fiutkfol  ezeroise  of  his  fiicalties  in 
>Cai  ning  an  honest  living.  He  roamed  aronnd 
e  world,  now  turning  up  in  one  place,  now 
I  another,  but  whether  on  wide,  lonely  plain, 
■  with  bands  of  rough  miners  in  mountain 
ikhes,  or  in  the  heart  of  crowded  cities, 
ways  absorbing  the  worst  influences  of  the 
aoes,  always  mean,  crafty,  ledse,  and  vile. 
For  Bopee  was  a  bad  man :  so  bad  that  if  I 
d  not  know  that  thiere  were  a  good  many 
ke  him  in  the  world,  I  should  shrink  from 
riting  about  him  at  alL  The  cells  of  our 
ieons  to-day  bear  witness  to  his  type. 
Bopes,  it  is  true,  bad  never  been  in  one^  for 
i  was  shrewd  and  cautious ;  but  villains  of  his 
lality  usually  grow  desperate  with  time,  and 
e  logic  of  evil  generally  brings  such  men 
oner  or  later  behind  the  prison  gratings. 
Yet  Bopes  passed  for  a  ''  capital  good  fellow/' 
Ily  and  easy,  whether  amongst  a  group  of  | 
ird  miners  in  some  lonely  ranch,  or  among 
le  crowds  of  gay  cities.  He  knew  how  to 
iapt  himself  to  various  sorts  of  people,  and 
mid  tell  a  good  stoi y  and  strike  off  a  telling 
»ke. 

He  wore  handsome  broadcloth,  smoked  the 
boicest  cigars,  and  drank  the  best  brands,  and 
new  how  to  get  on  the  weak  side  of  a  man, 
nd  borrow  five  hundred  dollars  and  make  it 
MBt  all  the  time  that  he  was  doing  a  favor  in 
cceptingit. 

There  wcae  men,  of  eourse,  who  knew  Bopes 
IT  precisely  the  sharp,  unprincipled  vagabond 
e  was;  but  these  were  not  among  the  easy, 
»lly  crowd  of  Westerners  at  the  opera  that 
ight. 

Bamsey  took  bis  share  in  the  general  jol- 
iy.  It  was  enoogh  that  his  friends  endorsed 
topes,  and  the  latter  was  preeisely  the  sort 
f  man  likely  to  attract  the  unwary  youth. 

Before  that  evening  was  over,  the  man  had 
iken  the  measure  of  young  Forsyth.  Whether 
U>pes  began  laying,  that  night,  the  very  plot 
rhich  he  afterward  manipulated  so  skilfully,  I 
m  unable  to  say. 


Some  of  the  crowd  invited  Bopes  to  return 
with  them  to  the  hotel.  He  went,  of  course. 
Where  there  was  anything  to  be  sucked  out  of 
another,  Bopes  had  too  much  of  the  vampire 
in  him  to  let  the  chance  slipw 

For  the  next  two  or  three  days,  Bamsey 
and  he  were  thrown  a  good  dei^  together;  and 
Bamsey  endorsed  the  opinion  of  his  com- 
panions that  ''Bopes  was  a  downright  good 
fellow  for  a  krk." 

When  the  young  men  went  away,  the  Oal- 
ifornian,  however,  remained  behind. 

He  had  turned  tip  in  New  York  "hard  up 
for  money,"  and  was  lying  in  wait  for  some 
bogus  operation  in  lands  or  gift  enterprises^  or 
for  any  other  knavish  stroke  by  which  he 
might  better  his  fortunes,  at  this  juncture. 

So  Bamsey  Forsyth  had  fallen  in  this  man's 
way,  and  Bopes  had  been  turning  over  in  his 
own  mind  **  whether  the  bird  was  really  worth 
plucking.'' 

He  had  made  inquiries  and  learned,  partly 
from  Bamsey  himself,  partly  from  his  friends, 
the  nature  of  the  youth's  business  in  New  York ; 
while  from  other  sources  Bopes  had  ascer- 
tained the  ohamcter  of  the  elder  Forsyth,  but 
did  not  relish  the  idea  of  filling  into  the  latter's 
power. 

But  here  was  the  young  man  at  hand,  just 
the  sort  of  ''green  vain  fool "  to  be  worked  up 
to  advantage,  Bopes  reasoned;  and  money 
was  tight,  and  men  not  so  easily  "  drawn  in  " 
as  when  times  were  smoother ;  and  Bopes's  for- 
tunes were  at  a  desperately  low  ebb,  and  "  a  fel- 
low most  always  risk  something  when  there 
was  a  haul  to  be  made." 

So  the  remit  of  Bopes's  meditations,  betwixt 
his  wine  and  his  dgars,  was,  to  "  risk  the  old 
man  and  lay  his  pipes  for  the  son." 

Afterward,  the  two  became  cronies.  Bam- 
sey-'poor  fooU^felt  highly  flattered  that  thui 
man  of  the  world  had  taken  so  great  a  fancy  to 
him. 

They  smoked,  and  eat»  and  drank,  and  jested 
Ult  into  the  night  together,  and  the  influence  of 
such  a  man  as  Bopes  could  not  fail  to  tell  very 
soon  on  Bamsey  Foi^ytk, 

The  returned  Calilbmian  had  no  Auth  in 
God,  or  man,  or  woman ;  and  as  his  purpoee 
was  to  oonfijee  Bamsey's  notions  of  right  and 
wrong— which,  at  the  best,  were  haxy  enough- 
all  the  fine  stories  and  talk  had  a  sneer  and  a 
fling  in  them,  the  Devil's  own  laugh  at  what- 
ever was  pure^  or  honest,  or  virtuous,  and  the 
Devil  was  now  after  Bamsey  Forsyth,  in  the 
shape  of  this  "jolly  fellow"— as  he  would  have 
called  him — Morgan  Bopes. 


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28 


ARTHUR'S   LADTB   EOUE   MAGAZINE. 


Of  eonne^  I  Rhall  not  soil  these  pages  irith 
repeating  the  andean  Jests  oi*  the  talk  whieh 
more  and  more  foaled  its  slime  throagh  the 
long  eyenings  in  Bamsej's  room  at  the  hotel, 
or  when  he  and  Bopee  were  ''on  a  lark'' 
around  the  dtjr. 

This  k  a  part  of  m^  storj  which  I  shall 
harry  past,  toaching  on  it  hriefly  and  lightly 
as  possible,  thanking  God  in  my  heart  that  if 
there  are  men  in  the  world  like  this  Bopes, 
the  good  hy  so  rast  a  majority  outnumber 
them. 

The  man  soon  learned  Bamsey's  precise 
position  with  regard  to  his  father.  He  took 
care  after  that,  that  the  reins  held  rather 
tightly  by  the  paternal  hand  shoald  chafe  and 
gall  the  proud  yoath. 

Bopes  was  always  forgetting  and  inviting 
young  Forsyth  to  visit  some  of  the  interdicted 
places,  knowing  how  disagreeable  and  humil- 
iating the  other  found  it  to  confess  his  father's 
prohibition.  i 

"I  declare,  Forsyth,"  Bopes  woald  some- 
times indignantly  break  out,  "it^s  a  shame  for 
such  a  fellow  as  you  are  to  be  kept  in  leading- 
strings  like  this.  What  a  tight  rein  yoor 
govemoT  does  hold  I" 

Such  speeches  as  these  were  sure  to  ronkU. 
Indeed,  Bamsey  was  growing  bad  rapidly 
enough  under  Bopes's  magnetism. 

He  had  borrowed  money,  too,  of  yoang  For- 
S3rth  several  times— not  large  sums,  but  still 
enough  to  make  Bamsey  feel  the  loss  of  it ;  for 
his  father  still  kept  the  financial  margin  nar- 
row, thinking  that  die  safest  coarse  for  Bamsey ; 
and  the  youth  was  ashamed  to  apply  to  Bopes 
for  the  petty  sums  the  latter  owed.  Besides, 
it  happened  that  young  Forsyth  had  a  good 
many  treats  to  stand  in  the  way  of  suppers  and 
wines  at  this  time. 

One  evening  the  two  took  a  long  stroll  to- 
getlter.  Somewhere  Hr  np  Broadway,  await- 
ing an  omnibus,  Bopes  spoke  up,  as  though  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment:  ''I  have  some 
friends  round  here,  Forsyth,  whom  I  want  to 
see  a  moment.    Oome  with  me." 

Suspecting  nothing  wrong,  Bamsey  went. 
They  stopped  on  one  of  the  cross  streets,  before 
a  handsome  private  residence.  The  black 
waiter  who  gave  them  admittance,  stared 
keenly  at  Bamsey.  They  walked  throagh  a 
brilliantly  lighted  parlor  to  a  large,  gorgeous 
room  at  the  back,  where  a  number  of  men  sat 
before  tables,  too  absorbed  to  notioe  their 
entrance. 

In  a  moment  Bamsey  knew  that  he  was  in  a 
gambling  house.    He  turned  to  his  companion, 


saying  quickly :  *'  Bopes,  this  wasn't  fiiir  of 
you.    Yoa  know  I  can't  stay  in  this  place." 

''  Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  aaswered  Bopea, 
irith  a  perfectly  oounterfeited  stave^  ''whit  Is 
the  matter  with  yout" 

''  You  know  the  promise  I  made  to  my  fiither. 
I  mean  to  keep  it" 

'<Oh,  my  dear  fellow,"  patting  him  on  tk 
shoulder,  '"pon  my  honor  Fd  fmigotten  sll 
about  that  when  I  aftked  yoa  to  oome  in.  But 
you're  in  for  it,  and  yoa  can't  get  oat  without 
I  say  the  word  to  the  waiter;  so  yoa  mast  make 
the  best  of  it;  you're  my  prisoner  now." 

This  statement  was  not  true,  bat  it  served  its 
purpose,  for  Bamsey  believed  Bopes. 

For  the  first  half  hour,  ihoagh,  it  required 
all  of  Bopes's  management  to  keep  up  the 
youth's  spirits.  Fear  of  his  father's  wmth, 
and  thoughts  of  Gressy,  and  even  of  his  deed 
mother,  were  at  work  with  Bamsey ;  but  so  wsb 
the  Devil  in  the  smooth,  Jeering  tolk  of  Bopes. 
He  plied  yoong  Forsyth  with  wine. 

''  I  say,  the  old  man  pats  the  breaks  on  joo 
rather  heavy  when  he  forbids  your  coming 
here,  considering  how  he  made  the  biggest  pile 
of  his  ntoney." 

"  How  did  yoa  know  thatf*  inquired  Ram- 
sey, starting  and  flushing  a  litde. 

**  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  everybody  knows  thai 
Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  either,  as  I  see." 

•  At  last,  the  wine  taking  effect,  Bamsey  re- 
solved not  <<  to  show  the  white  itsather"  tohis 
friend.  He  became  interested  in  thestakei, 
watching  the  "  luck  "  with  flushed,  greedy  face, 
and  ionging  to  take  a  hand,  while  behind  faiia 
watched  covertly  the  evil  genius,  with  the  cold, 
crafty  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

Bamsey,  however,  did  not  play  to-nigbt,  but 
Bopes  pot  up  some  small  stakes  on  his  own 
account,  borrowing  a  few  doliars  of  Banuey. 
The  man  won  each  time,  and  took  care  to  pay 
on  this  occasion  the  money  he  had  borrowed. 

*'Well,  Forsyth,  no  great  harm. done,  is 
there  ?"  asked  Bopes  as  they  left  the  house  that 
night 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,''  answered  Bamsey,  taking 
on  a  swagger  of  anoonoem. 

"  And  won't  be,  if  you  go  again  a  dozen  tinwa 
I  say,  the  governor's  sugfaty  hard  to  keep  • 
big  fellow  like  you  in  such  leading-strings. 
You're  not  a  pallet  by  this  time." 

Banosey  laughed  loudly  at  the  poor  joke; 
but  he  began  to  feel  more  and  more  galled 
under  the  yoke  of  his  fether. 

"You'll  cut  the  traces  one  of  these  days,  I 
see,"  said  Bopes,  as  the  two  parted  that  nigW 
in  one  of  the  halls  of  the  hotel. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   PRAIRIE. 


29 


^HaDg  it  if  I  don'V  muttered  Bamsej,  as 
i  turned  off  to  his  room. 
What  need  to  follow  the,  700th  down  the 
•d  on  which  we  have  seen  him  fiiirlj  started, 
opes  was  ever  at  hand  to  sneer,  or  encourage, 
flatter,  as  the  oa8«  might  be^  and  Bamsej 
-ank  deeply,  and  swore  and  played,  and  won 
id  lost;  and  finally  did  worse  than  that, 
king  the  plunge  OTer  the  precipice,  as  you 
11  find  out  in  time.  But  I  am  sick  of  this 
jrt  of  my  story. 

(To  b€  eoiUvnuedA 

■'/'  ^' 

THE  PRAIRIE. 

BYC. 

^MENBELY  variegated  as  is  the  surface  of 
the  globe,  there  are  still  but  few  of  its  fea- 
res  that  present  an  aspect  of  more  surpassing 
«rest  and  beauty  than  the  far-lengthening, 
de-expanding  prairie.  The  oceans,  the  moun- 
ns,  the  hills,  th.e  valleys,  the  torrents,  and 
i  rivers,  afibrd  thousands  of  most  admirable 
nee,  but  the  face  of  a  prairie  smiles  with 
passing  charms,  with  indescribable  loveli- 
e  and  beauty. 

Stretching  fiur  away  with  indistinct  bounda- 
B,  or  merging  into  the  horizon,  the  southern 
1  western  prairies  appear  like  vast  seaS, 
sir  undulations  the  seeming  swells,  their 
imps  of  trees  the  islands.  Whether  the  tall, 
mriant  grass,  mingled  with  an  innumerable 
riety  of  flowers  loaded  with  perfume,  waves 
on  the  surface,  or  is  shorn  close  like  a  pas- 
■e,  they  always  exhibit  an  aspect  of  un- 
Balled  beauty  and  fertility. 
While  gazing  on  the  encircling  vastness,  the 
ut  swells  with  wonder  and  humble  adora- 
Q.  The  rich  clumps  of  fine  trees,  collected 
;ether  here  and  there  in  every  possible  form, 
1  of  every  species,  and  some  of  them  planted 
Ih  the  nice  regularity  of  art,  add  the  charm 
variety  to  the  lovely  scene,  while  they  afford 
jateful  shelter  to  the  wandering  herds  and 
)  weary  traveller. 

[t  is  a  rapturous  vision  to  gaze  upon  these 
ardens  of  the  desert;"  but  how  few  ever 
ioy  the  luxury  ? 

Pew  countries  are  adorned  with  these  beau- 
il  scenes,  certainly  none  more  bountiftilly 
n  America.  And  in  no  portions  of  Amer- 
do  they  exhibit  more  beautiful  or  more 
-led  aspects  than  in  Texas  and  Mexico.  The 
dries  of  Texas  especially  are  as  wonderful 
their  vast  extent  as  they  are  peculiar  in 
uty  and  singular  in  fertility.    Even  the 


first  of  that  advancing  multitude,  who,  at- 
tracted by  the  paradisaical  scene,  will  not  find 
himself  alone  in  this  great  solitude,  as  it  is 
already  thickly  peopled  with  myriads  of  gaudy 
insects  that  flutter  over  the  flowers,  beautiful 
birds,  graceful  deer,  bounding  bufikloes,  and 
numerous  troops  of  fine  and  noble  wild  horses. 
The  adventurous  colonist  selects  his  spot,  builds 
himself  a  dwelling  in  a  shady  island,  and,  by 
conforming  to  certain  requisitions  of  the  gov- 
ernment, becomes  at  once  the  rightful  pro- 
prietor of  nearly  as  much  territory  as  his  eye 
can  at  once  survey ;  and  when  he  finds  time  to 
enclose  it  with  substantial  landmarks,  he  feels 
secure  against  intrusion.  He  plants  sugar  and 
cotton,  and  whatever  else  he  may  choose  to 
cultivate,  and  the  benignant  climate  and  pro- 
lific soil  shortly  yield  him  a  most  abundsnt 
crop,  and  he  reaps  more  than  an  hundred  fold. 
The  soil  is  easily  subdued,  and  with  little  care 
whole  herds  of  cattle  grow  up  to  enliven  the 
^de  domain,  where  they  roam  throughout  the 
year  without  barns,  and  without  the  northern 
haystacks  or  granaries.  If  he  wishes  a  horse, 
or  a  drove  of  horses,  the  animals  cost  him  only 
the  trouble  of  catching  them,  which  is  done 
with  a  Umo  being  thrown  over  the  horses' 
heads. 

Such  is  life  on  the  prairies,  fer  from  the 
fashionable  world. 

Delapielb,  Wis. 


i>d}Q»o«— 


TEACH  THE  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

TEACHING  children  to  work  is  about  the 
hardest  kind  of  work.  Most  mothers  are 
unwilling  to  take  the  time  and  trouble  neces- 
sary to  teach  their  daughters  the  little  womanly 
arts  of  sewing,  knitting,  crocheting,  and  the 
simpler  kinds  of  embroidery.  It  is  left  for  some 
one  else  to  take  the  trouble,  if  they  are  so  for- 
tunate as  to  secure  a  teadter.  Often  the  little  one 
looks  on  with  longing  eyes  to  the  nimble  fingers 
of  a  young  companion,  who  can  fsshion  such 
beautiful  things  with  a  crochet  needle  and  ball 
of  bright  wool.  The  common  tasks  of  picking 
up  chips,  wiping  dishes,  and  dusting  rooms,  seem 
such  mere  drudgery  in  comparison.  Some  little 
variation  of  this  sort  would  greatly  brighten  the 
dull  days.  We  have  too  little  patience  in  teach- 
ing children.  If  they  could  learn  all  at  one 
lesson,  we  should  be  satisfied;  but  they  tire 
after  a  few  moments'  practice,  and  wish  to  turn 
to  something  else.  They  are  sure  to  take  up  a 
stitch  wrong  after  we  have  told  them  dozens  of 
times ;  and  so  we  lose  our  own  patience,  and 
the  child  quickly  follows  the  example. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FIRST  MARRIAGE  IN  THE  FAMILY. 


"TTOMEr  How  that  little  word  atrika 
-U-  upon  the  hewt-Btriogt,  awakening  all 
the  8weet  memories  that  had  slept  in  memory's 
chamber!  Our  home  was  a  ''pearl  of  price'' 
among  homes;  not  for  its  architectural  ele- 
gance— for  it  was  only  a  four-gabled,  brown, 
country  hous^  shaded  by  two  antediluvian 
oak  trees ;  nor  was  its  interior  crowded  with 
luxuries  that  charm  every  sense  and  come 
from  every  clime.  Its  furniture  had  grown 
old  with  us,  for  we  remembered  no  other;  and 
though  polished  as  highly  as  furniture  could 
be,  by  daily  scrubbing,  was  somewhat  the 
worfle  for  wear,  it  must  be  confessed. 

But  neither  the  house  nor  its  furnishing 
makes  the  Aoine  ;  and  the  charm  of  ours  lay  in 
the  sympathy  that  linked  the  nine  that  cal^ 
it ''  home "  to  one  another.  Father,  mother, 
and  seven  children — five  of  them  gay-hearted 
girls,  and  two  boys,  petted  just  enough  to  be 
spoiled — not  one  link  had  ever  dropped  from 
the  chain  of  love  or  one  corroding  drop  £Ulen 
upon  its  brightness. 

''  One  star  differeth  from  another  in  glory," 
even  iu  the  firmament  of  home.  Thus— though 
we  could  not  have  told  a  stranger  which  sister 
or  brother  was  dearest — from  our  gentlest 
''  eldest,"  an  invalid  herself  but  the  comforter 
and  counsellor  of  all  beside,  to  the  curly  haired 
boy,  who  romped  and  r^dced  in  the  appella- 
tion of  '*  baby,"  givoi  five  yean  before — still 
an  observing  eye  would  soon  have  singled  out 
Sister  Ellen  as  the  sunbeam  of  our  Heaven,  the 
''  morning  star  "  of  our  constellation.  She  was 
the  second  in  age,  but  the  first  in  the  inheri- 
tance of  that  load  of  responsibility,  which  in 
such  a  household  falls  naturally  upon  the  eldest 
daughter.  Eliaa,  as  I  have  said,  was  ill  from 
early  girlhood.;  and  Ellen  had  shouldered  all 
her  burden  of  care  and  kindness,  with  a  light 
heart  and  a  lighter  step.  Up  stairs  and  down 
cellar,  in  the  parlor,  nursery  or  kitchen — at 
the  piano  or  the  wash-tub— with  pen,  pencil, 
needle,  or  ladle— Sister  Ellen  was  always  busy, 
always  with  a  smile  on  her  cheek,  and  a  war- 
ble on  her  lip. 

Quietly,  happily,  the  months  and  years  went 
by.  We  never  realised  that  change  was  to 
come  over  our  band.  To  be  sure,  when  moth- 
er would  look  in  upon  us,  seated  together  with 
our  books,  paintings,  and  needle- work,  and 
say,  in  her  gentle  way,  with  only  a  half  a  sigh, 
(30) 


"Ah,  girls,  yoa  are  living  your  liappiest  daytl" 
we  would  gianoe  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
wonder  who  would  go  first  Bat  it  was  a  won- 
der that  passed  away  with  the  hour,  and  mfiled 
not  even  the  surfiice  of  our  sisterly  hearts.  It 
could  not  be  always  so — and  the  change  cams 
at  last  I 
'  iSister  EUen  was  to  be  married  I 

It  was  like  the  crash  of  a  thunderbolt  in  a 
clear  summer  sky  I  Sister  Ellen — the  faiiy  of 
the  hearthstone,  the  darling  of  every  heart— 
which  of  us  eovld  spare  her  ?  Who  had  beta 
so  presumptuous  as  to  find  out  her  worth  ?  For 
the  first  moment,  Um  question  burst  from  each 
surprised,  half  angry  sitter  of  *the  blusbiog^ 
tearful  Ellen  1  It  was  only  for  a  moment ;  ibr 
our  hearts  told  us  that  nobody  oould  help  lov- 
ing her,  who  had  looked  through  her  \ovixi% 
blue  eyes,  into  the  dear  well-apring  of  tke 
heart  beneath.  So  we  threw  our  arms  around 
her  and  sobbed  without  a  word  I 

We  knew  very  well  that  the  young  deigy- 
man,  wliose  Sunday  sermons  and  gentle  adaio- 
nitions  had  won  all  hearts,  had  been  for  mootlis 
a  weekly  visitor  to  our  fireside  oarole.  Vith 
baby  Georgie  on  his  knee,  and  Oeoigie's  Wo- 
tliers  and  sisters  clustered  about  him,  he  bad 
sat  through  many  an  evening  channing  tJie 
hours  away,  until  the  clock  startled  os  with 
its  unwelcome  ninero'clock  warning;  and  the 
softly  spoken  reminder,  "  Girls,  it  is  bed-time f 
woke  more  than  one  stifled  sigh  of  regret 
Then  Sister  EUen  must  always  go  with  ne  to 
lay  Georgie  in  his  little  bed ;  to  hear  him  and 
Annette  repeat  the  evenlhg  prayer  and  hjw!^ 
her  lips  had  taught  them ;  to  oomb  out  the 
long  brown  braids  of  Emily's  head ;  to  rob 
Arthur  of  the  story  book,  over  which  he  wooid 
have  squandered  the  "  midnight  oil ;"  and  to 
breathe  a  kiss  and  a  blessing  over  the  piiloir  v 
each  other  sister,  sb  she  tacked  the  wax» 
blankets  tenderly  about  them* 

We  do  not  know  how  often  of  late  she  h*d 
stolen  down  again,  from  these  sisterly  dotitf> 
after  our  senses  were  locked  in  sleep;  or  i(o^ 
eyes  and  ears  had  ever  been  open  to  the  ic^ 
we  could  never  have  suspected  the  wif^^  ^ 
be  guilty  of  such  a  plot  against  our  pesos  < 
That  name  was  associated,  in  our  minds,  wi|h 
all  that  was  superhuman.  The  graybaired 
pastor  who  had  gone  to  his  grave  six  montb* 
previous,  had  sat  as  frequently  on  that  8ai»« 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE    FIRST   MARRIAGE   IN    TEE   FAMILY. 


31 


ken  annHihair,  and  talked  with  na.  We  bad 
leA  him  aa  a  father  and  friend,  and  had  al- 
Bt  worshipped  him  as  the  embodiment  of 
attainable  goodneas.  And  when  Mr.  Neville 
ne  among  us,  with  his  high,  pale  forehead, 
i  soul-kindled  eye,  we  had  thought  his  face 

0  "  the  face  of  an  angel " — too  glorious  for 
i  print  of  mortal  passion  I  Especially,  after 
answer  to  an  uigent  call  from  the  people 
ong  whom  he  was  laboring,  he  had  frankly 
d  them  that  his  purpose  was  not  to  remain 
ong  them,  or  anywhere  on  his  native  shore ; 
i  he  only  waited  the  guidance  of  Providenoe 

1  home  in  a  foreign  clime.  Alter  this  much- 
railed  disclosure  of  his  plans,  we  placed  our 
orite  preacher  on  a  higher  pinnacle  of 
Qtshipl 

^t  Sister  Ellen  was  to  be  married — and 
rried  to  Mr.  Neville.  And  then— "Oh, 
«r,  you  are  not  going  away  to  India  T'  burst 
n  our  lips,  with  a  fresh  gush  of  sobs. 

was  the  first  to  look  up  into  Ellen's  troa- 
1  face.  It  was  heaving  with  emotions  that 
led  its  calmness,  as  the  tide-waves  ruffle  the 
Her  lips  were  firmly  compressed;  her 
B  were  fixed  on  some  distant  dream,  glassed 
[i  two  tears,  that  stood  still  in  their  chalices, 
ddden  to  fall.  I  almost  trembled  as  I 
gbt  her  glance. 

Sister !  Agnes — Emily  T'  she  exclaimed,  in 
oaky  whisper.  '*  Hush  I  be  calm  I  DonH 
tk  my  heart !  Do  I  love  home  less  than — ** 
he  efiR>rt  was  too  much ;  the  words  died  on 
lips.  We  lifted  her  to  bed,  frightened  into 
^fulness  of  her  own  grief.  We  soothed 
until  she,  too,  w^t  freely  and  passionately, 
^  in  weeping,  grew  strong  for  the  sacrifice 
rliich  she  had  pledged  her  heart. 
7e  never  spoke  another  word  of  remon- 
nce  to  her  tender  heart,  though  often,  in 
few  months  that  flitted  by  us  together,  we 
1  to  choke  with  sobbing,  in  some  speech 
\  hinted  of  the  coming  separation,  and 
ry  from  her  presence  to  cry  alone, 
^or  mother  has  told  us  tlie  tidings  with 
te  lips  that  quivered  tenderly  and  sadly, 
love  is  so  uniformly  unselfish  as  a  mother's, 
ily ;  for  though  she  leaned  on  Ellen  as  the 
ing  staff  of  her  declining  years,  she  sorrowed 

as  we  did,  that  she  was  going.  She,  too^ 
I  happy  in  the  thought  that  her  child  had 
ad  that  "pearl  of  price"  in  a  cold  and  evil 
-Id — a  true,  noble,  loving  heart  to  guide  and 
tect  her. 

i^ather  sat  silently  in  the  chimney  comer, 
ding  in  the  family  Bible.  He  was  looking 
iher  than  any  of  us — to   the  perils  that 


would  environ  his  dearest  daan^ter,  and  the 
privations  that  might  oome  upon  her  young 
life,  in  that  unhealthy,  uncivilized  comer  of 
the  globe,  whither  she  was  going.  Both  our 
parents  had  dedicated  their  children  to  God ; 
and  they  would  not  oast  even  a  shadow  on  the 
path  of  self-sacrifioe  and  duty  their  darling  had 
chosen. 

To  oome  down  to  the  unromantic  little  de- 
tails of  wedding  preparations:  how  we  stitched 
and  trimmed,  packed  and  prepared — stoned 
raisins  with  tears  in  our  eyes,  and  seasoned  the 
wedding  cake  with  sighs.  But  there  is  little 
use  in  thinking  over  these  things,  Ellen  was 
first  and  foremost  in  all,  as  she  had  always 
been  in  every  emergency,  great  or  smsll. 
Nothing  could  be  made  wiUiout  her.  Even  the 
bride's  cake  was  taken  £rom  the  oven  by  her 
own  fair  hands,  because  no  one— servant,  sister, 
or  even  mother — was  willing  to  run  the  risk  of 
burning  Sister  Ellen's  bride's  cake;  and  sAs 
knew  jusi  how  to  bake  it." 

We  were  not  left  alone  in  our  labors;  for 
Ellen  had  been  loved  by  more  than  the  home- 
roof  sheltered.  Old  and  young,  poor  and  rich, 
united  in  bringing  their  gifts,  regrets,  and 
blessings  to  the  chosen  companion  of  the  pas- 
tor they  were  soon  to  lose.  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  idea  of  missionaiy  life  that  touches 
the  sympathy  of  every  heart  which  mammon 
has  not  too  long  seared.  To  see  one,  with 
sympathies  and  refinements  like  our  own,  rend 
the  strong  ties  that  bind  to  country  and  home, 
comfort  and  civilisation, 'for  the  good  of  the 
lost  and  degraded  heathen,  brings  too  strongly 
into  relief,  by  contrast,  the  selfishness  of  most 
human  lives  led  among  the  gayeties  and  luxu- 
ries of  time. 

The  day,  the  hour  came.  The  ship  was  to 
sail  from  B.  on  the  ensoing  week ;  and  it  must 
take  away  an  idol. 

She  stood  up  in  the  village  church,  that  all 
who  loved  her,  and  longed  lor  another  sight  of 
her  sweet  face,  might  look  upon  her,  and  speak 
the  simple  words  that  should  link  hearts  for 
eternity.  We  sisters  stood  all  around  her,  but 
not  too  near;  for  our  hearts  were  overflowing, 
and  we  could  not  wear  the  happy  &ces  that 
should  grace  a  train  of  bridesmaids.  She  had 
cheered  ua  through  the  day  with  sunshine  from 
her  own  heart,  and  even  while  we  were  array- 
ing her  in  her  simple  white  muslin,  like  a  lamb 
for  sacrifice,  she  had  charmed  our  thoughts 
into  cheerfulness.  It  seemed  like  some  dream 
of  fairy  land,  and  she  the  embodiment  of  grace 
and  loveliness,  acting  the  part  of  some  Queen 
Titania  for  a  little  while.    The  dream  changed 


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82 


ABTMITB'S   LADY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


to  a  far  difTerent  reality,  when,  at  the  door  of 
her  mother's  room,  she  pot  her  hand  into  that 
of  Henry  Neyille,  and  lifted  her  eje  with  a 
look  that  said :  "  Wheie  thou  goest  will  I  go," 
even  from  all  hesidel- 

Tears  fell  &st  in  that  assemhly ;  though  the 
good  old  matrons  tried  to  smile,  as  they  passed 
around  the  bride,  to  bless  her  and  bid  her 
good-by.  A  little  g^rl  in  a  patched  hot  clean 
frock,  pushed  forward,  with  a  bouquet  of  riolets 
and  strawberry  blossoms  in  her  hand. 

''Here,  Miss  Nelly--please  Miss  Nelly/'  she 
cried,  halMaughing,  half-sobbing,  '*I  picked 
them  on  purpose  for  you  I" 

Ellen  stooped  and  kissed  the  little,  eager 
face.  The  child  burst  into  tears,  and  caught 
the  folds  of  her  dress,  as  though  she  would 
have  bnried  her  foee  there.  But  a  strong- 
armed  woman,  mindful  of  the  bride^s  attire, 
snatched  the  child  away. 

''And  for  what  would  ye  be  whimpering 
in  that  style,  as  if  you  had  any  right  to  Miss 
Ellen  r 

"  She  was  always  good  to  me,  and  she's  my 
Sunday-school  teacher,"  plead  the  little  girl  in 
a  subdued  undertone. 

Agnes  drew  her  to  her  side  and  silently  oom- 
ibrted  her. 

"  Step  aside— Fiither  Herrick  is  here  I"  said 
one,  just  then. 

The  crowd  about  the  bridal  pair  opened,  to 
admit  a  white-haired,  half-blind  old  man,  who 
came  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  rosy  grand- 
daughter. Father  Herrick  was  a  superanu- 
ated  deacon  whose  good  words  and  works  had 
won  for  him  a  place  in  every  heart  of  that  as- 
sembly. 

''They  told  me  she  was  going,"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself:  "they  say  'tis  her  wed- 
ding. I  want  to  see  my  little  girl  again— bless 
her." 

Ellen  sprang  forward,  and  laid  both  her 
white  trembling  hands  in  the  large  hand  of  the 
good  old  man.  He  drew  her  near  his  foiling 
eyes ;  and  looked  searchingly  into  her  young, 
0oul-lit  cc  untenance. 

"  I  can  juBt  see  you,  darling ;  and  they  tell  me 
I  shall  never  see  you  again !  Well,  well,  if  we 
go  in  God's  way  we  shall  all  get  to  Heaven, 
and  it's  all  light  eA^re."  He  raised  his  hand 
over  her  head,  and  added,  solemnly:  "The 
blessing  of  blessings  be  upon  thee,  my  child. 
Amen!" 

'  Amen  I"  echoed  the  voice  of  Henry  Ne- 
yille. 

And  Ellen  looked  up  with  the  look  of  an 
angel. 


So  she  went  from  us  I  Oh  I  the  last  moment 
of  that  parting  hour  has  burnt  itself  into  iny 
being  forever  1  Ondd  the  human  heart  endnrs 
the  agony  of  parting  like  that^  reediaed  to  be 
indeed  the  last — lighted  by  no  ray  of  hope  for 
eternity  I  Would  not  reason  reel  under  tbe 
pressure? 

It  was  hard  to  bear;  but  I  have  no  words  to 
tell  of  its  bitterness.  She  went  to  her  minioo- 
ary  lifo,  and  we  learned  at  last  to  live  withost 
her,  though  it  was  many  a  month  before  the 
little  ones  could  forget  to  call  on  "Sister  Ellen" 
in  any  impulse  of  joy,  grief,  or  childish  wiot. 
Then  the  start  and  the  sigh,  "Oh,  dear,  Mt 
gone— sister  is  gone  I"  And  fresh  tears  would 
flow. 

Gone,  but  not  lost,  for  that  First  Marrisge 
in  the  ikmily  opened  to  us  a  fountain  of  happi- 
ness, pure  as  the  spring  of  self-sacrifice  could 
make  it  Our  household  darling  has  linked 
us  to  a  world  of  needy  and  perishing  spiritB— 
a  world  that  asks  for  the  energy  and  the  aid  of 
those  who  go  from  us,  and  those  who  remain  in 
the  dear  country  of  their  birth.  Grod  bleas  her 
and  her  charge!  Dear  Sister  Ellen)  there 
may  be  many  another  breach  in  the  family— 
we  may  all  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds  of 
Heaven — but  no  change  can  come  over  us  like 
that  which  marked  the  First  Marbiage. 
—  •^ 

THE  ELDER  SISTER. 

THERE  is  no  character  in  the  home  circle 
more  useful  and  beautiful  than  a  devoted 
elder  sister  who  stands  beside  the  toiling  moth- 
er, lightening  all  her  cares  and  burdens.    How 
beautiful  the  household  machinery  moves  eo 
with  such  efficient  help  I    Now  she  presides  at 
the  table  in  her  mother's  absence,  always  so 
neatly  attired  that  it  is  with  pride  and  pleasore 
the  father  introduces  her  to  his  guest  as  '^oar 
eldest  daughter.''    Now  she  takes  a  little  troop 
with  her  into  the  garden,  and  amuses  them,  so 
mother  may  not  be  distvrbed  in  her  work  or 
her  rest    Now  she  helps  the  boys  over  their 
hard  lessons,  or  reads  father's  paper  aloud  to 
rest  his  tired  eyes.    If  mother  can  ran  awa/ 
for  a  few  days'  recreation,  she  leaves  home 
without  anxiety,  for  Mary  will  guide  the  house 
wisely  and  happily  in  her  absence.    Bat  in 
the  sick  room  her  presence  is  an  especial  bless- 
ing.   Her  hand  is  next  to  mother's  own  in  g^' 
tleness  and  skill.    Her  sweet  music  can  charm 
away  pain  and  brighten  the  weariest  hoars. 
There  are  elder  sisters  whose  presence  is  no* 
such  a  blessing  in  the  house.    Soch  daughters 
are  comforts  to  a  mother's  heart. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


AN  ACTING  CHAEADE. 

MEDDLESOME. 

BY  8.  AKNIE  FJR08T. 


Charaders: 

ja  Stltia  Bonapon,  a  French  lady. 
r,  her  Irish  servant  girl. 

fy^^  MadaniA  Bonafon's  neighbors,  elder- 

R-0--1        •    ly  ladies  of  eccentric  costume,  and 

BoBii^H,       ^  inquiring  turn  of  mind. 

^iTxzT,  an  Old  physician. 

KT,  his  son,  and  assistant. 

IK,  Madame  Bonafon^s  footman. 

SCENE  L— MEDDLE. 

ns — Mrs.  Smith* 8  parlor,  neatly  hut  not 
indsomely  furnished.  Curtain  rites,  dis- 
vering  Mrs.  Smith,  Mrs.  Jones,  Mrs.  Brown^ 
\d  Mrs,  Robinson^  aU  seated,  and  all  knit- 
Iff  woollen  sochs, 

aa.  Jones,— Well,  for  my  part,  I  think  it 
ue  some  one  took  the  matter  in  hand.  I 
*s  meddle  with  the  affiiira  of  my  neighbors, 
should  certainly  report  the  afiair  to  the 
oe. 

[bs.  Brown. — You  are  sure  it  was  arsenic 
purchased,  Mrs.  Bobinson  ? 
[bs.  Bobinson.— Albert   Fuzzy  told   me 
•elf  that  she  came  to  him  for  arsenic,  and 
n  he  refused  to  sell  it  to  her  she  went  right 
r  to  old  Thompson's  and  bought  it  there. 
[b&  Skith. — I  never  did  have  no  faith  in 
igners.    Folks  bom  in  France  and  Ger- 
ly,  and  such  outlandish  places,  aint  got  no 
iness  coming  over  here  I  That's  what  I  say. 
dBS.  JoNKS.— I    always   said  she  looked 
ked  with  them  great  staring  black  eyes  of  < 
I. 

£bs.  Bbown. — But  what  can  she  be  going 
lo  with  poison  ?  Dear  me,  there's  no  tell- 
who  she's  took  a  spite  against^  and  we  may 
be  poisoned  in  our  beds ! 
fBS.  Smith. — I  told  Smith  when  he  rented 
house  to  her  that  he'd  live  to  repent  it.  I 
le  when  he's  a  widowed  corpse  he'll  think 
tl 

Ibs;  Bobinson.— Does  she  pay  the  rent 
ttlar? 

fBS.  Smith. — Pays  in  advance^  and  hand- 
le. But,  land!  what's  rent  when  your 
nach's  full  of  arsenic,  and  you're  expiring 
xmvulsive  fits? 
Ibs.  Jonbs.— Oh,  don't  I  I  feel  cold  chills 
inning  all  over  me  at  the  very  idea.  If  I 
r  did  meddle  in  my  neighbors'  affairs,  I 
lold  certainly  have  her  arrested. 


Mbs.  Bbown. — Somebody's  got  to  meddle 
when  things  get  to  such  a  pass  that  the  whole 
neighborhood  is  murdered  in  bed. 

Mbs.  Bobinson. — She  may  be  the  Empress 
of  France  for  all  we  know,  come  over  here  to 
poiBon  all  the  Americans,  and  get  the  country 
for  her  husband  to  reign  over. 

Mbs.  Jonbs. — She  must  be  some  great  body. 
I'm  sure  I  am  the  last  one  to  meddle  in  what 
is  none  of  my  hnsiness,  but  I  did  aak  Betty  how 
many  silk  gowns  her  mistress  had. 

Mbs.  Smith.— Did  she  tell  you  ? 

Mbs.  Bbown. — ^How  many  had  she?  , 

Mbs.  Bobin80N.-^Do  tell  us  what  she  told 
you. 

Mbs.  Jones. — She  said  she  had  nine  hang- 
ing in  her  wardrobe,  and  she  didn't  know  how 
many  more  in  her  trunks. 

Ai«i«  (drcppi/ng  thdr  kuiUingf  and  lifimg  their 
hands), — Nine  sUk  dresses  I 

Mbs.  Joneb.— Not  one  less!  And  as  for 
jewelry,  Betty  says  she's  got  box  after  box  full 
of  it  I 

All  {dropjping  Ihde  hmUing  again). — ^Box 
after  box  of  jewelry  I 

Mbs.  Smith. — To  think  of  such  a  dreadful 
creature  being  in  the  neighborhood!  I  hate 
to  meddle  in  Smith's  affairs,  but  as  soon  as  the 
quarter  she's  paid  ibr  is  up,  out  she  goes,  as 
sure  as  my  name  is  Maria  Smith. 

Mbs.  Bbown.— Thafs  right,  lif.n.  Smith. 
I'm  sure  if  a  woman  aint  got  a  little  spirit  of 
her  own  now-a-days,  there'd  be  no  living  with 
the  men.  Now  there's  Brown,  I  'spose  he's  as 
good  as  the  heft  on  'em,  but  the  way  he  stares 
after  that  foreign  piece  is  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  bolL 

Mbs.  Bobinson. — ^Fm  sure  I  aint  any  com- 
plaint to  make  of  Bobinson,  but  it  is  aggra- 
vating to  hear  one's  own  husband  go  on  like  a 
school-boy  about  the  beautiful  smile  of  a  pois- 
oning French  woaum. 

Mbs.  Jones. — I  tell  Jones  'taint  no  use  to 
talk  to  me  about  a  short  cut  to  Main  Street,  I 
aint  so  blind  but  what  I  can  see  when  a  short 
cut  takes  him  by  the  foreign  woman's  garden 
every  morning,  and  she  out  in  one  of  those  dis- 
gracefully embroidered  wrappers,  a  pretending 
to  be  clipping  roses  and  pinks. 

Mbs.  Smith.— There's  no  saying  what  de- 

(33) 


r 


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ARTEUR'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


signs  she  may  have  had  on  Smith  when  she 
bought  that  arsenic.  He  will  go  himself  for 
the  rent ;  and  the  way  that  house  has  been  re- 
paired since  she  moved  in  is  a  perfect  caution  I 
Prettj  way  to  waste  his  money,  I  tell  him, 
painting,  and  papering,  and  mending  fot  a 
great  yellow-skinned,  saaoer-eyed  French  wo- 
man. 

Mrs.  fiROWK. — She  don't  know  good  man- 
ners, anyhow,  for  she  never  returned  my 
ioUl. 

Mrs.  Smith. — Nor  mine. 

Mrs.  Jones. — She  don't  even  bow  to  me  on 
the  street 

Mrs.  RoBnreoK. — Nor  me^  neither. 

Mrs.  Jones. — To  think  of  any  respectable 
woman  drinking  wine  for  her  breakfiut  in 
place  of  coffee.  I'm  sure  I'm  the  Jast  one  to 
meddle  in  an^  one's  affidrs,  but  Betty  did  tell 
me  that  much. 

MRa  Brown. — And  dinner  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  when  any  Christian  woman 
would  be  getting  on  her  k^e  for  tea. 

Mrs.  Bobinbon. — ^And  half  her  grocery  bill 
is  for  sngar. 

Mrs.  Smith. — ^And  a  piany,  sent  all  the  way 
from  the  city,  that  she's  a  ^JKunmlng  on  the 
best  part  of  the  time. 

Mrs.  Jones. — And  the  way  she  abuses  poor 
Betty.  I'm  sure  I'm  the  last  one  to  meddle, 
but  I  must  say  I  think  it's  shameful  making  a 
respectable  girl  like  Betty  eat  her  meals  out  in 
the  kitchen  alone,  and  she  with  the  dining- 
room  all  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Bobinson. — I  hate  such  airs  I 

Mrs.  Brown. — As  if  she  was  any  better 
than  other  folks.  If  Betty  is  Irish,  she's  French, 
and  one  fotreigner's  as  good  as  another,  any 
day. 

Mrs.  Smith.— I'm  sure  if  I  was  Betty  I'd  be 
afraid  to  stay  alone  in  the  house  with  her. 

Mrs.  Bobinson. — So  would  I.  Nobody 
knows  what  she  might  do.  She  must  be  a  lit- 
tle crazy,  anyhow ;  and  you  never  can  tell  what 
freak  an  insane  person  will  take. 

Mrs.  Jones.— That  you  can't  I'm  sure  I'm 
the  last  one  to  meddle  with  my  neighbors,  but 
I  shall  certainly  take  it  upon  myself  to  advise 
Betty  to  find  another  place  as  soon  as  she 
can. 

Mrs.  Brown. — But,  dear  me,  if  Betty  goes 
away  we  shall  never  know  what  she  is  doing. 

Mrs.  Bobinson. — I  think  it  is  a  positive 
duty  for  us  to  keep  an  eye  on  a  woman  who 
goes  round  buying  arsenic 

Mrs.  Smith. — ^I  shall  certainly  make  Smith 
tell  her  he  won't  have  arsenic  in  Ais  house. 


Aix. — Do  I    Do,  Mrs.  Smith. 
Mrs.  Jones. — I'm  sure  I'm  the  last  ] 
in  the  world  to  meddle — 

(Oirtotn  folk.) 

SCENE  II.— SOME. 

Scene — Madame  Bonafon*i  parlor,  very 
tomely  fumuhed.  Curtain  rUa,  disco 
Madame  Bona/on  standing  near  an 
closet ,  upon  the  shelves  of  which  are  i 
jars  of  preserved  fruit,  and  a  silver 
filled  with  cake,  Madame  Bonafon 
small  package  in  one  hand.  Centre  of  t 
smaU  tabu, 

Madame  {taking  down  a  jar  from  the  sh 
Now,  monsieur  rat,  ve  vill  see  if  you  kee 
awake  any  more  in  ze  night  times.  Tree 
five  night  you  scratch,  scratch  on  ze  vai 
and  keeps  me  avake;  now  I  vill  pu 
asleeps — ha !  I  puts  you  asleeps  viz  ze  p 
You  hear  zat,  monsieur  rat  ( Opens  theji 
the  package^  and  pours  a  white  powder  fn 
paper  into  the  jar,)  Zare  I  I  puts  ze  arse 
here,  {taking  a  slice  of  cake  and  a  knife  fr 
cloaelf)  and  every  day  I  makes  you  a 
sandveech  of  cake  and  poison,  monsieu 
until  I  keels  you  dead,  monsieur  rat  (^ 
the  cake  with  preserve,)  I  very  glad  Park< 
come  to  me  zis  day,  so  zat  I  vill  not  hi 
trouble  to  poison  rat  myself.  Parker  vill 
ze  very  noisy  leetle  rat.  You  hears  zat, 
sieur  rat?  I  poison  you,  and  Parker  he 
you.  {Ties  up  the  jar,)  Now  I  must] 
jar  away  behind  ze  ozer  jars.  {Takes  dm 
other  jar  and  plaices  it  upon  the  table,) 

{Enter  Bei 

Betty. — Av  you  plsse,  mum,  the  man'i 
bringing  the  barrer  o'  flowers,  an'  he 
where' 11  he  be  puttin'  them  in  the  gardei 

Madame.— I  comes,  Betty.    I  vill  con 

Betty. — And  there's  another  man  ' 
mum,  that's  azin  for  yourself  and  saj 
name's  Parker,  sure. 

Madame.— Parker  I  Ah,  now  I  liv 
comfort  I  {Exit  Madame  Bonaft 

Betty.— That'll  be  the  man  sarvin 
tould  me  was  a  coming.  Well,  it's  com 
he'll  be,  and  a  protection  for  two  lone 
women,  sure.  What's  the  presarves  a 
out  here?  I'll  be  a  puttin'  them  back, 
(Opening  the  second  jar  taken  from  the  i 
And  it's  having  some  I'll  be  before  th 
locked  up  in  the  cloeet  again.  Here's  the 
madame's  spread  for  her  own  atelng;  ba 
missing  that  she'll  be  if  it's  gone,  so  I'll 
Uke  it  first  hand  from  the  jar.    {Eats  het 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


AN   ACTING    CHARADE. 


35 


U  the  it  talking.)  Ah,  but  the  furrinen 
ke  the  beautiful  swatemates.  Who  ever  ate 
I  like  o*  that  in  Amerikj  ? 

{Enter  Madame  Bmafim.) 
fADAXJL— Ah!    What  I  seer    (Screamt.) 
u  eats  hin,  {etceitedlyf)  70a  eats  him  ? 
Jetty. — I  ate  some,  raum.    I'll  nerer  do  it 
in,  mum.    I,  {cfytng,)  Vm  that  sorry)  mum, 
nerer  forgive  myself. 

Iadakb  {wringing  her  hande),'^Kow  much 
bim  jou  eats,  ha? 
Jettt. — Some. 

Iadame. — How  much  of  him  ?  ( WdHt  up 
I  down.)  You  eats  him  ? 
Ietty. — Well,  if  ever  I  saw  such  a  fuss  about 
le  old  trashy  preserves.  I'm  sure  marm,  I 
measure  what  I  ate.  Some,  not  much. 
iADAMB. — Some!  How  much  is  some? 
a  eats  half  ze  jar  I  {Gallmg)  Parker! 
■ker!  (Enter  Birker,) 

'arkbr. — Here,  madame. 
I  AD  A  ME. — Kun  for  ze  doctare,  Parker — ^run, 
!    Tell  him  he  brings  ze  emetic,  ze  physic, 
itomach  pump^    Betty  she  eat  half  a  jar  of 
poison. 

Jetty. — Poison!     Poison!     {Screamt  rio- 
ly.)    Vm  poisoned !    Pm  a  dead  woman  1 
Iadamk. — Bun,  Parker,  for  ae  doctare! 

{Exit  Parker,) 
tgri'i  {tcreaming  violently  every  moment), — 
I  help !  murther  I  thieves !  Oh,  it's  a  dead 
nau  I  am !  Oh,  it  was  a  mighty  quare  taste 
ad  I  {Dcubling  hertelf  up.)  Oh,  Pm  aten 
irith  the  burning  pain ! 
fADAME. — Oh,  Betty,  have  you  ae  pain? 
pauvre,  Betty. 

tiTTY. — Och,  murther!  murther!  {Lying 
€n  ihefiocT  amd  tereaming.)  Thaves!  help ! 
1  a  dead  woman ! 

Enter  Mrt.  Smithy  Mrt.  Jonet,  Ifrt.  Broum, 
I  Mrt.  Rohineon^  aU  exclaiming).  What  is 
matter  ? 

Jetty  {sitting  up  on  the  floor). — Matter !    Is 
hat's  the  matter?    Oh,  Pm  a  dead  woman  I 
poisoned  altogether  I  am. 
Lu^ — Poisoned  I 

Jetty. — Oh,  the  pisening  ftirriner!     Oh, 
I  dead  this  time  I     {Screams  violently.) 
iCABAKE.— How  mooch  is  some — half  ze  jar? 
{Curtain  falls.) 

SCENE  III.— MEDDLESOMR 
EVE — Same  as  Scene  II.  Cariain  rises  in- 
\tanily  after  faUvng,  discovering  stage  exactly 
u  before. 

IIbs.  Jokes. — Oh,  you  murdering,  villan* 
I  woman  I    (Shakes  her  fist  at  metdame.) 


Mbs.  Smith.— You  ought  to  be  hung ! 

Mrs.  B0BIN8OK. — You're  caught  at  last,  are 
you,  yon  wretched  poisoner? 

Mba  BROWH.*-Pd  like  to  tear  your  even  out. 
(Enter  Barker,  Dr.  Fuzzy,  and  Albert.) 

Bbttt. — O  doctor  1  doctor  1  help  a  poor  dy  i  ng 
woman,  that'll  bless  ye  the  longest  day  »lie 
lives! 

Dr.  Fuzinr.— What  was  the  poison  ? 

Mrs.  Jones. — Lift  the  poor  girl  up. 

Mrs.  Brown. — Lay  her  flat  on  her  back. 

Mrs.  Sbhth.— -Loosen  her  dress. 

Mrs.  Bobinson. — DonH  touch  her. 

Betty. — Arrah,  it's  burning  up  I  am !  Oh, 
me  head !  me  head  I 

Dr.  Fuzzy.— What  was  the  nature  of  the 
poison? 

Mrs.  Jones. — Give  her  an  emetic,  doctor. 

Mrs.  Brown.— Don't  think  of  it ! 

Mrs.  Smith. — Put  a  mustard  poultice  on 
her,  doctor. 

Mrs.  Robinson. — Soak  her  feet  in  hot  water. 

Madame. — Oh,  ze  poor  doctare!  ze  })uur 
girl !  What  for  all  zese  troublesome  vimmuu 
in  my  house  ? 

Dr.  Fuzzy. — Confound  the  women  I  What 
have  you  taken,  girl  ? 

Betty. — Poison!  (louder)  Poison  I  {UUl 
louder)  Poison!  (Screaming  tfie  word,  and 
rocking  to  and  fro)  Poison  !  poison  I  poison  I 

Dr.  Fuzzy. — Stop  that  noise ! 

Mrs.  Smith. — Oh,  you  brute,  to  speak  so  to 
the  poor  suffering  girl ! 

Mrs.  Robinson. — You  hardened  wretch ! 

Mrs.  Jones. — Have  you  no  feeling  ? 

Mrs.  Brown. — Why  don't  you  do  some- 
thing, instead  of  roaring  at  a  dying  woman 
like  that? 

Albert  (aside  to  madame). — Will  you  tell 
me,  madame,  how  the  woman  came  to  be  poi- 
soned ?  You  can  speak  in  French  if  it  is  easier 
for  you. 

Madame.— I  vill  tell  you.  ( They  walk  hack 
as  if  conversing.) 

Dr.  Fuzzy  (on^y).— How  can  I  act  unless 
I  know  what  the  girl  has  taken  ? 

Betty. — I  tell  you  I've  took />ai«on  /  (Oroan- 
ing.)  And  it's  dying  by  inches  I  am,  and  you 
standing  looking  at  me,  and  niver  lifting  a 
hand  to  save  a  poor  crathur  from  burning  up 
alive  in  her  insides. 

Dr.  Ftjzzy. — Where  do  you  feel  pain  ? 

Betty. — Pain  is  it?  I'm  one  great  pain 
from  the  crown  of  me  head  to  the  sole  of  me 
feet. 

Mrs.  Jones. — Of  course  she  is ;  poor  thing  I 

Mrs.  Brown.— That's  natural  enough. 

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ARTHUE'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


Mrs.  BoBiNSON.—Wliftt  %  dreadful  pouon 
it  mu8t  have  been  I 

Mrs.  Smith. — ^Arsenic  alwajrs  acts  thai  way. 

Dr.  Fuszy.— Was  it  arsenic  she  took  7 

Betty. — Was  it  anenic?  Arrah  thin,  hear 
the  man ;  when  he's  heen  toold  forty  times  it 
was  poison  I  Oh,  it's  barning  ap  I  am  I  (Boek% 
to  andfrOf  groaning  lowUy.) 

Dr.  Fuzzy. — Can  some  of  you  women  get 
me  some  mnstard  and  water  7 

Mrs.  Jones. — Some  of  you  women,  indeed  1 

Mrs.  Smith. — ^A  pretty  way  to  address  re- 
spectable ladies  I 

Mrs.  Bobikbok.— He  may  wait  upon  him- 
self, for  all  me  I 

Mrs.  Brown.— Mnstard  and  water,  indeed  I 
That's  pretty  stuff  to  give  a  dying  woman  I 

Dr.  Fuzzy  (to  JPaeher). — Can  you  get  me  some 
mustard,  young  man  7 

Parxeb.— Well,  sir,  Pve  only  been  in  the 
house  a  little  time,  and  don't  know  just  where 
things  are  kept ;  but  I'll  try  to  find  some. 

(EtU  Jbrjfcer.) 

Betty. — Oh  I  oh  I  oh  I  it's  dying  I  am  now. 
Oh,  the  pain  in  my  stomach  I  I'm  being  burned 
op  inside.    Oh  1  oh  I  oh  I 

Dr.  Fuzzy.  — Hem  I  Let  me  feel  your 
pulse. 

Mrs.  Jones  (sntpm^).— Now  he's  going  to 
put  on  his  professional  airsL 

Mrs.  Smith. — Pity  he  hadn't  begun  to  at- 
tend to  the  poor  thing  sooner  1 

Mrs.  Bobinson.— Yes ;  it's  too  late  now  to 
do  any  good. 

Mrs.  Bbowk. — Betty,  do  you  feel  any 
easier? 

Betty.— Is  It  aisier7  How  would  I  fale 
aisier,  when,  not  a  one  of  yees  has  done  a  thing 
to  relave  me  at  all,  at  all.  (GreoM  fearfuUy, 
and  leU  the  groans  get  fainier  during  the  oonver- 
eationfoUovnng,) 

Mrs.  Robinson. — Give  her  some  warm  milk. 

Mrs.  Smith. — Scrape  the  oeiling,  and  giye 
her  some  of  the  plastering. 

Mrs.  Jones.— Give  her  some  warm  soap- 
suds. 

MRa  Brown.— Would  you  kill  her  out- 
right ?    Give  her  some  salt  and  water. 

Dr.  Fuzzy. — If  you  women  will  let  the  girl 
alone,  I  may  be  able  to  relieve  her.  Let  me 
see  your  tongue,  Betty. 

Betty  {groaning), — ^Anah,  it's  dying  I  am 
altogether  t 

Dr.  Fuzzy.— Albert  I 

Albert  {advancing), — ^I  think  I  understand 
the  case,  sir.  The  girl  has  taken  aisenio  by 
mistake. 


(Enter  Parkei 

Dr.  Fuszt.— Clear  th«  room  of  these  won 
and  we  will  use  a  stomach  pump. 

Madajob.— You  heart,  ladies.  Youvili( 
out    Parker,  shew  aa  ladies  ze  door. 

Mrs,  Boboibon. — Never;  never  will  I 
sert  a  fellow-creature  at  such  a  crisiB  I 

Mrs.  Jones.— It  is  a  conspiracy;  and 
doctor  is  in  it  I 

Mrs.  8MiTH.-**ril  not  be  ordered  out  < 
house  owned  by  my  own  husband  I 

Mrs.  Brown. — ^We  will  stay  by  you  till 
last,  Betty. 

Albert  {helping  Betty  i»  rise).— Come  li< 
the  sofa,  my  pA» 

Madame.— Did  you  understand  me,  Pari 

Parmer  {taking  Mre,  Jonee  by  the  arm 
Sorry,  ma'am ;  hut  madame  must  be  obeye 

Mrs.  Jones  {retisti'ng). — How  dare  you  tc 
me,  you  insolent  fellow  I    {Parker  ptUa  her  i 

Parker  {taking  Mr$.  JBromn  by  the  arm 
You  might  as  well  go,  ma'am. 

{Be-enter  Mn,  J<me» 

Mrs.  Jones  (panein^).— My  husband  s 

flog  you,  or  I'll  never  speak  to  him  again. 

{Parker  puts  Ifre.  Brown  out 

Mr&  Bobinson.- Don't  you  touch  me, 
low,  or  I'll  screech  so  I'll  have  the  whole 
lage  here. 

{Ee-ettter  Mn,  Brown 

Mrs.  Brown. — ^I  was  never  so  insults 
my  life  I 

Mrs.  Smith. — ^I'U  tear  your  eyes  out,  if 
lay  a  hand  on  me,  fellow. 

Parker. — Madame  1  Madame  I 

{Betty  groans  and  writhes  during  aU 
scene,) 

Albert  (/rwiZy).— Father,  we  must  deai 
room  of  these  women.  ( To  Mre,  Jan^, )— ^ 
ame,  permit  me.    {Leads  her  to  door.) 

Parker  {taking  Mrs.  ^rau»fi.)— You  h 
ma'am  1 

Dr.  Fuzzy  {leading  Mrs.  /SmOA).— You  d 
go,  ma'am. 

Madams  {hading  Mrs.  Eobin$on).—'^on 
excuse  me.  ( They  put  Mrs,  Brown,  Mrs.  Jc 
Mrs.  Smith,  and  Mrs.  Bobinson  out,  each  re 
ing,) 

Madame.— Now,  my  poor  Betty,  ▼«  vi^^^ 
you. 

Betty.— Arrah,  it's  too  late  I  It's  ^^ 
am  by  this  time. 

Dr.  Fuzzy.— I  never  saw  such  a  med 
some  quartette  of  old  idiots. 

Madame  {going  to  the  tahle).  Ha  I  vat  1 « 
Zejar  viz  ae  arsenic  not  touch  1  You  ea 
oser.    Oh,  my  good  Betty,  yon  eat  ««  « 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


CHASING    THE    BUTTERFLIES, 


37 


ought  gladly,  and  daps  her  Jiand$.)  Ze  ozer 
ive  no  poison  in  it  I 

Db.  Fuzzy. — Not  poisoned  at  all.  Oonibund 
le  women  I     All  this  fass  for  nothing  I 
Betty. — Not  poisoned  I    Arrah,  thin  wher- 
rer  did  I  git  such  a  pain  ? 
Djeu  Fuzzy. — I  should  think  half  a  jar  of  i 
reseryes  would  give  anything  hut  a  rhinoceros 
pain!    We  would  have  found  the  mistake 
It  long  ago  if  it  had  not  heen  for  those  med- 
lesome  women. 

Betty. — O  madame  I  and  if  I  had  not  been 
I  meddlesome  with  the  preserves  Fd  niver  a 
id  sich  a  scara 

{Re-enter  Mrs.  Brown,  Mrs,  Jones,  Mrs.  Smith, 
\d  Mrs.  Robinson.) 

Mb8.  Jokes. — ^I  won't  be  turned  out  I 
Mbs.  Smith. — I  will  see  this  affair  out  I 
Mrs.  Bbowk. — Dare  to  touch  me  again  I 
Mrs.  RoBnreoH.— We  will  stay  here  I 
Mat)amk. — Come  in,  come  in  all  of  you. 
ire  18  ze  grande  mistake.    Betty  eats  ze  ozer 
ait,  and  leaves  ze  poison  for  monsieur  rat. 
BrrrY. — It's  forever  grateful  I  am  to  yees 
1 ;  and  Dr.  Fuzzy  may  kape  his  old  stomach 
imp  for  the  likes  of  yees,  and  see  if  he  can 
imp  the  curiosity  and  malice  out  of  yees. 
Albert. — Come,    father  1      Good-morning, 
adame! 

Mada^ie. — No;  you  vill  all  take  ze  lun- 
leon  viz  me.  Parker,  get  ze  luncheon  ready 
r  ze  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
Betty. — It's  helping  you  Til  be,  Parker. 
(Exeunt  Parker  and  Betty,) 
Dr.  Fuzzy. — ^Thank  you,  madame;  I  will 
cept  your  kind  invitation,  and  drink  to  our 
itter  acquaintance ;  and  these  ladies  will,  I 
Q  sure,  join  me  in  the  toast. 

(Curtain  falls.) 


How  absolute  is  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and 
St  the  stillness  seems  almost  audible.  From 
I  the  measureless  depths  of  ail»  around  us 
\mes  a  half^Kmnd,  a  half-whisper,  as  if  we 
»nld  hear  the  crumbling  and  falling  away  of 
le  earth  and  all  created  things  in  the  great 
iracle  of  nature;  decay  and  reproduction 
rer  beginning,  never  ending — the  gradual 
Ipse  and  running  of  the  sand  in  the  great 
our-glass  of  time. — LoT^gfellow, 

If  a  man  gets  into  any  kind  of  an  enterprise 
nd  is  successful,  he  will  say  he  was  smart,  but 
hs  neighbors  will  say  he  was  lucky ;  but  if  he 
oes  not  succeed  well,  he  will  say  he  was  unfor- 
inate,  but  bin  neighbors  will  say  he  was  a  fool* 

VOL.  zxxyni.— •• 


0' 


CHASING  THE  BUTTERFLIES. 

BT  KATHBltUIB   KIQNGSTON  FILBB. 

\'CT  In  the  field  of  orimson  clover 

liithe  little  bodies  flit  here  and  there; 
Over  the  elover-reaohes'  soarlet, 
Wafted  on  wiogs  of  their  wild,  Aree  hair. 
Caught  by  the  gorgeous  dyes, 
Chasing  the  butterflies. 

Oh,  what  a  long,  sweet  time  9^0, 

Since,  in  the  timothy,  ripe  and  dryi 
Little  feet  lit  in  eager  chasing 
After  the  bright  brown  butterfly ! 
I,  with  my  happy,  careless  eyes, 
Free  as  the  flitting  butterflies. 

Often  I  questioned,  woaderfaigly, 

Wbioh  is  the  better :  to  elaep  at  air, 
Eagerly,  with  our  wanton  hands, 
Thinking  the  orchis-wing  is  there. 
Just  as  k  into  the  suishine  flies 
Over  our  upturned  glancing  eyes; 

"  Or  the  grasping  after  the  surer  things, 

Timothy  tassels  of  green  and  gray. 
Booted  afast  within  the  sod, 
XiifA's  ripe  truths  of  eirery-day" — 
SomeUiing  we  grasp  beneath  the  skies 
Never  is  lost  like  the  butterflies  ? 

Question  I  no  more,  wonderingly, 

"  Which  is  better.  Life's  truth  or  show ;" 
Butterfly  pleasures  flit  ilp  to  .me, 
Still  do  I  grasp  not,  for  I  know 
Better  plain  good  beneath  the  skies 
Than  chasing  these  flitting  butterflies. 

Truth  is  life's  timothy,  sound  and  ripe. 

Hanging  its  quivering  taesels  over; 
Love  is  life's  crimson  coloring. 
Sweet  as  the  scent  0'  the  clover, 
Full  and  bright,  but  not  with  dyes 
60  gorgeous  and  gay  as  the  butterfly's. 

Out  in  the  field  of  orimson  clover 

Lithe  little  bodies  flit  here  and  there, 
Over  the  clover- reaches'  scarlet. 
Wafted  on  wings  of  their  wild,  free  hair, 
Caught  by  the  gorgeous  dyes. 
Chasing  the  butterflies. 

And  I'd  like  to  wade  again 

Through  the  deep  timothy,  ripe  and  tall. 
Chasing  the  orchis- wings  about, 
Flitting  the  lightest  of  them  all. 
Just  as  I  did  'neath  childhood's  skies. 
Chasing  the  brilliant  butterflies. 


I 


I  woinj)  not  deprive  life  of  a  single  ez^joy^ 
ment;  but  I  would  counteract  what  is  pemi* 
cious  in  whatever  is  el^^t  If  among:  my 
flowers  there  were  a  snake,  I  woald  not  ooot 
up  my  flowers;  I  would  kill  the  snakei. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BY  PIPSIS8IWAY  P0TT8. 


No.V. 


I  DO  think  the  school  ma'am  is  a  marvel  of 
a  woman.  She  came  over  to  staj  a  daj  or 
two  with  the  girls  and  attend  oommencement 
at  the  PottsTille  Academy.  She  had  on  one 
of  those  neat  little  sacqnes  made  large  enough 
for  an  outside  garment,  and  it  was  so  becom- 
ing that  I  said  to  her :  "  I  think,  Lois,  that 
this  was  a  good  investment  of  a  few  dollars ;  it 
is  so  becoming— just  the  very  thing  for  yon/' 

"  The  investment  eoit  me  nothing/'  said  she, 
"  except  one  day's  work  on  the  sewing-machine 
at  Aunt  Ruth's." 

•* Didn't  you  buy  the  doth,"  I  asked,  "or 
did  somebody  make  yon  a  present  of  it  I" 

'*0h,  it  is  an  old  acquaintance  in  a  new 
face ;"  blushing  at  my  inquisitiveneos,  and  yet 
glad  to  tell  me  about  it 

She  flung  back  her  curls  with  a  laugh  that 
displayed  teeth  as  white  and  clean  and  pure  as 
pearls,  as  she  said :  **  Once  npon  a  time  I  had 
a  little  talma,  I  believe  they  were  called,  (oh, 
dear,  why  talmas  were  in  fashion  in  1854.)  It 
was  of  fine  black  cbth  ;  a  scant  pattern  I  had, 
too ;  it  was  pieced  across  in  front. 

"  Well,  I  wore  it  about  three  years-^nntil 
they  were  so  unfashionable  that  children  in  the 
street  used  to  shout, '  Oh,  there  goes  the  girl  in 
the  joeey  cape  I' 

''I  was  too  poor  to  get  a  new  garment,  and 
all  I  could  do  was  to  contrive  up  something 
out  of  it.  I  got  a  sacque  pattern  and  measured 
over  it,  and  found  I  bad  cloth  enough  to  make 
a  complete  new  sacque,  out  and  out — all  it 
lacked  was  the  two  sleeves." 

Here  we  all  laughed  heartily  with  Lois.  I 
wheesed  and  buzzed,  and  we  all  ha,  ha'd  I  and 
tee,  hee'd  I  and  ki,  hi'd !  and  thought  dear  Lois 
was  BO  funny. 

I  told  the  girls  it  reminded  me  of  one  time 
that  Brother  Jonathan,  when  he  was  five  yean 
old,  went  out  to  hunt  eggs  to  buy  a  fish-hook  and 
line,  and  soon  came  in  puffing  and  glowing,  his 
I  ten  dear  little  stubby  fingers  spread  out  over 
one  egg,  hailing  me  joyfully  with:  "0  Pip- 
thithiwayl  purty  thunel'll  have  a  dothen — 
only  need  'leven  more !" 

When  we  got  through  laughing  at  this,  Lois 
went  on :  "  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  for  sleeves, 
but  I  happened  to  awake  ki  the  night  and  re- 
membered a  fine  coat  that  hung  among  some 
(88) 


old  clothes  that  my  uncle  had  leA  when  he 
went  to  the  West  Indies.  I  looked  at  the  nn- 
&shionable  garment  the  next  morning,  and 
found  that  I  could  make  a  very  good  substi- 
tute of  thet  coat  sleeves  by  taking  the  lining 
out  of  them.    They  answered  very  well. 

"  As  soon  as  I  finished  the  sacque  I  wrote  him 
a  letter,  and  asked  him  if  I  might  have  that 
coat,  to  do  as  I  pleased  with.  Well,  I  wore 
that  sacque  for  nearly  four  years.  It  was  my 
best  dress -up  garment;  but  again  tlie  children 
saw  that  it  had  an  antediluvian  style,  and  I 
began  to  look  about  for  a  change.  The  new 
saoques  are  very  pretty,  and  I  found  I  could 
cut  one  of  the  prevailing  style^  except  it  only 
lacked,  this  time,  two  very  important  pieces  at 
the  sides.  I  co«ild  have  used  the  coat  skiits, 
only  that  I  had  made  a  small  sacque  out  of 
them  long  ago.  So  I  bought  half  a  yard  of 
new  cloth,  three-fourths  of  a  yard  of  farmo^i 
satin,  and  a  bow  of  rather  wide  Uack  ribbon. 
[  put  two  bias  folds  of  the  satin,  stitched  on 
with  the  noachine,  for  trimming,  around  the 
garment^  making  one  of  them  hide  the  pieced 
places  that  were  in  the  talma  when  it  was 
made.  Bias  folds  of  the  same  on  the  sleeves, 
and  one  to  simulate  a  collar,  and  the  bow  of 
ribbon  set  on  in  the  back,  and  the  prettj 
sacque  you  so  much  admire  was  done.  For  the 
front,  I  took  some  fancy  buttons  made  of  silk 
cord,  and  set  them  on  in  clusters  of  five 
in  a  place,  and  they  added  the  finishiog- 
touch. 

"  How  good  a  garment  is  to  a  poor  girl  if 
she  contrives  it  all  up  out  of  her  own  in- 
genuity  T' 

These  littlft  arts  are  peculiar  to  all  women,  I 
believe ;  they  show  so  much  shrewdness  that  is 
entirely  womanly  and  is  her  peculiar  gift* 
Still  many  women,  in  tiying  to  be  economical, 
go  so  far  that  they  are  exceedingly  silly  aod 
frivolous — one  girl,  for  instance^  who  boasted 
that  the  gray  poplin  dress  she  wore  had  been 
made  over  six  times  into  aa  msAy  dififorent  £uh- 
ions.  Such  an  idle  waste  of  precious  time  is  cul- 
pable, foolish,  and  should  be  fix>wned  upon  with 
disapprobation.  There  is  a  vast  difiference  be- 
tween true  economy  of  time  and  means,  and 
the  lavish  waste  of  both.  Let  us  not  lose  aiglit 
of  the  dividing  line  between  the  two. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTEEB    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS. 


39 


I  was  diverted  tordaj  at  Grannj  Greengtreet, 
an  old  ladjr  liviog  down  in  Brook  Valley. 
Her  son  came  over  to  the  depot  at  Pottgville  to 
lee  abont  getting  some  dreased  lumber  for  hia 
new  kitchen ;  and  while  he  was  down  to  the 
depot  she  atidd  here  with  me.  She  ia  a  yerj 
pioQS  woman,  and  in  dwelling  upon  the  mer- 
des  of  the  Lord  she  aaid  he  had  always  been 
good  to  her — he  had  youchsafed,  in  her  old 
age,  to  i^ye  her  a  home  and  Menda  and  health, 
and  enoagh  of  the  world'a  goodd  for  her  com- 
fortable maintenance,  eyen  though  ahe  should 
lite  to  be  ninety  years  old. 

She  sat  sipping  a  cup  of  coffee,  anon  shaking 
her  head  and  winking  as  though  intently  en- 
gaged in  conyeraation,  or  in  an  animated  ao- 
liloqny.  ''There'a  one  thing,  Miss  Potta," 
said  she,  ''for  which  I  ahall  alwaya  be  glad 
and  thankful,  and  that  ia  that  my  old  man  waa 
dxeet  up  clean  when  he  died.  There  wa'nH  a 
dirty  stitch  on  himf  aaid  ahe,  emphatically, 
and  her  eyea  glittered  like  glaaa. 

I  remembered  long  ago  of  hearing  my 
mother  tell  about  Noah  Greenatreet  going  to 
church  in  the  morning,  out  in  the  country,  and 
sitting  down  in  the  ahadow  of  the  old  meeting- 
hooae  among  hia  neighbors  to  wait  until  the 
preacher  came,  and  while  sitting  there  talking 
ha  suddenly  fell  back  dead.*  They  loosened 
hia  collar,  and  opened  the  bosom  of  his  shirt, 
and  the  waistband  of  hia  pantaloona,  took  off 
his  coat  and  boota  and  aocka,  rolled  up  hia 
aleevea  and  cut  a  vein,  rubbed  hia  body  and 
his  limbs,  dashed  water  in  hia  face,  and  poured 
it  on  his  head ;  but  poor  Noah  neyer  moyed  a 
Bnude,  or  breathed  the  breath  of  life  again. 
Oh,  it  waa  a  aad  atroke  I  People  were  almoat 
paralysed ;  his  wife  and  children  were  frantic  \ 
and  the  acene  witneaaed  by  that  crowd,  of  be- 
holding the  lifeleaa  bo<iy  of  their  Mend  and 
neighbor  carried  home  on  a  abutter,  will  neyer 
be  efiaoed  from  their  memoriea. 

It  waa  remarked  afterward,  that  If  he  had 
known  of  the  coming  of  that  dread  eyent^  hia 
body  could  not  have  been  any  cleaner,  or  hia 
Svmenta  freaher  and  aweeter.  Hia  aocka  were 
«  white  aa  anow,  and  hia  bared  feet  aa  purely 
white  aa  a  babe'a.  The  fragrance  of  rosea  waa 
on  his  clothea;  and  when  Borrowing  ones, 
itricken  with  grie^  kiaaed  hia  &oe  and  neck, 
^e  repulaiyenesB  attendant  upon  death  waa 
not  there—they  gathered  kisaea  as  sweet  as 
^^  that  nestle  on  the  dimpled  cheeks  and 
"booldera  of  a  newly  washed  babe. 

I  coold  not  even  smile  at  the  poor  woman^s 
weakneaa.  She  waa  old  and  childiah ;  and  the 
^ht  that  had  lain  in  her  heart  for  long 


yeara,  apoke  out  audibly,  put  on  the  drapery  of 
speech. 

It  waa  a  little  thing,  and  yet  it  waa  a  good 
thing  to  think  of  and  rejoice  oyer. 

A  lovely  and  intelligent  lady  with  whom  I 
waa  once  intimately  acquainted,  aaid  there  waa 
one  pain  away  back  in  her  life  that  would 
alwaya  remain  a  thorn  in  her  fleah,  and  that 
was  simply  thia:  In  her  young  and  careleas 
and  motherless  girlhood,  ahe  waa  thrown  from 
a  horse,  several  miles  from  home,  and  her 
collar-bone  dislocated.  She  had  to  be  un- 
dressed ;  and  her  underclothing  waa  not  clean 
or  whole.  She  plead  and  beaought  of  them, 
not  to  undreaa  her;  but  she  fainted  repeatedly, 
and  the  caae  would  admit  of  no  longer  delay. 

Poor  girl  I  ahe  aaid  the  auffering  of  the  dia- 
location  waa  intenae,  but  it  waa  pleaaurable 
compared  to  the  pain  of  mind  that  ahe  en- 
dured. 

Fear  of  like  accidents  ahould  induce  one  to 
be  cleanly  in  peraon  and  in  the  matter  of  dreaa, 
if  there  were  no  other  and  no  higher  motive ; 
but  we  ahould  regard  this  inducement  aa  tri- 
fling, and  should  dress  well  and  respectably 
for  our  own  aakea,  and  that  we  may  feel  well 
and  honeat  and  complacent,  and  becauae  we 
conaider  ouaelves  superior  to  the  brute  crea- 
tion. 

It  aeema  a  pity  that  a  man  with  an  unclean 
body,  and  long  nails,  and  unshorn  hair,  ahould 
apeak,  aqd  write,  and  preach,  and  conceive 
bea'UifuI  poetry,  and  noble  and  exalted  aenti- 
menta,  the  aame  aa  one  purely  clean  in  body 
aa  well  aa  in  mind.  The  intellectual  powera 
should  make  a  distinction  when  they  abide  in 
caskets,  clean  or  unclean,  pure  or  impure,  it 
aeema  to  me. 

What  a  gloomy,  gloomy  window  that  waa 
into  which  I  peeped  on  that  atill  aummer 
morning  I  Often,  when  I  think  of  It^  I  hold 
my  handa  over  my  eyea  and  ahut  out  the  day 
and  the  aunahine,  and  the  quiver  of  the  gi«en 
leavea,  and  the  aweet  low  whiaper  of  all  things 
beautiful ;  for  they  seem  auch  a  mockery ! 

Think  of  a  huaband  and  wife  living  in  dose 
companionship,  loving  each  other,  exerciaing 
forbearance  toward  one  another'a  faults,  daily 
communing  together,  and  yet  a  gulf,  dark  and 
wide  and  unbridged,  lying  between  theml 
Think  of  him  as  carefully  hiding  away  from 
her  aight  a  hideoua  akeleton — chiding  it  in  his 
boeom,  folding  hia  arma  over  it,  fearing  and 
dreading  all  the  while  lest^  like  the  murdered 
man  in  Eugene  Aram,  everything  refuse  ta 
help  hide  the  hideoos  object,  and  any  day  ho 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


40 


ABTSUR'8   LADY'S   MOUE   MAGAZINE, 


raaj  come  upon  it  exposed,  uncovered  to  the 
impertinent  stare  of  the  multitude. 

When  a  young  man — almost  a  boy — ^he  un- 
guardedly committed  an  indiscretion  that  fell 
like  a  heavy  blow  on  his  future  prospects  for 
usefulness.  He  sunk  under  it — his  self-respect 
was  wounded — his  womanly  sensibilities  were 
skocked — he  hated  himself  and  loathed  the 
sinfbl  error  that  had  brought  this  disgrace  upon 
Mm.  In  time,  he  married  a  pure,  sweet  girl, 
and  lacking  the  moral  courage  to  tell  her  the 
great  sorrow  that  had  crushed  the  bloom  out 
of  his  youthful  years^  fearing  lest  she  would 
tarn  away  from  him,  he  kept  it  looked  up  in 
his  poor  lone  heart,  hidden  from  her  sight 

Prying,  meddlesome  ones  kindly  insinuated 
the  story  to  her,  but  she  was  too  noble  to  repeat 
the  words  to  him,  and  for  twenty  years  they 
lived  thus,  husband  and  wife.  They  were 
brought  very  near  to  each  other  over  the  dying 
beds  of  their  beloved  children,  and  over  the 
open  graves  that  gathered  their  broken  blos- 
soms into  their  cold  bosoms ;  but  the  dreadful 
secret  lay  between  them  like  a  mountain  of  iron. 

He  loved  his  wife  and  hated  himself,  and 
believed  that  she  was  too  pure  to  mate  with 
htm.  His  health  failed — the  iron  had  entered 
his  soul — ^he  rallied ;  but  it  was  only  a  spas- 
modic effort,  and,  failing  very  gradually,  he 
faded  away  and  died  with  his  painful  secret 
,  uhtold  to  the  patient,  loving  little  woman  who 
lilte  a  light  lingered  about  him  and  illumined 
his  utter  darkness.  \ 

Oh,  how  pitiful  is  such  a  broken  life  I  '  How 
sad  its  going  out  I 

How  much  better  to  have  had  the  moral 
courage  to  have  sat  down  beside  her,  and  taken 
her  true  little  hands,  and  have  looked  hon- 
estly into  her  eyes  and  told  her  all.  There  was 
justification  for  the  lone  young  years  of  the 
motherless  boy-culprit;  and  who  would  have 
seen  it  as  readily  as  his  own  wife? 

•Brooding  over  the  magnitude  of  the  indis- 
cretion for  months  and  years,  it  obtained  the 
mastery  over  him,  it  fiitted  on  his  weakness, 
and  finally  overpowered  him,  and,  weak  and 
over-sensitive,  he  sank  into  an  untimely  grave. 

I  have  looked  into  many  windows  and  seen 
sights  similar  to  this,  but  none  so  pitiable  as 
this  one,  covered  and  darkened  and  saddened 
by  a  great  mistake  I 

The  path  of  life  is  too  short  and  too  beau- 
tiful to  be  trodden  thus  with  a  step  halting, 
and  a  mien  cringing  and  syoophantic^  when  a 
bold,  manly  courage  could  dash  away  every 
obstacle !  Let  us  drink  from  its  pure  fountains, 
and  be  made  glad  and  free,  finding  in  it  a  fore- 


taste of  the  enjoyment  of  the  full  fruition  t 
lies  beyond  these  varied  scenes. 

I  sat  behind  Dr.  Bodkin's  lister  at  chu 
last  night,  and  I  couldn't  help  seeipg  how  a 
less  she  had  been  with  her  broohe  shawl, 
looked  as  if  it  never  had  been  folded  and  1 
away  carefully  at  all.  It  hung  in  a  kind  c 
soft  stringy  way,  as  though  it  had  been  stretcl 
comerwise  and  flung  across  a  chair  while  it 
damp.  I  have  seen  shawls,  of  all  kinds,  fa 
looking  new  and  fresh,  and  as  though  they  1 
never  been  worn  before,  when  the  secret  i 
simply,  that  they  had  been  folded  exactly 
the  same  folds  that  they  were  when  they  n 
bought.  It  is  well  worth  one*s  time  and  ti 
ble  to  be  very  particular  about  this.  £v 
time  you  take  off  your  shawl,  or  veil,  or  clc 
or  any  article  of  clothing  that  can  be  laid 
its  original  folds,  do  so;  then  it  will  alw 
have  the  appearance  of  being  fresh  and  n 
and  yon  will  not  have  that  uneasy,  slove 
feeling  that  attends  a  woman  if  she  is  an 
that  she  is  not  lookiug  well. 

My  women  friends  will  bear  me  out  in 
truth  of  it,  when  I  say  that  that  conscioiisi 
is  little  less  than  pain  of  sickness — not  halj 
desirable  a  feeling  as  is  pain  in  the  head 
side,  or  breast,  because  they  are  a  little 
interesting,  especially  if  not  very  bad. 

What  a  power  there  is  in  music !  My  h 
ached  this  morning,  and  my  thoughts  were 
and  out  of  tune,  and  the  world,  from  whei 
stood,  looked  dreary  and  uninviting.  My  sj 
ma  was  so  bad,  that  I  went  wheezing  aroi 
like  an  old  spinning-wheel  that  had  slipped 
bands.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  in  the  trus 
bed,  I  used  to  fall  asleep,  and  waken,  and  si 
again,  to  the  music  of  old  anthems  sung  by 
deacon.  He  would  have  his  quiet  even 
recreation  thus,  from  the  well-thumbed,  soi 
leaves  of  the  old  music  books  that  had  b 
the  companions  of  his  boyhood.  Once  I  awe 
thrilled  into  ecstasy  by  the  sweet,  moun 
tune  of  Bourbon. .  I  sat  ap  in  bed,  spell-boo 
It  was  tlie  most  glorious  music  I  had  ever  hei 
I  pounded  my  childish  applause  on  the  pill 
and  on  the  quilts,  and  on  my  knees ;  and, 
lighted,  he  sang  it  again  and  again,  to 
coaxing:  " Once more^ papa l'^  "^iow juste; 
more,  please  sir,  papa  I"  At  last,  ashamed 
ask  for  it  again,  I  gave  him  the  charge 
''  Don't  ever  forget,  now,  that  this  is  my  mui 
papa." 

Ever  since  the  awakening  of  that  night,  i 
grand  old  music  of  Bourbon  has  been  my  pi 
aoea  for  every  mental  derangement;  but  t 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTHER    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS. 


41 


morning  it  failed ;  it  Lad  lost  its  inspiration ; 
its  exhilarating  power  was  gone;  it  was  like 
wine  that  was  dead,  tasteless. 

But  when  Ida's  little  brown  hands  toucbed 
the  keys  of  the  piano,  and  her  soul  went  out 
in  the  **  National  Guards'  Grand  March,"  I 
was  lifted  up  to  the  very  mountain  tops,  this 
clouds  dispersed,  and  the  blessed  sunshine  came 
in  at  my  eastern  windows,  and  again  I  was  my 
jubilant  self,  and  filled  with  gladness  and  re- 
joicing. 

But  no  music  ever  touched  me  as  ft  did  once, 
on  one  occasion  a  few  years  ago.  It  ^tA  dur- 
ing the  War.  We  were  in  suspense  and  agony, 
waiting  for  the  news  from  the  battle  of  the  Wil- 
derness. 

The  mail  train  had  just  whirled  past,  and  its 
smoke  lay  like  a  curled  plume  above  our  mead- 
0W8.  I  stood  leaning  on  the  gate  post  waiting 
the  return  of  the  deacon  from  the  post-office. 

The  air  was  damp  ^ith  the  mist  of  the  early 
morning,  and  the  dew-drops  sparkled  on  the 
little  spider-webs  at  the  roadside,  and  made 
them  look  like  tiny  fairy  tents  staked  out  on 
the  green. 

I  had  a  shawl  over  my  head,  and  a  flannel  cloth 
Mound  my  neck,  and  the  deacon's  plushy  over- 
shoes on,  because  I  was  recovering  from  an  at- 
tack of  the  quinsy,  with  an  unusual  predispo- 
ntion  to  another  turn  of  the  asthma. 

But  I  forgot  all  my  ailments  in  a  moment, 
when  I  heard  a  childish  voice,  as  sweet  as  an 
angel's,  pouring  forth  the  exquisite  old  air  and 
words  of  the  "Star-Spangled  Banner."  I 
looked  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  and  there 
in  the  path,  on  the  green  banks  of  Ae  curving 
faiboad,  was  little  Tod  Wilkins,  the  son  of  our 
poorest  neighbor,  walking  along,  his  liead 
thrown  back,  singing  with  all  his  might.  Tlie 
lower  end  of  his  snow-white  shirt  fluttered 
"t)m  the  hind  part  of  his  old  ragged  cotton 
trousers,  flitting  cheerily  in  the  wind,  as  would 
a  lady'g  handkerchief.  His  new  palm  hat  was 
^  his  hand ;  and,  really,  there  was  nothing  to 
■ioder  his  singing  his  very  sweetest  and  freest. 
I  love  the  bursting  song  of  the  robin,  even 
tmto  tears ;  but  Tod's  glorious  singing  shamed 
•i»y  robin,  or  bird  I  ever  heard.  I  leaned  for- 
^»*rd— I  let  the  shawl  slip  oflP— I  stepped  oxxif 
•ide  of  the  gate,  and  left  the  deacon's  plushy 
Uppers  where  I  had  stood ;  my  flannels  smelt  of 
^^ent,  and  I  cast  them  from  me.  The  song 
^^  exultantly  upon  the  still,  fresh  morning 

^^  \  and  when  the  sweet  lisping  words  o^  "  01^ 

«ifi  Star-Spangled  Banner  I  oh,  long  may  it 

Wave  I"  swept  up  to  me,  I  hurrah'd  like  a  boy, 

and  toased  up  my  arms,  and  would  have  been 


proud,  just  then  and  there  to  have  died  for  mj 
country,  out  on  the  battle-field,  in  a  hospital, 
at  the  burning  stake,  or  even  at  home  in  bed. 

Among  the  treasured  pioturee  hung  on  mem- 
ory's walls  that  I  love  to  look  at,  and  think  of, 
and  dwell  upon,  and  sparkle  my  eyes  over-r- 
one  of  the  dearest — is  that  which  beholds  To^ 
Wilkins  as  he  walked  along  in  his  little  bare 
feet  singing  our  nation's  beloved  song,  all 
aflutter  in  poverty's  rags,  as  the  little  enthu. 
siast's  soul  poised  its  wings  high  in  the  havens 
— Tod  in  the  foreground,  while  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  Sylvan  Dell  is  the  dark  emerald 
background  of  the  picture. 

We  were  invited  over  to  Dr.  Bodkin's  to 
take  tea  last  Thursday  evening,  the  deacof 
and  I.  We  rode  over  in  the  top  carriage,  ana 
drove  Humbug;  and  I  told  the  deacon  that 
perhaps,  as  we  were  going  so  near  to  our  pas- 
tor's— brother  Jinkins's — we'd  better  take  thenj 
something,  even  if  it  wasn't  much ;  it  would 
show  good  will,  and  that  we  loved  him  and 
approved  of  his  preaching.  So  we  took  oveif 
a  basket  with  a  roll  of  my  butter  in  it,  and 
some  fr^sh  eggs,  and  a  few  pounds  of  beef,  and 
a  pair  of  gray  woollen  socks  of  grandma's  knit- 
ting. Then  father  put  in  some  corn,  and  oate^ 
and  some,  keepin'  apples,  and  Lily  stuck  in  a 
new  broom.  Sister  Jinkins  was  very  glad,  and 
said  Ae  should  make  an  account  of  it ;  but  father 
said  not  to  do  it  at  all,  it  only  meant  good  will, 
and  good  feelin',  and  signified  no  mor'n  a  waive 
of  the  hand,  or  a  mere  courteous  liftin'  o'  the 
hat  of  him.  The  deacon  has  a  good  polite  way 
of  putting  things,  naturally  polite  like. 

Just  as  father  was  fastening  Humbug's  hitch- 
ing strap  to  the  doctor's  post,  Sister  Bodkin  came 
out  and  told  us  to  go  on  into  the  house,  that 
Julia  was  there ;  that  she  was  just  going  to  see 
her  friends  off*  in  the  coach,  and  would  be  back 
in  less  than  five  minutes.  A  gentleman  and 
lady,  her  cousins,  Moses  and  Myra  Wharton, 
were  just  starting  away.  The  lady  was  as  sweet 
and  graceful  a  creature  as  I  ever  saw — ^her  h^ 
was  all  adimple  with  radiant  smiles,  her  move- 
ments as  easy  as  the  sway  of  weeping-willows, 
and  her  voice  was  music  itself. 

The  man  looked  good  and  kind,  but  he  was 
as  awkward  as  a  poker ;  he  acted  as  if  he  had 
two  hands  and  two  feet  and  one  head  more 
than  he  could  ^anage  or  knew  what  to  do 
with.  He  trod  on  his  wife's  trail,  and  in  turn- 
ing around  gave  her  a  punch  in  the  side  with 
the  umbrella,  and  then  managed  to  catch  his 
tiuttons  in  the  silk  fringe  of  my  fine  black 
thibet  shawl,  and  started  ofl"  at  a  good  travel- 
ling jog,  while  I  was  going  in  the  opposite 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


42 


ABTEUR'8   LADT'8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


If 


direction.  He  closed  the  gate  with  a  sudden 
Blam,  and  caught  the  little  poodle's  bead  fast, 
and  when  he  ran  back  to  let  it  out,  he  dropped 
his  big  satchel  between  bis  feet  and  fell  sprawl- 
ing over  it.  Then  his  high  bat  rolled  ofi^  and 
the  wind  caught  up  his  red  silk  bandanna,  and 
was  just  going  to  be  fbnny  and  cut  up  jolljr 
capers  with  it,  when  he  floundered  around, 
as  gracefully  as  a  whale  on  land,  and  caught 
it. 

Only  for  the  sake  of  his  lovely  wife,  and  I 
would  have  ki  hfd  right  out,  and  had  a  good 
laugh  at  his  expense. 

'*  You  hare  quite  too  many  things  to  carry, 
Moses,"  said  she,  sweetly,  as  she  took  her 
heavy  shawl  off  from  his  arm,  and  smiled  on 
him  g^raciously. 

What  a  glorious  smile  it  was,  too  I  He  grew 
as  red  as  a  beet,  and  started  off  in  a  hurry  with 
one  of  his  overcoat  skirt  pockets  turned  com- 
pletely inside  out,  looking  like  a  collapsed  con- 
tribution bag.  I  felt  my  mouth  begin  to  show 
signs  of  laughter,  but  I  looked  up  and  saw  the 
deacon's  stem,  gray  eyes  looking  at  me  severely 
from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows.  Oh,  his  eyes 
looked  like  two  stealthy,  bloodthirsty  cats 
peering  out  from  under  the  fringe  of  the  cover- 
let, as  they  hid  under  the  bed  I 

I  am  so  playful  and  mischievous  that  he  has 
to  shoot  catty  glances  at  me  often. 

As  soon  as  the  lumbering  old  coach  rolled 
away,  and  Sister  Bodkin's  relatives  were  g^ne, 
she  returned.  When  the  deacon  and  the  doc- 
tor got  to  talking  earnestly,  I  turned  to  Sister 
Bodkin  and  asked  her  how  in  the  world  it  ever 
came  about  that  that  awkward  man  Moses 
ever  found  favor  in  the  sight  of  her  beautiful, 
and  refined,  and  elegant  Cousin  Myra. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  tell  you,  Pipsissiway,'^ 
said  she,  laughing,  while  the  faintest  rose 
flush  overspread  her  countenance. 

"Myra  never  cared  for  outside  show  and 
outward  appearances  like  other  ^r]s  do ;  she 
never  saw  anything  awkward  in  people  if  she 
knew  their  hearts  to  be  right.  She  was  a 
little  peculiar  that  way,  and  it  was  owing  to 
this  very  peculiarity  that  she  wajs  first  in- 
terested in  Moses  Wharton. 

"She  was  teaching  school  in  Millbrook  one 
winter,  and  after  service  one  cold  snowy  Sab- 
bath day,  she  stood  outside  the  church  door, ' 
waiting  until  the  lady  with  wffom  she  boarded 
would  come  ouL  As  she  stood  there  watch- 
ing and  waiting,  a  poorly  clad  emaciated  old 
woman,  apparently  in  the  humblest  walks  of 
life,  came  out  upon  the  icy  steps,  and  just  then 
a  beautiful  haughty  young  lady  ribhly  clad  in 


fhrs  and  velvets,  rudely  jostled  against 
tottering  old '  woman,   and  she  slipped  i 
would  have  fallen,  had  not  Moses  sprang : 
ward  and  caught  her. 

" '  Let  me  assist  you,  grandmother,'  said 
as  he  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  i 
her  safely  landed  on  the  sidewalk. 

"  She  was  a  stranger ;  no  other  arm  had  p: 
fered  assistance^  although  several  finely 
pearing  young  men  stood  nearer  than  Mo 
They  winked  at  each  other  and  smiled,  i 
telegraphed  their  stale  wit  to  each  other 
sundry  nods  and  grimaces. 

"Ther  old  lady  was  among  strangers^  i 
nothing  but  the  generosity  of  a  kind  hi 
prompted  the  spontaneous  action.  That  was 
long  step  in  the  good  graces  of  the  sweet  11 
school  teacher,  but  Moses  was  not  aware  oi 

"  Myra  taught  school  the  following  sumi 
in  the  same  place,  and  had  a  better  oppoi 
nity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  pec 
in  the  village  and  vicinity. 

**  Because  of  Moses's  shy,  awkward  ways, 
observed  that  the  young  men  made  spor 
him.  She  never  smiled  at  any  of  their  wi 
cisms,  or  manifested  any  degree  of  interesi 
any  of  their  jokes.  One  morning  she  was  pi 
ing  Mr.  Wharton's,  on  her  way  to  school,  i 
the  horses  and  wagon  stood  in  the  road 
though  they  were  going  in  the  direction 
Millbrook.  Moses  was  busy  putting  m 
grain  in  the  wagon,  and  with  the  innate  pol 
ness  of  a  good  heart,  he  told  her  if  she  wan 
to  ride,  and  would  wait  until  he  gave  eael 
the  horses  a  pail  of  water,  she  could  have 
opportunity.  She  stood  beside  the  horses,  \ 
talked  to  them  and  patted  them,  while 
went  to  the  pump  in  the  lot  to  get  the  watc 

"  She  observed  that  he  raised  the  pump  h 
die  cautiously  and  peeped  down  inside,  t 
uncovered  the  well,  and  instead  of  pumpi 
drew  the  water  with  a  hook  and  pail. 

"  When  he  brought  the  second  pail  full 
the  same  manner,  she  said :  '  Is  your  pu 
broken  that  you  do  not  use  it  ?' 

"*No  ma'am,'  he  answered;  'but  in 
few  days  in  which  we  did  not  use  the  pui 
an  old  blue  bird  built  a  darling  little  nest 
it;  and  though  it  is  a  good  deal  of  trouU< 
draw  water  for  six  calves  and  four  horses  1 
way,  yet  I  hav'n't  the  heart  to  disturb  1 
One  time  I  looked  down  in  at  her  and  thoQ| 
"How  much  longer  must  this  work  last?"  « 
she  looked  up  at  me  so  trustingly,  tipping  1 
little  patient  head  back,  that  I  fancied  th 
was  a  sad  coaxing  look  in  her  bright  eyes, 
though  she  were  saying:   "Oh,  please  dc 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THOU  EAST  ALL  SEASONS  FOB    THINE  OWN,    0  DEATH!      43 


get  Kugrj^  BIT,  Fm  hurrying  with  all  the  might 
of  a  blue  biitl." 

** '  I  peep  in  upon  her  twice  a  day,  and  she 
trusts  me,  and  looks  up  a  cheery  ''How  de 
do  !*'  that  well  repays  me  for  any  trouble  I  may 
have.' 

"  'Oh,  your  heart  is  good  and  kind,'  said 
Myra,  *  and  I  hope  the  old  biid  will  tell  her 
young  cues  how  much  they  are  indebted  to 
yon  for  th«r  lives,  and  that  they  will  recom- 
pense yov  with  the  sweetest  of  songs.  You've 
the  heart  of  a  woman,  Moses  Wharton,  and 
you  need  not  be  a  bit  ashamed  to  act  out  your 
true  self,  and  Co  follow  the  convictions  of  your 
honest  heart ;  they  will  not  lead  yon  astray, 
though  they  may  lead  you  in  paths  that  very 
few  men  eiver  dared  to  walk  in  before.  Be 
true  to  younel^  and  yon  will  be  true  to 
others.' 

^  Daring  that  pleasant  summer  Myra  often 
had  peepe  through  the  windows,  into  the  inner 
life  of  Moses  Wharton,  and  she  found  him  to 
he  perfectly  true  and  natural,  and  though  a 
little  awkward  and  unskilled  in  the  etiquette 
that  belongs  to  society,  he  was  nobler  than  any 
man  she  had  ever  met  He  had  that  nobility 
of  soul  that  gave  him  the  highest  rank  among 
his  fellowB.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  two  be- 
came dear  to  each  other,  and  more  than  all 
the  world  to  one  another  ?  She  sees  not  the 
rough,  gray  husk  that  is  the  setting  of  the  jeweL 
They  are  the  happiest  wedded  couple  who 
visit  us ;  they  seem  formed  to  walk  together. 
Sometime  next  summer  we  will  go  and  visit 
them,  and  you  shall  see  for  yourself  one  of  the 
matches  made  in  Heaven."  ^    /  p  , 

We  can  do  but  little,  at  most;  but  we  can 
do  that  litUe  constantly.  Little  by  little  does 
^Tod  elevate  us  to  himselH  He  calls  daily, 
weekly,  yearly.  N^lect  one  call  after  another, 
And  we  become  reprobates.  A  mason  builds 
the  wall,  stone  by  stone.  And  just  so  are  ^nts 
^ilt,  God  accommodates  himself  to  our  oob- 
dition  by  affording  us  opportunity  and  mate- 
rial as  we  need  them. 

Trb  wivee  of  men  of  sentiment  are  not 
*lv*ya  the  meet  appreciative  womea.  >  Jean 
Paul  represenii  Siebender  as  reading  one  of 
^ie  beantiM  iiaagininge  to  his  wifey  who  list- 
•^  with  eyes  oast  down  and  hated  breath. 
^  he  eloeed,  the  sharer  of  his  joye  beamed 
Mk  with,  ''Don't  put  OB  your  lea  sloek- 
ing  to*morMW,  dear;  I  muet  mend  that  hole 


"THOU  HAST  ALL  SEASONS  FOR 
THINE  OWN,  O  DEATH  I" 

BT   XB8.  A.  H.  DBVELLUre. 

DEATH  oomes  to  all!   In  the  fresh,  badding 
spring, 
When  Joy  exultant  fills  each  hovnding  heart, 
And  groves  and  bowers  their  richest  offerings  bring, 
He  nips  the  tender  bad,  and  leaves  a  shadowy 
blight  I 
And  so  when  sniamer,  with  its  gnshing  showers 

Of  song  and  sanshine,  and  refreshing  rain, 
Ifith  richer  beauty  robes  eaoh  fragrant  flower^ 
And  health  and  gladness  thrill  through  every 
vein. 
Stealing  with  oaations,  stealthy  step  he  comes. 
When  early  blossoms  scent  the  dewy  mom  ; 
And  flrom  the  garland  of  love's  happiest  homes, 
He  plodks  the  Areshest  rose,  and  leaves  a  thorn ! 

And  when  ripe  autumn  with  its  gorgeous  train, 

Bright  robed  in  beauty,  hoards  its  brimming 
store 
Of  luscious  golden  fruits,  and  garnered  grain, 

In  countless  blessings  piled,  and  flowing  o'er; 
He  lingers  not,  bat  hastes  with  rapid  stride, 

And  from  the  circles  of  the  young  and  gay 
Marks  the  loved  object  of  the  father's  pride; 

Exultant  bears  the  idol  prise  away  1 
And  e'en  when  winter^  witb  its  snowy  wreath 

Triumphant  crowns  each  tree  and  rooh-bonnd 
hUl, 
He  passes  on,  with  chill  and  blighting  breath. 

And  at  his  touch,  each  throbbing  heart  stands 

stun 

"  Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death !" 

OTHKt  Paon.s's  PuKnTDXCBB.— -Suppose  a 
surgeon  should  go  into  a  household  where  a 
man  had  a  Test  wen  on  his  neck,  and,  while 
be  shook  hands  with  him  rery  gently  with 
one  hand,  should  hit  the  wen  a  terrible  blow 
with  the  other;  and  suppose^  when  the  man 
complained  that  that  was  rude  treatment^  the 
sargeon  should  say:  '^Ohl  that  is  nothing 
bat  a  wen.  It  is  no  part  of  you.  I  have  no 
idea  of  respeoting  your  wen.  I  respect  you ; 
but  that  wen  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.'* 
Such  a  surgeon  would  be  like  many  relbrmers, 
who,  because  they  aie  men  of  truth,  and  per- 
cetTing  that  other  men  have  many  prejudioes 
and  snperstitione,  strike  them  with  their  fists, 
as  if  they  were  wens^  justifying  themselTce  by 
saying:  "They  are  anperstittons;  they  an 
prejudices;  am  I  hound  to  respect  these?" 
No,  perhape  not;  bot  you  are  bcNind  to  re- 
spect the  palpitating  heart  that  lies  behind 
theoL  Yon  are  bound  to-  reepeot  the  soul 
whose  Boparstition  or  prejudice  you  assail.*— 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


SARA'S  SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  FVON'T  go  yet,  S»i»— I  want  to  talk  to 
U  yoa." 

I  shut  the  door,  and  oame  back  to  my  «eat 
opposite  my  mother. 

**  This  is  the  last  oppoitimity  I  sbatl  have  of 
talking  to  yon,  my  dear,  and  there  is  something 
I  mast  Ray  before  yon  go." 

There  was  an  expression  of  troubled  per- 
plexity on  my  mother's  face  as  she  drew  her 
chair  nearer  the  fire. 

It  was  very  late— past  eleyen  o'clock ;  hot 
early  the  next  morning  I  was  going  from  home 
to  spend  a  few  weeks  at  Frog'smere  Manor,  the 
leat  of  our  wealthy  uncle,  Charles  Blamford, 
Esq.,  who,  being  at  all  other  times  much  too 
grand  to  show  us  the  light  of  his  countenanoe^ 
thought  proper,  this  particular  autumn,  to 
invite  me  and  my  Sister  Flora  to  spend  a  short 
time  at  the  Manor. 

The  Blam fords,  of  Frog'smere,  were  my 
Other's  relations;  and  very  unpleasant  ones 
we  had  hitherto  found  them,  inasmitch  as,  con- 
sidering my  father  to  have  done  the  family  a 
great  wrong  by  marrying  my  mother,  they 
turned  their  backs  upon  him  from  that  day. 

My  father  had  been  dead  four  years  at  this 
time,  and  a  hard  four  years  they  had  been  for 
us.  Not  that  we  had  ever  been  rich,  for  my 
father  belonged  to  that  most  unhappy  class  of 
men,  a  younger  ton  of  a  poor  but  noble  house, 
who  cannot  work,  and  to  beig  are  ashamed.  To 
give  a  mtUtum  inparvQ  description  of  ourselves, 
I  should  tell  you  we  were  poor  and  proud ; 
that  is,  our  father  was,  and  we  girls,  ibUowing 
in  his  steps,  were  proud,  too.  Our  mother, 
who  was  the  daac^tor  of  a  eonntry  curate,  and 
my  only  brother,  who  followed  in  her  steps, 
were  quite  different;  and  I  am:  afraid  we  led 
her  a  sad  life  hefan  our  father  died.  We  were 
too  proud  to  walk  three  miles  to  church  eveiy 
Sunday,  and  too  poor  to  keep  any  kind  of  car- 
rii^e,  ao  we  stopped  at  korne.  That  was  only 
one  of  many  such  affli^iiona  in  our  domestic 
afiairs.  But  about  a  year  before  our  father 
died  my  brother  George  took  upon  himself  to 
express  very  decided  <^inions  concerning  his 
ftiture ;  an<^  after  a  good  deal  of  skirmidiiiy 
with  his  father,  he  obtained  a  reluctant  consent 
to  go  and  try  hia  fortunes  in  Australia.  I 
don't  think  he  suoeeeded  very  well,  for  the  hw 
letters  we  received  from  him  were  ratiier  vague 
and  unsatisfactory.  Poor  George  fonad  }aB 
(44) 


fortune  long  in  ooming,  it  would  seem.  Of 
late  years  we  had  fewer  letters  than  ever,  and 
these  only  contained  affectionate  inquiries  and 
remembraoce,  not  touching  npoa  kimself  or 
hit  affairs. 

My  mother  and  I  k^t  a  litde  day-Mhool 
between  us,  and  let  half  of  our  hooae.  In  ay 
leisure  hours  I  drew  water-color  sketchct) 
which  I  was  ofl|en  fortunate  enough  to  dispoie 
of  at  an  artist's  repository.  We  might  have 
done  very  well  but  for  some  k^vy  bilk  is- 
cuxred  before  my  fsther  died.  The  paymflat 
of  these  drained  our  pnnes  of  all  our  earn- 
ings.  My  father's  little  ineom^  ceased  with 
his  life. 

Flora  was  still  at  school,  where,  by  giving 
part  of  h«r  time  as  governess  to  the  youogtr 
pupils,  she  received  finishing  lessons  in  nomtt^ 
ous  accomplishments.  Flora  was  very  clever, 
and  her  whole  soul  was  bound  up  in  study. 
Lately  she  had  been  grieving  because  we  could 
not  afford  to  give  her  a  year  at  a  firstrclan 
German  academy,  whither  one  of  her  clsai- 
mates  intended  going  in  the  spring.  But  thii 
anticipated  visit  had  put  the  German  acades/ 
quite  out  of  Flora's  head  for  a  time.  She  had 
been  aitting  on  the  rug  all  the  evening  with 
the  kitten  in  her  lap,  and  chattering  so  eafl^ 
getically  that  my  member  had  not  been  ahls  to 
get  a  word  into  the  conversation,  though  1  lud 
guessed  there  was  something  on  her  mind.  I 
was  not,  therefore,  at  all  surprised  when  she 
asked  me  to  sit  a  little  longer  after  Flora  bid 
wished  us  good-night. 

**  Sara,"  said  my  mother,  solemnly,  as  I  re- 
sumed my  seat,  "you  are  all  I  have,  my  dear, 
in  the  shape  of  a  companion ;  for  dear  Flo  Ib 
such  a  child,  and  poor  Qeorgy  is  scarcely  lik« 
one  of  us  at  all." 

Here  my  mother  paused,  and  sighed  deeply, 
i  remained  silent. 

**  I  don't  know  how  to  begin  what  I  want  la 
say,  Sara,"  she  continued,  looking  up  at  me. 
"It  is  about  Flo." 

'*  Well,  mamma,"  I  fsud,  rathar  Mtonished. 

"  Don't  you  think  U  would  be  a.good  thbig 
if  we  could  get  her  married^  Sua  7" 

I  could  only  look  at  my  motkor,  JbatI  soppois 
she  saw  the  astonishment  in  my  e^e^  for  <^ 
resumed,  speaking  hastily  and  sadiy,  ''Ofisxal 
such  a  thought  would  nevev  have  t&tered  nf 
keadif  we  had  not  been  ao  poor,  and  Flo  ii 
such  a  shiftless  girl.     All  the  learning  tbfi 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


8ABA*8   SWEETHEART. 


45 


a¥M  £ar  will  not  bciDg  her  bread  and  salt ; 
ttdea,  only  oooatder  ih%  indignities  a  goyer- 
as  moat  always  be  subject  to.  I  think  my 
tart  would  braak  (o  see  her  in  snch  a  poei- 
>n ;  yet  that  k  what  she  mnst  come  to  if  ■ 
Sara  1  I  can't  bear  to  tell  you  wliat  came 
to  my  mind ;  but  I  must,  and,  dear,  don't  be 
Dse,  or  laugh— I  thought  that  if  your  Cousin 
By  aees  Flosa,  he  might— ^' 
"Fall  in  loTe  with  her?"  I  said.  "Oh, 
immal" 

In  spite  of  my  mother's  entreaties,  I  laughed 
artily.  The  idea  of  our  grand  cousin  of 
t>g'6mere  idling  in  love  with  his  humble 
tie  cousin,  wham  his  lather  had  eondesoended 
invite  for  a  week's  holiday,  quite  overpow- 
ed  Dia 

"  Mamma,"  said  I,  '*  forgive  me ;  it  is  «o  im- 
obable." 

"Not  at  all,  Sara,"  said  she.    "Flon  is  as 
til  bom  as  Quy,  and  a  remai^ably  pretty 
d  besides.     As  to  money,  he  has  enough 
d  to  spare.    It  would  be  quite  a  likely  thing." 
id  viewed  thus,  it  did  seem  more  feasible. 
I  sat  thinking  about  it  a  little  while,  and  then 
Aid  it  oertainly  was  just  possible. 
"  But  mamma,"  I  said,  "  it  is  not  a  thing  to 
counted  upon ;  it  is  but  a  chance." 
"  Just  a  chance,"  she  replied,  "that  is  all, 
nu    I  hate  mjrself  for  being  so  mercenary 
my  thoughts,  but  it  is  for  her  sake ;  and  in 
y  case  the  child  shall  please  herself.    But  if  < 
alioald  come  to  pass  as  I  said,  what  a  good 
invrfordear  Flol" 

**  Too  good  to  be  thought  o^"  I  said. 
**  And  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  Sara,"  re- 
med  my  mother,  more  quietly,  "that  I  don't 
iDt  to  see  you  a  matchmaker,  dear:  but  if  | 
kythlng  should  give  you  reason  to  suspect 
ny  and  Flora  of  having  a  liking  for  one  an- 
her,  just  help  it  on  by  any  means  in  your 
rwer.  So  much  depends  upon  a  trifle  in  such 
ses  sometimes." 

^  I  see,  mamma.  I  am  to  be  a  sort  of  sUent 
•erver  and  go-between." 
*•  And,  oh,  Sara  I"  exdaimed  my  mother,  sud- 
»ly,  with  a  face  of  concern,  "  I  do  hope  that— ^' 
"  That  I  shanH  &11  in  love  with  Guy  myself; 
I,  mamma?" 

"Not  exactly  that,  dear,  but  with  any  one 
10 ;  especially  with  any  one  not  well  ofL  You 
ill  oMet  a  great  many  people,  I  expect  For 
iMt  ahoold  I  do  without  you,  Sara?  I  eo- 
lat  yoo  to  be  careiul." 

'"Mamma,"  I  said»  hmlf  langhing,  half  m 
nMst)  "  if  you  load  me  with  many  more  oom- 
anda  and  entreaties,  matrimonial  or  other- 


wise, I  shall  be  in  such  a  fog  that  I  shall  fail 
to  perceive  it  if  Flo  runs  to  her  ruin  in  the 
shape  of  a  poor  husband." 

"You  know  all  I  mean,  Sara,"  said  my 
mother.  "I  am  quite  dependent  upon  you,  as 
you  know,  my  dear ;  and  then  you  are  so  clever, 
and  managing,  and  practical — such  a  pillow 
for  me  to  lean  npon-> while  Flora  is  helpless, 
and  wants  looking  after  so  much.  I  could  not 
spare  you ;  but  it  would  be  a  weight  off  my 
mind  to  see  her  well  provided  for.  That  is  all 
I  want  you  to  understand." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  I  said,  gravely  enough  now  ; 
"and  you  may  rest  assured  that  I  will  never 
leave  you,  to  marry  a  prince.  While,  at  the 
same  time,  I  am  far  too  practical,  too  merce- 
nary, to  allow  my  affections  to  settle  upon  any 
one  in  that  delightful  social  position  known  by 
the  name  of '  genteel  poverty.' " 

"  You  have  had  enough  of  that,  my  poor 
darling,"  said  my  mother,  with  a  smile  and  a 
little  sigh.  "I  shall  get  up  to  see  you  off, 
Sara ;  and  your  box  is  already  corded ;  so  I 
shall  send  you  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  II. 

When  I  first  set  my  foot  on  the  threshold  of 
Frog'smere  Manor  House, it  seemed  tome  like 
the  entrance  to  a  region  hitherto  unknown  to 
my  experience.  How  different  to  the  mean 
little  entrance  of  my  own  home  were  the  mas- 
sive portals  of  this  old  mansion,  the  wide  hall, 
brilliantly  lighted  and  warm,  the  glowing  car- 
pet on  the  staircase,  and  the  graceful  figures  of 
my  elegantly-attired  aunt  and  coubini  who  had 
tlfaonged  to  meet  me  witli  a  cordiality  I  scarcely 
expected. 

I  was  alone,  too ;  Flora  had  still  a  week  of 
her  term  to  expire  before  she  could  be  at  lib- 
erty to  join  me.  This  I  had  before  explained 
by  letter  to  my  relations,  therefore  no  one  else 
was  expected. 

Of  my  cousins  I  will  briefly  speak.  The ' 
eldest  was  Guy,  who  was  very  unlike  what  I 
had  pictured  him,  being  a  grave,  gentlemanly 
man,  of  about  thirty,  instead  of  the  perfumed, 
languid  young  coll^an  I  had  expected  to  see. 
At  my  first  glimpse  of  his  serious  fece  my  heart 
^1  concerning  my  mother's  hopes.  Guy's 
fiuMy  would  never  flx  on  my  pretty  little  sis- 
ter* Nothing  short  of  an  imperial  woman, 
whose  lips  were  never  framed  for  smiling,  would 
suit  him ;  so  thought  L 

Marion  was  the  next.  -  She  was  graoeftil, 
and  moderately  pretty,  besides   being  more 
lUr  amiable.    Then  came  WillHd, 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


46 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   MO  ME    MAGAZINE. 


who  was  a  Nary  lieutetuuit,  at  preMint  away  on 
a  Mediterranean  cruiae ;  and  the  fourth,  and 
last,  my  namesake,  Sara,  who  was  the  beauty  of  \ 
the  family. 

That  evening,  sitting  in  a  luxurious  chair 
under  the  centre  chandelier  of  the  grand  draw- 
ing-room, I  carefully  studied  my  cousins :  and, 
with  one  exception,  the  conclusions  I  drew  con- 
cerning them  proved  correct 

I  was  not  neglected ;  but,  supposing  me  to 
be  rather  tired  with  my  travelling,  my  cousins 
abstained  from  teasing  me  with  talking,  or  re- 
quests for  music.  Uncle  Blamford  sat  by  me 
most  of  the  time,  and  when  he  left  me  jnj 
Cousin  Guy  sauntered  up  and  took  the  vacant 
place. 

I  said  that  with  one  exception  I  formed  &ir 
estimates  of  my  cousins'  duuracters  \  the  exoep- 
tion  was  Guy.  I  thought  him  habitual^ 
grave ;  but  in  leas  than  ten  minutes  I  discov- 
ered that  his  serious  eyes  could  light  up  with 
infinite  mirth,  and  his  austere  lips  relax  with 
rippling  smlies.  As  soon  as  I  made  this  dis- 
covery my  hopes  roee,  and  I  resolved  to  pave 
a  golden  way  for  Flora  by  sounding  her  praises 
as  much  as  possible  in  all  the  conversations  I 
might  have  with  him. 

Guy  asked  me  if  I  was  a  good  actress ;  and  I 
■aid,  modestly,  that  I  had  never  taken  aoy  part 
in  drawing-room  plays. 

"  You  must  certainly  try,"  said  Guy.  "  My 
sisters  are  very  fond  of  private  plays.  They 
are  getting  some  up  now,  and  we  shall  want 
rather  a  large  staff." 

Here  was  an  opportunity  1 

''  Then,"  said  I,  ''  Flora  will  be  some  help, 
for  she  often  assists  in  th«  historical  plays  the 
young  ladies  perform  at  the  school  she  attends. 
My  sister  Flora  is  very  clever." 

Guy  smiled,  and  said  he  did  not  doubt  it ; 
and  in  all  our  converaation^  I  managed  to  turn 
the  subject  to  Flora's  benefit,  but  with  very 
questionable  wisdom,  it  must  be  confessed.  I 
doubt  much  whether  my  siater  would  have 
thanked  me. 

The  staple  subject  of  talk  at  Frog'sijiere  was 
private  theatricals.  Mariop  iras  very,  good- 
natured,  and  she  took  me  into  her  confidence 
concerning  the  arrangements. 

The  play  selected  was  Keailworih.  Sara  was 
to  play  Elizabeth,  and  Ma^rion  said  I  might 
take  Amy  Bobsart^  but  I  declined,  and  pro- 
posed Flora,  as  I  guessed  that  Guy  was  to  play 
Leicester.  '*It  will  br|i^  them ,  together  fi^- 
mously,"  thought  I. 

The  next  day,  at  luncheon,  I  was  ratlier  puir- 
prised  to  see  a  gentleman  opposite  joae^.si^tuig 


beside  my  Cousin  Sara.  At  fint  I  goesBed 
must  be  Wilfrid,  but  I  thought  he  was  young 
Then,  with  my  usual  sftraightforwaid  impi 
siveness,  I  aeked  Marios,  who  sat  next  to  n 
who  he  was.    She  looked  rather  surpiised. 

''  That  is  Cyril  Anesley,"  she  said ;  <'  OapU 
Anesley." 

"  Who  is  Captain  Anesley?"  I  penever 
for  something  1  could  not  explain  had  aroot 
my  curiosity. 

**He  is  Sara's  sweetheart,"  said  Mari< 
laughingly. 

*'  Is  Sara  engag^?"  said  I,  surprised  in  \ 
turn. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Marion.  ''Bid  you  not  ko 
U?" 

"  How  long  ?"  I  asked,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Ages,"  replied  Marion.  "They  will 
be  married  till  Sara  comes  of  age,  and  gets  i 
fortune,  for  he  is  poor  at  present ;  but  he  ! 
very  good  expectations.  He  will  be  his  unc 
heir,  old  Mt.  Anesley.  You  must  have  he 
of  him,  Sara — he  is  the  member  for  Hind< 
immensely  rich,  and  a  bacbdor.  You  y 
see  him— *he  is  coming  here  after  next  w 
to  visit  papa,  before  we  return  to  town." 

I  devoted  myfielf  to  the  oontemplatioo 
Sara's  sweetheart  during  the  xeet  of  the  m 
He  was  very  handsome — quite  a  match 
beautiful  Sara ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  nei 
approaehed  a  certain  blue«eyed  ideal  I  1 
created  in  my  romantic  dreamings — an  ii 
who  boasted  a  fascinating  golden  monsta 
and  an  erect  carriage.  He  was  quite  at  he 
at  Frog'smere.  Marion  told  me  he  was  to  t 
the  part  of  Leicester  in  the  play. 

"  Guy  is  more  suitable^"  I  said. 

'^  Guy  hardly  ever  performs,"  said  Man 
"  he  is  not  a  good  actor,  but  a  capital  ju 
and  critic." 


CHAPTER  IIL 
All  the  mornings,  when  the  whether 
fine,  we  spent  in  riding;  and,  under  Guy't 
ition,  I  soon  learned  to  manage  a  horse  « 
Guy  was  generally  my  cavalier.  Uncle  Bl 
ford  rode  with  Marion,  and  Captain  Ane 
with  Sara. 

Often  I  found  myself  watching  thia  pairc 
ously ;  for,  beyond  the  uaual  courtesy  betv 
a  lady  and  geuUeman,  there  existed  notl 
iafhe  captain's  behavior  to  denote  the  lo 
nor  in  Sara's  to  resemble  that  of  his  fim 
They  were  scrupolouafy  douftebus,  and  sen 
lou^y  cQJid,  yet  no  quaxrel  had  occurred 
tw^en  Miien» 


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47 


I  think  I  have  said  that  I  was  very  keen  in 
dnwiDg  oondoaions  respecting  the  diaracters 
and  dispoeitiong  of  those  with  whom  I  was 
thrown  in  contact ;  and  ere  a  week  had  passed 
of  mj  acquaintance  with  Cyril  Aneslej,  I  felt 
oonyinoed  thaty  acting  upon  impulse — as  his 
warm,  excitable  temperament  was  prone  to 
do— he  had  engaged  himself  to  my  Cousin  Sara 
in  haste,  and  had  since  repented  at  leisure; 
while  she  had  it  not  in  her  to  bestow  much 
affection  upon,  or  feel  interest  in,  any  human 
being  but  herself 

Nothing  in  his  behavior  went  to  prove  my 
suspicions  were  correct,  for  he  was  too  honor- 
able to  draw  back  from  the  fulfilment  of  any 
doty  his  engagement  involved. 

Often  thinking  these  things,  I  let  my  eyes 
dwell  upon  the  pair  as  they  sat  dose  together, 
yet  to  my  fancy  so  far  apart;  and  often  I  found 
Gtptain  Anesley  studying  me^  with  apparently 
as  great  an  interest  as  I  displayed  in  studying 
himself. 

Sara  seldom  evinced  any  liveliness  in  the 
preparations  for  amusement  or  festivity,  save 
an  overweening  anxiety  concerning  her  attire. 
She  was  a  thorough  actress,  and  threw  more 
animation  into  her  performance  than  I  should 
have  believed  her  capable  of.  I  could  not  say 
so  much  for  the  captain;  he  was  decidedly 
apathetic 

At  the  end  of  a  week  Flora  arrived.  Marion 
had  reserved  the  role  of  Amy  Eobsart  for  her, 
and  Flo  set  to  work  upon  it  immediately,  as 
the  rest  were  already  nearly  perfect  in  their 
parts.  Flora  was  in  her  element,  and  I  had 
never  seen  her  look  so  beautifol;  happiness 
lent  a  glow  to  her  cheek  and  a  sparkle  to  her 
eye.  I  darted  frequent  glances  at  Guy,  to  see 
whether  he  wore  the  same  spectacles  that  I 
did,  but  I  always  failed  to  penetrate  his 
thoughts.  The  expression  on  his  sedate  face^ 
while  in  repose,  was  unreadable. 

A  good  many  guests  came  to  the  Manor 
during  the  shooting  season,  at  the  expiration  of  i 
which  my  uncle's  family  usually  left  Frog's- 
mere  to  spend  Christmas  in  town ;  most  of  them 
were  aristocratic  friends  of  my  aunf  s. 

At  last  the  night  of  the  play  arrived.  I  was 
dressed  early,  and  assisted  my  aunt  in  receiv- 
ing the  guests,  as  the  rest  were  all  fully  occu- 
pied in  the  green-room. 

Most  of  the  people  had  arrived.  My  aunt's 
feathers  were  nodding  energetically  as  she  con- 
versed with  a  little  knot  of  dowagers  on  the 
lofa. 

"Come  with  n^e,  Sara,"  whispered  Guy,  over 
my  shoulder. 


I  rose  and  took  his  proffered  arm.  He  con- 
ducted me  across  the  hall,  and  into  a  little 
room  communicating  by  a  door  with  the  afore- 
said green-room.  Half  of  the  door  was  glass, 
which  was  covered  with  a  red  moreen  curtain. 

''  See  here^"  said  Guy,  laughingly,  as  he  drew 
the  curtain  slightly  aside.  - 

There  was  a  considerable  noise  going  on 
within,  and  a  comical  scene  met  our  eyes. 

The  performers,  full  of  nervous  eagerness, 
were  having  a  hurried  rehearsal.  Their  cos- 
tumes were  more  peculiar  than  beautiful — 
Flora  alone  being  fully  attired  in  a  velvet 
dreas  with  lace  ruffles.  Leicester  was  perform- 
ing with  apathy,  and  appeared  equally  indiffer- 
ent to  the  charms  of  the  queen  or  Amy.  This 
struck  me  at  the  time  vaguely ;  very  soon  after- 
wards it  came  back  to  me  fordbly.  I  looked 
and  laughed  at  the  disorderly  scene. 

"  How  well  our  Amy  looks  I"  remarked  Guy. 

"Does  she  not?  The  blue  becomes  Flora," 
I  said,  approvingly,  for  I  thought  that  Guy's 
obduracy  toward  Flora  was  beginning  to  melt 
before  her  beauty.  "  I  knew  you  would  think 
so." 

Guy  turned  his  grave  eyes  on  me,  and 
dropped  the  curtain. 

"Sara,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "you  seem  an- 
noyed that  I  do  not  suffidently  appreciate  your 
sister;  but  you  are  to  blame  for  it.  I  have  no 
eyes  for.  Flora  when  you  are  present." 

This  little  tirade  took  me  rather  by  surprise, 
and  I  dropped  my  corner  of  the  red  curtain  to 
look  at  him.  Guy  appeared  unusually  agitated. 

"You  guess  what  I  mean,  Sara,"  he  said; 
"will  my  cousin  be  my  wife?" 

Then — how  or  why  I  could  not  tell— there 
came  to  me  suddenly  a  knowledge  that  I 
loved  I — ^not  this  man,  but  another — ^that  other 
who  was  betrothed  to  my  Cousin  Sara.  I  was 
ndther  confused  nor  agitated ;  and  I  think  my 
voice  must  have  been  clear  and  hard  when  I 
replied,  for  Guy's  face  was  so  sad. 

"  I  cannot,  Guy,"  I  said ;  "  do  not  ask  me." 

"That  is  aU,  Sara,"  said  he. 

He  went  away  slowly,  and  left  me  there. 

What  a  strange  evening  that  wasl  There 
seemed  such  a  shadow  on  Guy's  face  and  on 
Cyril  Anedey's  I  I  knew  too  well  there  was 
one  on  mine ;  the  rest  were  all  so  bright  I  felt 
like  one  in  a  dream,  moving  about  among 
lights^  and  flowers,  and  happy  people,  without 
the  faintest  echo  of  happiness  in  my  own  heart 

The  play  was  over,  and  there  was  much  noise 
and  applause;  then  some  one  proposed  danc- 
ing, and  very  soon  I  found  myself  dancing 
with  the  gayest  of  them,  for  I  thought  it  would 


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ARTHURS   LADT8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


be  a  good  thing  to  deoeiye  others,  and  mTBelf, 
too,  if  I  could. 

Guy  was  also  dancing.  No  one  could  hare 
guessed  he  was  suffering  a  pang  of  disappointed 
love.  His  face  was  serious,  as  usual ;  mine  was 
wreathed  in  smiles ;  and,  somehow,  a  line  in  a 
certain  sweet  poem  I  had  once  read  kept  ring- 
ing in  my  ears : 

**  O,  fHend,  I  fear  the  lightest  hearts 
Make  sometimes  heayiest  mourning.** 

Did  Guy's  impassiye  face  veil  under  its  very 
impassiveness  a  heart  of  **  heaviest  mourning?*' 
Kind,  honest  Guy— Heaven  forbid  1  ' 

I  waltzed  two  or  three  times  with  Captain 
Anesley,  and  I  pulled  bonbons  with  him,  both 
of  us  laughing  gayly,  as  if  we  were  light- 
hearted  enough.  I  was  deceiving  him,  and  he 
was  deceiving  me — that  is,  we  were  trying  to 
do  so.  I  thought  I  could  guess  now  why  he 
had  been  so  apathetic  and  listless.  He  had  not 
been  so  blind  to  his  own  heart  as  I  had  been. 
Long  ago  I  had  discovered  he  did  not  love 
Sara ;  now  I  knew  that  he  lOved  me,  and  the 
knowledge  filled  my  heart  with  secret  Joy,  and 
my  soul  with  deep  sorrow. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

A  few  days  after,  there  came  for  Cyril  Anes- 
ley a  letter.  It  was  at  breakfast  when  he  re- 
ceived it,  and  he  smiled  as  he  broke  the  seal. 

''  It  is  from  my  uncle,  sir,"  he  said  to  Uncle 
Bl  am  ford,  '*  I  suppose  he  writes  to  tell  me  to 
expect  him." 

He  began  perusing  the  letter— many  at  the 
table  were  also  reading  their  letters.  I.  among 
others,  was  reading  one  from  my  mother,  when 
I  caught  the  tones  of  Captain  Anesley's  voice 
speaking  to  my  uncle.  The  tones  were  some- 
what strange,  and  his  &ce  was  flushed.  1 
noted  this,  for  I  bad  glanced  up  quickly. 

^  Mr.  Anesley  bids  me  tell  you,  sir,  he  will 
be  happy  to  accept  your  invitation,  and  will 
come  to-morrow."  Then,  with  evident  em- 
barrassment, the  captain  went  on  to  say :  *^  My 
uncle  informs  me,  sir,  that  he  is  married ;  so 
his  wife  will  accompany  him." 

Every  one  at  the  table  was  looking  curiotisty 
at  the  speaker,  dome  ^ew^— myself  among 
them — knew  how  keenly  this  marriage  afibcted 
him.  From  looking  with  intense  interest  at 
his  face,  I  next  turned  my  eyes  to  his  betrothed 
wife.  The  tidings  had  affected  her  seriously. 
She  appeared  to  be  smothfiring  h<^  feeling^  as 
well  as  she  could,  but  she  did  not  succeed  tety 
well. 

Pethaps  it  was  my  fimcy,  but,  from  that  mo- 


ment, I  thought  that  Uncle  Blamford's  man: 
lost  some  of  its  cordiality  to  Captain  Anesl 
and  my  heart  throbbed  with  indignation  mf 
times  that  day  at  seeing  Sara's  coolness  to  h 

He  did  not  appear  so  much  cast  down  at 
bad  prospects  as  one  would  have  imagine 
but  I  overheard  an  old  lady  saying  to  my  a 
that  she  believed  he  would  do  something  c 
perate  before  long— take  to  drinking  or  ga 
ing — perhaps  even  blow  out  his  brains;  i 
Aunt  Blamford  held  up  her  hands,  i 
screamed  a  little,  lady- like  scream. 

''Those  quiet  folk  always  do  something 
that  kind,  you  know,"  nodded  the  imaginat 
lady;  ''it  is  not  natural  for  a  young  man 
take  such  a  dreadful  blow  calmly,  but  's 
waters  run  deep: ' " 

This  made  me  1^1  very  uncomfortal 
How  I  pitied  him  t  How  I  yearned  to  co 
fort  him  I  I  dared  not  own,  even  to  mys 
how  much  I  loved  him. 

The  next  afternoon,  as  I  sat  with  Sara,  re 
ing  while  she  sewed,  in  her  own  co^y  sittii 
room,  the  door  opened,  and  Cyril  Anes! 
walked  in.  He  came  straight  up  to  Sara  a 
stood  at  the  side  of  her  chair. 

"  Sara,"  he  said,  quietly,  *'  I  am  come  to  i 
you  if  this  aflkir  is  to  make  any  diflerence 
our  engagement  ?  I  think  it  right  to  ask  j 
this,  now  that  my  prospects  are  so  altered." 

She  looked  coldly  at  him  with  her  beauti 
eyes,  in  which  no  shadow  of  pity  or  sympat 
had  any  place. 

"I  must  refer  you  to  my  father,  Capti 
Anesley." 

"  No,  Sara,"  he  said,  firmly ;  "  it  is  yonr  < 
dsion  only  I  reqtkire.  It  Will  be  time  enou 
for  me  to  consult  your  father  when  I  ha 
learned  your  determination." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  dan  reajsonably  exp€ 
considering  all  the  circumstances—"  she  begi 
and  even  her  hard  voice  faltered. 

"That  is  sufficient.  Thank  you,"  he  di 
proudly,  and  he  left  the  room. 

I  felt  very  uncomfortable  at  having  been 
witness  to  this  little  scene ;  but  so  quickly  h 
it  passed  that  I  had  scarcely  time  to  think 
retiring  befbre  it  was  all  over.  As  the  do 
closed  Sara  looked  at  me,  and  ouJr  eyes  met 

•'I  codld  not,  you  know,"  she  said,  with 
smile.  "Poor  fellow,  Pm  sure  I  feel  vei 
sorry,  but  no  one  in  my  position  can  be  e 
pected  to  sacrifice  herself  in  that  way ;  can  el) 
Sarar 

"That  depends  ou  one's  opinion,"  I  <^' 
dryly ;  "  some  people  might  not  consider  it 
lacrifioe,  you  know." 


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49 


Bara  glanced  at  the  lai]g^  mirror,  as  if  to  oon- 
[er  the  amouat  of  beaatj  that  might  have 
en  thrown  away  on  a  pennileea  captain  of 
Kgoons.  She  turned  away  with  a  satisfied 
ile. 

"I  dare  say  he'll  find  some  nice  passahle 
tie  thing  to  marry  him,  and  will  soon  forget 
^''  she  said,  oomfbrtahly,  a0  she  resumed  her 
ihroidery. 

[  said  no  more.  Her  self-conceit  and  hard- 
n  disgusted  me. 

rhe  next  mornii^  it  was  rumored  that  Cap- 
n  Anesley  would  leave  the  Manor  the  ibl- 
nng  evening.  Meanwhile,  old  Mr.  Anesley 
d  arrived  with  his  hride,  who  was  many 
ire  younger  than  himself.  There  bad  been 
I  usual  amount  of  joking  and  pleasantry, 
d  the  elderly  bridegroom  bad  thrown  back 
y  repartees,  for  he  was  a  jovial  old  gentle* 
m.  IJncle  Blamfprd  had  given  him  cordiality 
ongh. 

Mr.  Anesley  seemed  thoroughly  to  uuder- 
nd  the  reason  of  the  rupture 'between  his 
phew  and  Sara,  but  he  certainly,  did  not 
icem  himself  much  about  it. 
Fhat  afternoon  Marion  came  to  me,  and 
ked  if  I  should  mind  a  walk. 
"  Ko,  indeed,''  I  said ;"  I  shall  be  glad  of  a 
Ik." 

"  It  is  a  long  way,  Sara,  over  the  East  Hill 
Beckhurst,"  she  said.  ''  I  am  going  to  take 
ne  little  presents  to  a  poor  person  who  lives 
?re.  I  should  not  have  asked  you,  but  not  a 
igle  servant  can  be  spared  to  accompany  me^ 
d  I  cannot  go  alone." 

[  hastened  to  get  my  things  on,  and  by  three 
dock  we  started,  carrying  a  couple  of  baskets 
Dtaining  Marion's  bounty. 
It  was  a  dark.  Cold  afternoon,  about  the  be- 
inisgof  November,  and  we  had  three  miles 
walk.  As  we  crossed  the  rough  ridges 
[led  the  East  Hill,  it  began  snowing. 
"  I  don't  suppose  it  will  be  anything,"  said 
uion,  ''and  we  shall  be  home  in  time  for 
Dner."  s 

We  stayed  in  the  village  longer  than  we 
ght  to  have  done,  and  it  was  past  five  when 
s  started  for  home.  It  had  continued  to  snow 
iadlly  for  an  hoar  and  a  half.  It  was  lying 
thick  drifts ;  and,  besides  this,  it  was  getting 
wy  dark. 

^'I  wish  we  had  not  come,"  said  my  cousin, 
leaslly.  ''Shall  we  go  back  to  the  village^ 
id  stay  with  Mrs.  Pym  all  night,  Sara?" 
I  said  "Yes,"  gladly,  for  I  felt  terrified  at 
uB  walk  before  ua. 
Marion  stood  a  moment  in  indecision.    The 


snow  pelted  down,  and  the  wind  moaned  dis- 
mally. 

"How  foolish  I  have  been  to  cornel"  she 
said,  "  We  ought  to  have  got  Guy  or  one  of 
the  gentlemen  to  accompany  us.  I  did  not 
think  the  weather  would  turn  out  like  this. 
We  had  better  get  home^  Sara ;  papa  will  be 
so  angry  when  he  missed  us.  Perhaps  they  will 
turn  out  with  lanterns  to  find  us,  and  there'll 
be  such  a  stir  1  It  is  not  late,  you  know,  though 
it  is  so  dark,"  concluded  Marion,  with  an  effort 
at  cheerfulness. 

So  we  pressed  on.  I  felt  rather  nervous  when 
a  turn  of  the  road  hid  from  us  the  last  of  the 
village  lights. 

The  path  was  all  new  to  me ;  I  trusted  en- 
tirely, to  Marion's  knowledge;  and  when  we 
had  travelled  some  distance  over  the  hills,  I 
was  rather  surprised  that  she  suddenly  came  to 
a  stand-still. 

"  Why,  where  can  the  gate  be?"  she  said,  in 
a  puKzled  voice. 

"What  gate?"  I  asked.  \ 

"The  gate,"  she  said;  "there  ought  to  be 
one  here.  Don't  you  remember  passing  through 
it  ajB  we  came?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  I  said. 

"0  Sara,  Sara,"  wailed  my  cousin,"  "  we 
have  lost  the  way  1"  and  she  began  to  cry. 

I  did  not  cry,  but  I  was  completely  over- 
whelmed with  dismay. 

"  Don't  cry,  Marion,"  I  said,  looking  at  the 
dim  outlines  of  the  ridges  through  the  dark- 
ness. "  If  we  have  lost  the  way  we  must  find 
it  again." 

We  trudged  resolutely  on,  ankle-deep  in 
snow,  and,  after  about  half  an  hour's  wander- 
ing in  various  directions,  we  once  more  stood 
still.    Marion's  tears  were  still  flowing. 

"  O  Sara,"  she  said,  "  we  shall  be  frozen  to 
death  I  and  it  is  my  £Eiult.  What  shall  we 
dor 

I  tried  to  soothe  the  timid  girl,  but  my  teeth 
were  chattering  wofully,  and  I  felt  the  tears 
£reese  on  my  cheeks. 

How  long  we  passed  weeping  and  wandering 
I  know  not ;  but,  after  a  time,  there  came  upon 
us  a  feeling  of  numbness  and  deadly  faintness. 
I  had  often  read  and  been  told  how  fatal  it  is 
when  persons  thus  situated  yield  to  this  feel- 
ing; yet  I  was  powerless  to  resist  it;  and  al- 
most simultaneously  my  cousin  and  I  sank 
down  together.  I  said  a  few  words  of  prayer 
to  myself,  and  then  a  confused  ringing  sounded 
in  my  ears,  mingled  with  the  loud  barking  of 
a  dog^  and  the  shouting  of  men's  voices^  one  of 
whom  I  knew* 


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ARTHUB*8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


''Here  they  are  I  Hurrah!  Thank  Heaven! 
Hurrah  I    We  are  not  too  late." 

I  saw  the  flash  of  a  lantern  in  my  eyes,  then 
I  was  lifted  in  a  pair  of  strong  arms,  and 
home  swiftly  along. 

*'  Is  it  Sara?"  said  a  voice  close  to  my  ear ; 
and  I  answered,  in  a  faint  whisper,  ^  Yes." 

Marion  told  me  after  that  she  had  no  recol- 
lection of  heing  found ;  but  I  had  not  entirely 
loet  all  consdousness  mysell 

Guy  and  Captain  Anesley,  with  two  men- 
servants  and  the  dogs,  had  found  us.  They 
carried  us  some  distance  to  the  lodge,  and 
there  we  were  warmed  and  tended  by  the 
keeper's  wife,  while  the  servants  returned  to 
the  Manor  for  a  vehicle. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  we  were  fidrly  at 
home.  Beyond  a  feeling  of  great  weariness 
that  evening,  we  felt  no  ill  effects  from  our  ad- 
venture. 

The  next  morning  every  one  turned  out  for 
a  ride  with  the  dogs,  it  being  a  beautiful  day, 
in  spite  of  the  thaw.  I  did  not  want  to  go,  so 
I  hid  mypelf  in  the  library  ^ith  NichoUu 
Nickleby,  and  prepared  for  a  long  morning  of  ] 
quiet  reading. 

When  one  calculates  on  a  pleasure  of  this 
sort,  one  seldom  gets  it.  Soon  after  I  was 
seated  another  truant  walked  in,  in  the  shape 
of  Captain  Anesley. 

"  How  are  you  after  your  narrow  escape  last 
night?"  he  said,  standing  on  the  rug  opposite 
me. 

I  told  him  I  was  pretty  well,  and  thanked 
him  for  coming  to  find  us. 

«  Don't  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  quickly.  "You 
do  not  need  telling  that.  I  would  do  much 
more  than  that  for  a  less  pleasure  than  I  ex- 
perienced last  night" 

I  did  not  quite  know  what  he  meant,  but  I 
felt  annoyed  that  the  color  came  in  my 
dieeks. 

Captain  Anesley  came  one  step  forward  on 
the  rug. 

''Sara,"  he  said,  and  I  caught  the  ring  of  ' 
pain  in  his  tone,  "  you  have  seen  how  a  wo- 
man has  cast  me  off  for  my  lack  of  gold.  I 
dare  say  you  know  how  I  stand ;  I  haven't  a 
halfpenny  but  niy  pay,  and  no  expectations 
whatever;  yet— knowing  you  know  all  this, 
Sara — ^I  dare  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you." 

Yes,  it  was  only  Uie  lips  sealing  the  assur- 
ance of  the  eyes.  I  had  dimly  known  all  this 
before,  now  I  knew  it  for  a  reality.  I  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  I  told  him  the  truth,  that  I 
had  promised  my  mother  never  to  leave  her, 
for  she  had  no  one  in  the  world  btit  Flara  and 


me,  and  (hat  we  were  very  poor— poorer  even 
than  he  was,  for  woman's  labor  is  but  little 
paid.  All  this  I  said,  while  tears  of  «hame 
dimmed  my  eyes. 

"And  do  you  think  that  for  all  this  I  love 
you  lessf  said  Captain  Anesley,  taking  my 
hands  in  his  own  tenderly,  "Sara,  I  never 
loved  before.  I  don't  think  that  you  have 
either.    Must  we  part?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  sorrowftdly:  "I  cannot 
desert  my  mother." 

Then,  like  all  lovers,  my  lover  talked  hero- 
ically of  braving  poverty;  but  I  shook  my 
head,  for  I  had  known — ^better  than  he  had 
ever  known — how  bitter  poverty  was;  and  I 
thought,  too,  of  poor  mamma  left  all  alone 
at  home,  nursing  her  visions  of  brightness. 

"O  Sara!  my  darling,  only  be  mine,"  he 
pleaded,  earnestly;  then  the  next  moment 
he  passionately  exclaimed :  "if  she  is  a  good 
mother,  she  will  not  take  our  happiness  frx>m 
us." 

At  last  I  yielded  a  little. 

"Cyril,"  I  said,  "  let  me  at  least  wait  undl 
I  go  home.  I  will  then  tell  my  mother  how  it 
is,  and  she  shall  decide.  I  do  not  fear  to  abide 
by  her  decision,  for  she  loves  me,  and  would 
make  any  sacrifice  for  me." 

Then  we  parted,  and  I  thought  it  was  well 
that  I  had  not  yielded  further ;  it  would  be  00 
much  easier  to  write  the  sad  refusal  than  to 
say  it.  I  knew  it  would  be  a  refusal,  for  I  did 
not  mean  to  let  my  mother  make  any  sacrifice 
whatever  for  me,  and  I  found  it  so  hard  to 
withstand  his  passionate  appeals.  I  could  not 
trust  myself  to  hold  out 

The  following  evening  Cyril  Anesley  went 
away.  He  kissed  me  as  though  he  had  a  dim 
foreboding  of  sorrow  in  store. 

"It  is  my  hut  kiss,"  I  thought,  bitterly. 
"No  man  shall  ever  again  kias  me  so,  and  I 
know  he  never  will." 


CHAPTER  V. 

Mr.  Anesley,  M.  P.,  had  married  the  only 
daughter  of  a  rich  surgeon.  She  was  a  pretty 
and  lively  young  lady,  about  four-and-twenty, 
very  fond  of  her  husband,  who  was  very  fond 
of  her. 

I  did  not  like  Mr.  Anesley.  I  conceived 
that  he  had  done  Cyril  a  great  wrong  in  lead- 
ing him  to  believe  he  would  inherit  his  wealth, 
and  then  in  his  old  age  forming  a  new  allianoe. 
Beyond  this  cause  of  complaint  I  had  no  rea- 
son to  dislike  him,  and  I  believe  he  looked 
upon  me  with  great  favor ;  this  I  inferred  from 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


f'Jii 


SABA'S   SWEETHEART. 


61 


Li'-- 


^eial  kind  littk  attentioas  he  paid  me  befere 
eft  the  Manor,  at  the  end  of  mj  brief  but 
Btfti)  vudt.  This  I  did  one  week  after  Oyril 
m\af%  departore.  Unde  Blamford  pressed 
m  lo  remain  a  feur  days  longer;  and  as  one 

15  would  suffice  to  cheer  my  mother's  loneli* 
■»  I  gave  my  ccoosent  to  the  plan ;  for,  truth 
tell,  I  rather  wanted  to  return  alone  and  tell 
•  all  my  sorrows.    How  my  heart  ached  as 

fly  I  had  hired  bore  me  jolting  through  the 
liliar  streets  lea^^ng  to,  our  house  I 
f  ot  till  now  had  I  once  had  time  to  reflect 
the  events  of  the  last  fortnight.  The  very 
ag  my  mother  desired  me  to  do  I  had  failed 
■coomplishing;  the  very  thing  she  desired 
not  to  do,  I  had  done.  Looking  at  things 
m  my  present  point  of  view,  I  firmly  and 
Ly  believed  thAt  by  my  silly  manoeuvring  I 
i  ruined  by  sister's  chance  of  being  loved  by 
y.  Also,  I,  who  had  vowed  never  to  fall  in 
e,  even  with  a  prince,  had  done  so  with  a 
non  as  poor  as  myself;  and  it  was  only  the 
mght  of  deserting  my  mother  that  deterred 
from  linking  my  fate  with  his,  and  boldly 
iving  poverty  by  his  side. 
^  I  have  done  very  wrong.  I  will  tell  mam- 
,  and  do  as  she  advises  in  eveiy thing." 
rhis  thought  was  my  only  comfort — to  lay 
'  penitent  head  in  my  mother's  lap  and  tell 
r  all  my  tale,  imploring  only  her  pity  and 
giveness  for  my  folly.  I  knew  she  would 
;  withhold  either ;  she  would  not  reproach 
much,  but  tiy  to  soothe  the  heartache  that 
old  be  mine  for  many  a  long  day.  And  as 
the  other  task,  that,  too,  would  be  easy, 
oe  let  that  sad  letter  be  written,  and  then  I 
^ht  know  peabe^  the  peace  which  a  duty 

16  always  brings. 

h  «  «  «  «  « 

[  waa  at  home.    The  fly  stopped  with  a  jerk 

i  nearly  jolted  me  out  of  my  seat,  quite  three 

m  lower  down  than  our  house.    That  did 

;  matter.    I  alighted  and  paid  the  man  hb 

^  then  I  walked  slowly  up  to  the  wdl-known 

ir. 

rhere  was  no  &oe  at  the  window  to  note  my 

uing.    I  stood  with  my  hand  on  the  handle, 

hering  for  a  moment  strength  for  my  task ; 

n  I  entered. 

rhere  was  no  need  to  knock;  the  door  was 

lom  fiyrtened«     I  closed  it  after  me^  and 

ned  that  of  the  little  sitting-room. 

[  had  expected  to  find  my  mother  alone,  sit* 

g^  as  she  loved  to  sit,  in  the  dusky  light ;  but 

\  aight  that  m^  my  eyes  was  so  startling  that 

tood  as  one  petrified. 

)l  alranger  sat  by  her  aide,  a  tall  man,  broad- 


built  and  and  bronzed.  One  arm  was  round 
my  mother's  waist,  and  they  were  holding  close 
converse.  When  her  eyes  fell  upon  me,  my 
mother  sprang  up  joyfolly. 

**  Come  and  kiss  him,  Sara ;  it  is  George.  It 
is  your  own  brother  come  back.  Oh,  Sara,  my 
darling  r 

She  fell  upon  my  neck,  weeping ;  and  I,  too 
overwrought  to  speak,  stood  silent. 

"  Have  you  no  welcome  for  me,  Sara  7"  asked 
my  brother,  in  deep  tones,  with  a  ring  of  old 
times  mingling  strangely  in  them ;  and  he  em* 
braced  me,  still  silent,  for  the  joy  and  sorrow 
of  my  life  were  mixed  in  such  confusion  that  I 
knew  not  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry.  After 
awhile  the  wonder  and  the  gladness  were  a 
little  subdued,  and  then  I  learned  that  Gkorge 
had  only  been  home  an  hour  before  me. 

After  tea  we  gathered  round  the  fire ;  and  as 
we  sat  something  prompted  me  to  speak,  and 
tell  them  all  my  trouble.  I  told  it:  I  hid 
npthing  from  them.  Not  one  whit  of  my  folly 
or  weakness  did  I  attempt  to  conceal ;  and  in 
the  pause  that  succeeded  I  wept  freely.  Then 
laying  his  hand  on  my  head,  my  brother  spoke 
kindly,  tenderly. 

"Little  sister,"  said  he,  "dry  your  tears,  for 
I,  too,  have  something  to  tell.'' 

I  lifted  by  face,  looking  wonderingly  at  him. 

"Seven  years  ago,"  he  continued,  "I  left 
England  with  something  less  than  ten  pounds 
in  my  pocket,  and  a  heart  full  of  bright  hopes 
\  concerning  a  certain  fortune  of  which  I  was  in 
search.  Seven  years  is  a  long  time.  Some 
who  had  embarked  in  the  same  plan  died  at 
my  side ;  others,  failing,  went  home,  weary  and 
heart-sick ;  but  I  worked  on  with  good  faith, 
and  in  possession  of  sound  health,  never  doubt- 
ing but  that  I  should  succeed,  for  the  sake  of 
the  dear  ones  in  whose  name  I  had  undertaken 
the  task.  One  of  these" — and  here  Gkorge's 
voice  grew  even  graver — "  one  of  these  is  gone 
from  us  to  a  better  land;  but  for  the  others, 
thank  Heaven,  there  is  a  good  time  in  store  for 
them.  Sara,  before  you  returned  I  heard  from 
our  mother's  lips  the  tale  of  your  patience  and 
labor,  and  of  your  self-sacrificing  devotion  to 
her.  My  own  heart  throbbed  at  the  story,  and 
I  said  to  myself  that  the  fruit  of  my  toil  would 
be  well  spent  in  rewarding  such  a  good  little 
sister.  I  did  not  dream  there  would  so  soon 
be  an  opportunity.  Sara,  will  you  take  from 
your  brother's  hand  a  dowry  sufficient  to  recall 
this  needy  lover  of  yours  f 

"  Geoi^ge,  Heaven  bless  you ;  but  I  could  not 
take  it,"  was  all  I  could  sob. 
''And  why  not?"  he  asked,  smiUng.    "For 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


52 


ARTEUR'8   LADY'S    MO  MM    MAGAZINE, 


what  do  70a  think  I  have  been  working  all  | 
thene  jears^  but  to  give  pleasure  to  my  dear 
ones  ?  Perhaps  70U  would  advise  me  to  endow 
a  hospital  immediately,  and  allow  you  to  con- 
til^ue  your  pleasant  recreation  of  school-keef- 
ing  for  the  rest  of  your  days,  while  this  *  Cecil 
the  Dauntless'  pines  in  obscurity." 

Still  I  only  said  ina  martyrized  tone:  "Give 
it  to  mamma,  George ;  I  oould  not  take  it." 
But  George  laughed,  and  told  me  to  hold  my 
tongue. 

I  cried  myself  to  sleep  that  night,  and  in  the 
nioming  woke  very  late^  to  find  the  housetops 
covered  with  snow.  My  mother  was  alone  at 
the  breakfast-table,  wearing  a  brighter  face  than 
1  remembered  to  have  seen  her  wear  for  many 
a  long  year.  To  my  question  concerning 
George,  she  replied  that  he  had  been  gone  out 
an  hour ;  where,  she  could  not  tell. 

The  day  passed,  and  he  did  not  come ;  but 
as  we  sat  at  tea. a  hasty  knock  sounded  at  the 
door,  and  George  the  next  moment  burst  into 
the  room,  followed  close  by  some  one  else. 

'^Here  he  is,  Sara,  the  conquering  hero!" 
shouted  my  brother.  "  Come,  let's  have  lights 
and  crowns  of  laurel,  and  all  the  other  things 
mentioned,  always  providing  the  lights  come 
first,  for  we  are  in  the  dark." 

The  "some  one  else"  was  my  "Cecil  the 
Dauntless,"  wearing  so  glad  a  face  that  I  hardly 
knew  him. 

After  the  first  joy  of  meeting  was  over,  Cyril 
placed  in  my  hands  a  letter,  which  ran  as  fol- 
lows: 

"My  Dear  Nephew:  Do  not  deem  me 
entirely  insensible  to  the  apparent  injustice  I 
have  done  you.  I  say  apparent,  because  in 
reality  it  is  not  so  great  a  wrong  as  it  appears. 
True,  I  am  married;  but  in  the  event  of  your 
marriage  I  am  prepared  to  settle  a  yearly  in- 
come upon  you,  and  at  my  death  yon  will  not 
find  yourself  forgotten  by  your  afiectionate 
uncle,  "  G.  Avbslsy," 

"  It  is  very  good  of  him,"  I  said,  laying  the 
letter  down. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cyril,  "  I  cannot  be  too  thankful 
that  things  have  turned  out  as  they  have  done. 
If  Uncle  Anesley  had  continued  to  publish  me 
as  his  heir,  1  should  have  married  the  wrong 
Sara." 

On  New  Year's  Eve  we^that  is  mamma  / 
and  George,  Flora,  Cyril,  and  I— had  a  little 
merry-making^  and  one  week  after  I  was  mar- 
ried. 

It  was  very  sudden ;  but  our  life  was  to  b^  so 


completely  changed,  that  we  tliotight  it  bsst  to 
get  preliminaries  over  at  onoe. 

"  You  see,  Sara,"  said  my  mother,  "Ge»g< 
is  urging  me  to  leave  this  house  every  dsy,  and 
our  cottage  is  ready ;  besides^  the  eohoel  a&in 
most  be  attended  to,  and  noUott  of  dismisuf 
written  to  the  pupils.  Then  Flora's  clothe 
most  be  prepared,  for  Geoiige  insists  on  he: 
going  to  Germany  if  she  wishes;  bet  how  csi 
George  and  I  manage  all  this,  with  yto  aw 
.  your  captain  idling  al^t  the  place  and  hindsr 
iog  us?  In  fact,  nothing  caoi  bedone  till  yw 
are  raarri^  and  out  of  the  way." 

Lately  my  dear  mother  had  become  qoH 
grand  in  her  clever  management,  and  as  Geoig 
had  prepared  a  dear  little  rustic  cottage,  wheveii 
he  expraseed  his  intention  of  installing  himsd 
with  our  mother  as  soon  as  Flora  and  I  wer 
disposed  o(  I  made  no  resistanea  C  C. 


RESPECT  THE  BODY. 

HOLIER  than  any  temple  of  wood  or  stow 
oonsecratedwith  diviner  rites  and  for  di 
viner  purposes,  is  the  human  body.  Reverenc 
for  that,  as  possessed  by  ourselves  or  others,  i 
better  than  reverence  for  chancel  and  altar.  It 
cleanliness,  health,  and  entire  well  .being,  ms 
properly  be  one  of  our  chief  concerns.  It  i 
the  exquisitely  constructed  and  perfectly  a( 
apted  medium  of  the  human  spirit ;  it  is  tl 
best  and  highest  earthly  receptaele  of  the  Ho) 
Spirit.  Reverence  for  it  liaads  to  reverence  i< 
all  other  holy  things.  Care  for  it  is  car^  f< 
the  spirit  that  dwells  within  it.  Oor  sense  < 
its  worth  and  dignity  ought  never  to  be  dall< 
by  its  neglect  or  abuse.  He  who  w  careless 
his  physical  interests,  mc^pt  at  times  and 
cases  where  spiritual  interests  for  the  hoi 
entirely  and  rightfolly  override  and  annihila 
them,  will  be  likely  to  disregard  the .  bodies 
others;  to. witness  their* disease,  deformi^, 
uncleanness  without  concern;  to  treat  the 
mth  diarespeety  and  by  ooneeqtieDoe  the  sov 
that  are  in  them.  The  humaa  form,  wherev 
seen^  oi^ht  always  to  be  to  oor  eyes  the  shrii 
which  incarnates  and  protects  the  holiest  m] 
teries,  which  holds  the  sacred  fire  of  Heave 
•the  Indestnictifole  tokens  of  God,  the  pledg 
of  immortality.  It  is  more  plastic  to  spiritii 
forces  than  anything  else.  It  is  the  Word 
God  written  in  flesh  and  blood.  Whenever 
shall  be  understood  and  treated  rightly,  "tl 
tabernacle  of  God  will  be  with  men,  and  I 
wiU  dweU  with  thenu"— Rbv,  G.  D.  NonLB. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


LA.Y   SERMOlSrS. 


BUILT  ON  A  ROCK. 

JAM  bvUding  on  a  tooIi,  7<mi  see." 
'<  The  Roek  ef  Ages  r  queried  tii»  friead. 

7wo  Ben  stood  on  the  edge  of  »  b?end  and  deep 
Koavaifeion,  nt  the  bottom  of  whioh  Hj  solid  rook. 
\m  this  rook  the  fonndat^n  wells  of  n  house  were 
•inipUid. 

"I  em  not  sore  of  tbet,"  anewemd  the  first 
peeker,  with  a  slight  depression  in  his  Toiee. 

"And  if  not?" 

"When  the  rains  deeoend,  and  the  foods  oome, 
nd  the  winds  blow,  my  hoase  will  fall." 

For  a  good  while  after  this  the  two  men  were 
llent  Then  the  one  who  was  about  building  him- 
olf  a  house  exclaimed :  '*  It  is  tee  bad  of  yon, 
^wry!  Tou  are  a  perfect  wet  blanket  some- 
imes." 

A  sweet,  tender  smile  came  into  the  friend's 
tee. 

^  ForgiFO  me/'  he  said.  "  The  thought  dropped 
nto  my  mind  so  suddenly  that  I  could  not  Mp 
pring  it  words.  But  words  out  of  season  are 
initlese." 

Both  turned  and  walked  from  the  spot>  as  if 
iiOTed  by  a  common  impulte.  Thoy  had  gone  only 
L  little  way  when  they  come  wpon  a  woman  in 
wmblo  attire,  carrying  a  large  basket.  She  looked 
ired  and  weak. 

**  Ah,  Mary !"  said  the  owner  of  the  plaee,  kindly. 

The  woman  set  down  her  basket,  and  made  a  xe- 
peotlU  courtesy. 

J  Mr.  Jacobs,  that  was  the  gentleman's  name, 
oofc  hold  of  the  bMket  and  UiUd  it  from  the 
ironnd. 

'^  Why,  Mary  I"  he  exclaimed,  "yon  shoold  not 
ttesspt  to  oarry  a  load  like  this.  It  is  enough  for 
strong  man.  Patrick  1"  and  he  called  to  one  of 
be  laborers  at  work  on  the  new  buildings  "  I  want 
on  to  take  this  bask^  home  for  Mrs.  Mnm^." 

The  man  came  and  took  up  the  basket  and  went- 
ff  with  the  woman,  whose  "Thank  yon,  Mr. 
aeobs;  it  is  so  kind  of  yen,"  were  lUl  of  tte 
enrfs  gratitude. 

"  One  half  of  these  people  don't  know  how  to 
kko  eare  of  themselves,"  said  Mr*  Jacobs,  as  be 
>oked  after  the  woman.  "I  have  to  bo  seeing 
(ter  them  aU  the  while." 

<*  How  many  tenants  have  you  ?"  inquired  the 


**  About  twenty— liall  of  them  women  and  chil- 

—  " 
rsD. 

"  If  you  hare  twenty  people  to  be  looking  after 

II  the  while,  yonr  hands  must  be  full,"  said  Mx, 

owry. 

"  If  they  had  common  sense  and  common  pra* 

moe,  the  task  would  be  easier,"  replied  the  other. 

VOL.  xxxvin.— 4. 


"But  these  working  people,  ss  we  call  them,  are 
in  most  things  but  little  wiser  Chan  children.  They 
rarely  make  the  best  of  anything.  They  don't 
think.  That  is  the  tre«ble.  The  other  day  I 
found  hsdf  a  dosen  strong  men  at  work  wHh  crow- 
bars and  lore  retrying  to  get  a  heavy  bowlder  ont 
of  one  of  my  fields.  They  had  moved  it  nearly  ten 
feet  when  I  discovered  what  they  were  abouL  At 
this  rate,  it  would  have  taken  them  a  week  to  get 
rid  of  the  great  rock. 

" '  Stop,  stop !'  I  cried,  in  some  impatienoe,  for 
I  am  a  little  qniok  at  times.  *  That  isn't  the  way. 
Bury  it' 

" '  Bury  a,*  said  one  and  another,  looking  at  me 
as  though  I  were  not  in  my  senses. 

"  *  Yes.  Dig  a  hole  just  where  you  are,  and  bnry 
it  out  of  sight.  Tou  oaa  do  it  in  a  lisw  hours,'  I 
replied. 

"Their  blank  looks  were  positively  amusinf^ 
Then  you  could  see  a  little  light  begin  to  come  fiivt 
into  one  dnii  face  and  then  into  another;  and  when 
the  full  idea  of  the  thing  was  grasped,  they  were 
as  pleased  and  surprised  as  so  many  children,  and 
set  to  work  digging  with  a  will.  In  a  £sw  hours 
the  bowlder  was  out  of  sight,  and  with  three  or 
four  feet  of  soil  above  it. 

"  This  is  an  instance  of  the  way  in  which  I  bare 
to  think  for  them.  It  is  the  same  in  little  as  in 
great  things.  The  women  in  thehr  sphere  are  as 
bad  as  the  men.  If  I  didn't  look  after  them  in 
their  hoases^  seme  of  these  would  be  little  better 
than  i»gstys^  I'm  about  every  day ;  and  I  drop 
in  upe&>  them  at  all  hours,  seasonable  or  unsea- 
sennbie.  No  gate^  or  door,  or  shutter  has  a  broken 
hinge  for  over  twenty -four  hours ;  and  I  don't  send 
a  carpenler.  I  bavo  tools  on  the  place,  and  I 
make  every  cottager  use  them  for  his  own  needs. 
Bverythiag  about  the  iiouses  and  fienoes  most  be 
kept  whole  and  tidy.  I  give  them  setfd%  and  en- 
courage them  to  plant  and  cultivate  flowers  and 
vines.  I  see  that  no  dirt- heaps  are  suffered  to 
aooumnlata;  and  sodd  if  the  children's  fitces  are 
not  kept  clean." 

"In  awovd,"  spoke  ont  the  friend,,  "yon  are 
their  providence." 

"  I  wUl  not  say  that,"  replied  Ms.  Jaeobe.  "  In 
the  order  of  providence,  I  am  placed  in  such  a  re^ 
latioB  to  these  people  that  I  oaa  do  them  good, 
liy  through  love  of  ease^  or  a  selfish  indifferenee  to 
their  condition,  I  give  ua  heed  to  their  want%  and 
let  them  sink  in  the  scale  of  humanity  instead  oi* 
helping  th^m  to  risei,  I  am  an  unihithiul  serva  t." 

"  In  other  word^  are  building  your  hofuse  on  tha 
sand." 

"Yes;  and  great  wiU  be  the  faU  thereof  when 
the  reins  descend,  and  the  winds  blow,  aibd  cha 
floods  arise." 


io': 


m 

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ARIEUR'8   LADT8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


« It  will  not  fall,  I  think/'  said  the  friend,  with 
the  sweet,  tender  smile  again  in  his  face.  **  You 
cannot  do  maoh,  I  fear/'  he  added,  **  for  the  inner 
needs  of  these  people.  They  live  so  low  down  in  , 
the  natural  and  sensaal  planes  of  life,  that  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  lift  them  into  the  region  of 
high  moral  or  religions  thought" 

*<  First  the  natural,  and  then  the  moral  aad 
spiritual,"  said  Mr.  Jacobs.  <<  The  natural  is  tb« 
foundation.  And  unless  that  is  well  ordered  and 
firm,  no  building  erected  thereon  will  stand  wholly 
secure  in  the  storms  of  life.  The  reasoa  whj  we 
hare  so  many  imperfect,  miseFable,  backsliding 
Christians  in  the  world,  is  because  they  do  not,  as 
a  rule,  lay  a  good  foundation  in  the  lower  degrees 
of  life.  They  do  not  compel  the  natural  man  to  be 
orderly,  and  pure,  and  temperate ;  to  live  according 
to  the  dictates  of  sound  reason.  They  do  not  keep, 
through  a  denial  of  appetite,  their  bodies  sound 
and  healthy,  nor  their  minds  clear  and  strong 
through  culture.  And  so  the  spiritual  structure 
they  try  to  build  is  continually  settling  and  crack- 
ing. Too  often  it  falls  in  utter  ruin  because  of  the 
bad  foundation." 

"  Ah,  I  see.  And  yon  are  trying  to  help  your 
people  to  lay  a  good  foundation  in  the  natural  de- 
gree of  their  lives  V* 

-**  Yes ;  in  the  hope  that  some  of  them  may  aspire 
to  buUd  thereon." 

<<  A  hut  if  not  a  palace." 

"Anything  that  may  be  called  a  house  for 
spiritual  life  to  dwell  in,  even  though  small  and 
poor.  A  dirty,  disorderly,  thrifUees,  lasy  man  or 
woman  cannot  be  a  good  Christian.  On  such  a 
foundation  God  cannot  huild.  Or,  to  change  the 
figure,  in  such  soil  no  Spiritual  seed  ean  take  root, 
ne  plant  of  heavesily  beauty  grow.  The  weeds  of 
disorder  and  idleness  and  low  sensual  indulgence 
must  be  rooted  out  before  you  can  prepare  the 
garden  of  the  Lord." 

"If  that  were  taught  more  widely  firom  our 
pulpits  than  it  is,"  said  the  friend,  "we  should 
soon  begin  to  have  a  better,  a  healthier,  and  a 
more  symmetrical  order  of  Christians." 

**  Perhaps  so.  But  we  must  have  patience.  The 
pulpit  is  doing  well ;  but  there  is  need  for  it  to  do 
better.  Men,  whose  ofllee  it  is  to  teach,  are  usually 
slow  to  learn." 

^  You  think  a  great  deal  on  these  subjects?" 

"I  ponder  them  often,"  replied  Mr.  Jacobs. 
"Every  man  should  do  so.  It  is  hard,  nay,  almost 
impossible,  to  live  right  unless  we  think  rights  We 
often  hear  it  said  that  it  matters  rery  little  what  a 
man  thinks  if  he  lives  rlg!^  Now,  I  am  pretty 
sure  that  in  all  right  lirtng  there  must  be  some 
right  thinking,  and  that  the  perfeetness  of  the 
right  living  will  be  in  the  degree  of  the  right 
thinking.  The  good  and  the  true  are  the  comple- 
ment of  each  other ;  and  so  are  the  evil  and  the 
false.  Or,  putting  it  in  more  ecact  language, 
truth  Is  the  expression  or  outward  «ign  of  good^ 


and  evil  the  expression  or  outward  sign  of  what  is 
false." 

"If  a  man,  tJien,  have  truth  as  a  foundation  on 
which  to  build  his  life,"  said  the  friend, "  his  houis 
will  stand." 

"Not  unless  he  build  by  good  deeds.  The 
foundation  is  one  thing,  and  the  material  of  which 
the  house  is  built  aaothar.  But  the  ilrst  considera- 
tion with  vrwf  man  should  be  the  foundation. 
All  are  building — palaces,  cottages,  huts,  or  hovels ; 
and  most  of  them  oa  sand.  Btcij  day  we  are 
called  to  witness  the  sad  speetaele  of  ruined  Uves. 
The  foundations  give  way,  and  men  fall  into  rufai— 
moral  and  spiritual  ruin,  I  mean,  of  course.  In 
many  eaoes  the  ftoundation  has  been  good,  but  the 
building  of  unsound  material.  There  must  be  a 
good  building  as  well  as  a  good  foundation,  or  the 
house  will  noi  abide." 

The  two  friends  stood  again  where  the  founda- 
tions of  the  new  house  were  being  laid. 

"You  wUl  hare  a  perfect  building,"  said  Mr. 
Lowry. 

"  As  perfect  as  I  can  make  it,"  was  answered. 

"  For  your  own  enjoymeot  V 

"  For  my  dcYclopment  as  well  as  enjoyment  I 
have  a  deeply  grounded  lore  of  what  is  grand  and 
symmetricaL  I  am  an  intense  lover  of  art  A 
fine  bnilding  is  my  delight  My  thought  dwells  in 
architecture  and  its  scenic  surroundings.  Ood  hss 
entrusted  me  with  the  means  of  gratifying  these 
tastes ;  and  in  doing  so  I  am  not,  I  hope,  proring 
false  to  my  stewardship.  If  I  can  as  well  alfsrd 
to  have  a  large  and  elegant  home  as  my  neighbor 
a  small  and  ornate  cottage,  is  it  not  as  lawAil  for 
me  to  have  the  one  as  for  him  to  have  the  odisr? 
A  |riotufu»  n  raae,  and  stsitne,  an  ornament  of  small 
value,  may  be  as  much  to  one  man — as  large  a 
money  outlay  aoeording  to  his  ineans— as  a  wfasle^ 
picture  gallery  or  a  villa  for  another  man.  And 
we  must  never  forget  that  Heaven's  blessing,  in 
the  reward  of  usefhl  work,  is  given  to  hundreds 
and  to  thousands  who  build,  and  oarre,  and  paint; 
who  spin  and  weave ;  who  labor  and  produce,  fai 
order  te  supply  the  elegancies  and  luxuries  that 
taste  demands.  Would  it,  think  you,  be  better  for 
me  to  give  away  what  it  will  cost  to  build  vy 
house,  than  to  pay  honest  labor  and  skill  in  its 
construction  7  Does  that  whic  his  eleemosynary 
serve  msnkind  better  than  the  usefVil  ?  I  think 
not  The  sick  and  helpless  need  our  care—tbs 
oppressed  our  succor— the  weak  our  aid ;  bnt 
always  wn  help  best  those  who  can  help  them- 
selves when  we  call  their  strength  and  skill  into 
aettvoeffort 

"  As  for  the  costly  residence  I  purpose  bnild- 
ing," added  Mr.  Jaoobs,  "I  am  not  sure  that  I 
shall  enjoy  it  more,  or  have  in  it  a  larger  pride, 
tbttn  my  noighber  over  yonder,  who'  is  buOding  a 
frame  cottage,  will  have  in  his  neat  little  boms 
when  it  is  finished.  It  will  cost  him  four  times 
what  mine  will,  talking  our  means  into  account  If 


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MOTEERff    DEPARTMENT. 


66 


it  U  wrong  in  me  to  b«Ud  noro  elegantly  then  my 
poorer  nelgkbor,  it  is  eqtnaUy  wrong  in  him  te  tmii^ 
A  ooitlier  hoase  than  my  gardener  can  afford." 

"It  mattera  not,"  answeied  the  friend,  "how 
eotUy  or  elegant  the  honaee  we  build,  if  the  fonn- 
daUona  are  laid  in  jastioe.    To  do  jnatly,  to  lore 


meroy,  and  to  walk  hnmUy,  are  the  eiaential  thinga 
to  be  regarded.  Theee  ave  the  elements  of  Chria- 
tiaii  ebaraoter.  If  any  man  build  on  this  founda- 
tion,  hif  house,  be  it  a  palaoe  or  a  eottage,  will 
stand."  T.  9.  ▲• 


IktOTKCERS'  I5EP.AETMENT. 


0' 


A  MOTHER'S  8T0BY  FOR  HER  BOYS. 

[There  are  few  mothers  amoag  oar>ead«rs  who 
will  not  thank  ua  for  copying  the  following  exquisite 
story,  which  we  find  in  Tke  Nmo  JeruaaUm  Mestenffer, 
The  author's  name  is  not  giTen,  and  she  only  says  in 
communicating  her  article,  that  she  casts  it,  as  the 
widow  cast  her  naite  into  the  treasury,  «'  an  offering 
to  some  young  mother  of  early  yioleta  firom  under 
SQtamn  leaTes.**— JBiKtor  Home  Moffodne.] 

"^IfOB  upon  n  time,  up  among  the  mountains 
stood  an  old  oastle,  half  hidden  by  the  forests 
that  surrounded  it  from  the  great  world  that  rolled 
on  below.  Within  dwelt  a  young  mother,  and 
hsr  two  sons,  whose  father  was  away  at  the  head 
of  his  army  fighting  the  battles  of  his  king. 

The  eastle  looked  Tery  lonely  up  among  the 
pinei^  wHh  only  its  gray  turrets  risible  above 
them.  Bnt  thnt  was  on  the  ontside ;  within,  a  busy 
little  world  went  rippling  on,  each  day  with  deeper 
tone,  whose  inmates  had  quite  enough  to  do  in  the 
eare  and  training  of  the  lads. 

Both  fktber  and  mother  lored  their  children 
well,  and  sought  to  have  them  instrueted  in  ail  the 
lore  and  grace  of  the  land.  And  for  this  purpose 
the  best  teaehers  were  brought  to  the  easUe,  into 
whose  kande  the  lads  were  given  to  be  diseiplfaied 
seserding  to  tbe  fashion  of  their  time.  "For,*' 
laid  the  falher,  "life  Is  one  long  ooniilot,  and  the 
world  Is  a  field  of  battle :  my,  sons  must  be  trained 
loldiers.  Mo  cowards,  no  idlers  for  me,  but  eour- 
ageeus  thinkers  and  workers,  to  take  their  plaoes 
hi  the  ranks,  when  they  are  men." 

Thoughts  of  his  sens  when  they  should  be 
men — good  men — knighted,  and  elad  in  all  their 
brave  attire^  standing  by  his  side,  strong  to  suffer 
sad  to  do,  would  lighten  their  father's  heaviest 
moments,  and  brighten  his  darkest  ones.  And 
the  pleaaant  vision  gsve  his  martial  bearing  firmer 
dignity  and  graoe.  "  Ah !  my  brave  boys,"  said 
the  proud  father,  '*  betimes  shall  the  armorer  begin 
thy  suits  of  mail  t  no  hasty  works,  no  earelesi  Ikiks 
Bhfll  pert]  your  fame." 

He  ipehe  with  the  armorer.  And  while  their 
e«ats  of  mall  were  fltsfalonln^  he  would  say  with 
«^ery  sattb^p  9Uk,  ^19earer,  one  day  nearer  te 
their  manhood  are  the  lads." 

But  the  mother  knelt  at  nigkt  beside  her  sons, 
and  kiM^g  t&e  dnrls  baok  from  their  warm,  melit 
brows,  would  marmnr  over  eaeh  fkir  slee|Mr! 
*'  Mine,  mine  now,  so  innocent,  so  pure-*-oh,  that 


I  oould  keep  them  ever  thus !  But  it  eanaot  be ; 
every  setting  sun  takes  them  one  day  farther  from 
me.  Was  it  meant  that  knowledge  must  always 
bring  woe,  and  action,  perH  ?  Ah  I  Kttle  ones, 
would  that  your  mother  eould  weave  some  panoply 
of  surer  defence  than  suits  of  steel;  some  little 
'Joseph's  eoat,'  all  wrought  of  divers  colors,  of 
many  loves,  that,  warm  beneath  the  linked  steel  of 
the  world's  defence,  would  keep  my  children  both 
innoeent  and  safb." 

And  thus  night  after  night  as  she  knelt  in 
prayer,  the  same  wish  took  possession  of  her  soul 
and  would  not  away.  For  every  setthig  sun  re- 
minded the  mother,  that  one  day  nearer  to  the 
battle  of  life  were  the  lads,  and  another  day's 
maroh  beyond  the  innocenee  of  infaney  and  the 
protection  of  home. 

It  was  evening.  The  mother  stood  on  the  para- 
pet, looking  over  the  valley.  The  purple  and  gold 
of  another  sunset  were  paling  out  of  the  western 
sky,  and  the  gray  was  glooming  in.  The  tops  of 
the  pines  were  tremulous  with  the  light  step  of  the 
passing  breese,  mourning  for  the  sweet  south  wind 
that  only  kissed  them  and  passed  on.  The  birds 
had  fblded  their  wings :  and  the  flowers  had  offered 
up  their  incense. 

''  Nature  wears  the  color  of  the  spirit,"  said  the 
mother,  ''and  tkis  is  her  voice  to  me.  I^tars  will 
gather  the  gold  of  the  setting  sun,  and  dispel. the 
gloom  of  night  The  whispering  pines  will  thrill 
to  a  fVesher  wind,  and  the  folded  wings  are  but 
resting  for  higher  flights.  The  flower  exhaled  its 
life  in  love,  its  mission  flnished,  leaving  a  perfect 
plant  fbMed  away  for  another  blooming.  And  I 
who  have  had  my  beautiful  morning,  shall  I  eloud 
my  noon  with  the  dread  of  nigkt  ?  Not  so ;  perfeti 
love  easteth  out /ear" 

Again,  as  was  her  wont,  she  knelt  beside  her 
slumbering  boys;  she  put  her  arms  around  them ; 
BO  young,  so  Hght  and  slender,  she  eould  fbld  both 
to  her  heart  now,  and  sip  such  sweet  kisses  fhim 
the  dewy  lips.  Then  the  moonlight  stole  softly  in, 
to  weave  fltfbl  traeing  over  fair  smooth  braid  and 
eufly  head,  and  the  ry  thm  of  the  breese  was  sweet 
and  low. 

An  aged  man  «f  noble  mien  stood  before  her; 
his  aspecl  was  so  benignant,  that  his  sudden  ap- 
pehranee  gate  ker  no  alann.  Taking  a  roll  fVom 
the  folds  of  his  robe,  he  said:  "Arise,  yenng 
mother,  tkeii  that  sleepeft,  Mrako}  thy  pimyer  li 


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ABTEUR'8   LADTS   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


heard ;  eren  tlivt  tbov  abalt  ireaTe  a  ganii«Bt  of 
sure  defence  aroand  thy  ohildren.  The  angel*  are 
thy  helpers.  Teach  thy  lone  the  words  ofthe  Book. 
Be  patieat;  steadftet  in  thy  labors,  faithM  to  thy 
trust  Tblne  eyes  cannot  look  upon  the  work,  It 
is  inrisible;  it  can  be  seen  only  by  resalts  in  oom- 
ing  years ;  but  be  not  faithless,  but  believing,  and 
the  Master  bless  thy  labor." 

Then  lifting  his  hands,  over  th^  little  group 
in  blessing,  he  pasted  away  as  ailvnUy  as  he 
oame. 

«  Hare  X  aleyt  V*  said  the  lady.  Bat  there  be- 
side her,  and  brightly  shining  in  the  moonlight, 
was  the  Book,  all  bound  with  TeUet  and  edged 
with  gold,  whoae  printing,  letter  by  letter,  had 
been  the  saintly  work  of  a  Ule  in  tome  dim,  old 
cloister. 

It  was  written  on  Tellnra,  in  letters  of  gold;  and 
delicate  vines,  and  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  tufted 
birds,  in  quaint  device,  in  riohest  oolor  of  scarlet 
and  blue,  and  purple,  and  green,  and  gold  bordered 
the  beantlM  words. 

The  mother  pondered  her  treasure  well ;  and  her 
children's  eyes  and  hearts  were  daily  fed  with  its 
fair  faoe,  and  its  goodly  trutha.  At  times  it 
tasked  all  her  power  to  keep  them  interested ;  for 
ohildren  soon  weary,  and  are  ever  asking  for  some- 
thing new. 

But  her  faith  and  patience  ^ever  wavend.  In 
her  heart  she  knew  that  while  she  taught  them  the 
words  of  the  Book,  all  unseen,  nnheard,  the  aogels 
were  silently  weaving  their  protection  for  the  com- 
ing years. 

''The  days  go  by  so  fast,"  said  the  mother,  "I 
have  no  time  to  love;  it  is  not  long  now  that  I 
shall  have  them  beside  me.  My  little  children, 
would  that  I  had  learned  earlier  how  to  help 
them." 

And  so  the  days  went  bix,  each  one  bearing  ts 
own  burden ;  oftentimes  the  last  laden  with  the 
cares,  or  crowned  with  the  Jpys,  as  it  may  be,  of 
all  that  l^ad  goi^e  before  it.  AJid.tbelads  who  had 
learned  at  their  mother's  knee  the  love  of  the  Qol- 
desi  Book  were  grown  to  men. 

JX  was  their  last  eve  before  their  entrance  into 
the  world  of  action.  Their  mother  went  to  kneel 
beside  them  once  again,  as  thej  laj  in  peaceful 
slumber. 

i<  llave  I.  been  faithful  to  the  trust  reposed  hn 
me ;  hsrre  I  done  what  I  eoold  V*  And»  onoemore^  - 
she  laid  her  head  beside  heir  son%.  lihinking,  as 
she  did  so  I  *f  If  never  again,  oh  1  wlMtt  would  com- 
fort me  f" 

The  meonlighjt  stole  softly  in,  silwing  fair 
bukids^  and  onepinc  flWwly  np  in  onrly  heads. 
And  the  ry  thm  of  the  night  winds  chanting  thrpi^  , 
the  pines,  floated  in  wi^  the  low  sweet  lull  of  \ 
8omefar*oir  melody;  so  oalm,  so.  soothing  in  its 
tone,  that  its  key-note  ipight  have  been  ftmok  in 
Heaven- 

^uddenlj  tho  room  grew  all  abloom  wi^h  light 


and  two  angels  stood  before  her;  oh,  wondrooi 
beauty  for  a  mothei's  eye>  sweetest  wuin  for  a 
mother's  ear! 

Surely  she  "had  seen  those  ihoes  before,  had 
heard  those  voices,  bnt  where  or  when? 

On  sunny  days,  happy  days ;  in  the  untroabled 
deeps  of  the  dear  eyes  of  her  children,  when  learn* 
Ing  the  lessons  of  the  Sacred  Book.  And  the  voices 
were  their  voices,  in  times  of  perfect  love  and 
truthfulness. 

And  they  said:  "Well  done,  thou  good  and 
faithful  mother;  look  with  joy  upon  ikj  woric." 

Then  she  saw  their  shining  robes,  all  interwoven 
and  luminous  with  line  upon  line,  rale  npon  mis, 
precept  upon  precept,  from  the  Golden  Book. 

*'  See  thy  work  hath  been  faithAilly  done."  And 
the  mother's  fears  wore  all  dispelled  with  tender 
words.  "  Kot  one  of  these  little  ones  shall  be  lost, 
for  their  angels  do  ever  stand  before  the  face  of 
OUT  Father." 

And  when  the  lads  went  forth,  belted  knights  to 
the  world'«  conflict,  away  fttun  theii  mother's 
pnesenoe,  without  a  fear  she  gave  them  her  bless- 
ing, and  bade  them  go. 

''  Remember  the  words  of  the  Golden  Book," 
she  said,  **  and  keep  your  armor  bright," 

Then  the  youths  passed  oat  from  the  home  of 
their  ehildhood.  Through  tidings  of  good  report 
or  evil,  the  mother's  h«art  never  failed,  her  faith 
never  wavered,  and  when  some  nobler  deed  was 
done,  some  greater  evil  overoome,  and  men  said: 
"  How  bright  these  knights  their  annor  keep!" 
their  mother  only  .smiled,  and  said ;  *'  The  unMcn 
armor  ahineth  through,  and  the  inneoenee  of  wii- 
doffl  leads  the  innocence  of  childhood." 

Tbey  passed  unscathed  through  the  heat  of 
battle.  "No  weapon  formed  s^ainst  them  eonld 
prosper;"  for  throngh  the  wovds  of  the  Book  tad 
the  might  of  pn^yer,  their  armor  was  kept  ever 
biightr  And  its  light  so  enoompaasad  them  tbat 
in  time  men  grow  to  calling  them  "  Knights  of  the 
Happy  Sphere."  And  whithersoever  they  went, 
they  carried  with  them  noble  endAranoe,  nndauatsd 
prowoi^  and  gentle  oonrte^y. 

•And  all  throngh  the  words  of  the  Golden  Book 
and  a  mother's  patient  love»  ''  who  did  what  shs 
could," 

BaniiMB  that  though  therealm  of  death sesni 
an  enemy's  oountry  to  moat  men,  on  whose  shore 
they  are  loathly  4riven  by  stress  of  weather^  to  lbs 
wise  nan  it  is  the  desired  |wrt  where  be  moors  his 
bark  gladly,  as  in  some  quiet  haVDi  of  the  For- 
tunate Isles;  it  is  tho golden  West  into  which  his 
sun  sinki^  and  sinkings  ei|#t#<  back  a  gloiy  on  tke 
leaden  nlond-faok  which  had  darkly  bMieged  hi< 
day. 

Hb  eannot  be  an  nnhappy  eaaa  who  has  tke  love 
and  ssaila  of  woman  to  aeoompany  hhn  in  ever/ 
d^Mtftment  of  life. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


EVDENiNas  i;v^ith:  the  poets. 


LITTLE  JEB»Y,  THE  MILLER. 

BT  J.  «.  BAXV. 

BBKBATH  the  ^fU  ybji  mar  «««  the  mill 
Of  WMtfaigwood  md  eramblin^  stone; 
The  wheel  is  dripping  an^  elAtteriof  still. 
But  Jerrj,  the  miller,  ie  dead  aad  gone. 

Tear  after  jear»  earlj  and  laU» 
Alike  in  summer  and  winter  weather, 

He  peeked  the  stones  and  calked  the  gate; 
And  miU  and  miller  grew  eld  together. 

'*  LUUe  JeTTy"--'twa8  all  the  sane^ 
Th^  loved  him  well  who  oalied  him  se ; 

And  whether  he'd  erer  another  name, 
Nobody  evpr  seemed  to  know. 

Twas  "Little  Jerry,  come  grind  my  rye;" 
And  **  Little  Jerry,  eome  grind  my  wheat;" 

And  "Little  Jerry"  was  still  the  ery 
Frook  matron  hold  and  maiden  sweet. 

'Twas  "Little  Jerry"  on  eyery  tongne.  ' 
And  thus  the  simple  trnth  was  told. 

For  Jerry  was  little  when  he  was  young. 
And  he  was  little  when  he  was  old. 

But  wh&t  in  sise  he  ohaneed  te  laek^ 
Jerry  made  up  in  being  strong ; 

Tre  seen  a  seek  upon  his  baek 
As  thick  as  the  miller,  and  quite  as  long. 

Always  buiy  and  always  merry, 

Always  doing  his  rery  best, 
A  notable  wag  was  little  Jerry, 

Who  uttered  well  his  standing  Jest: 

"When  will  you  grind  my  corn,  I  fcay  ?" 
"  Nay,"  quoth  Jerry,  "  you  needn't  scold, 

Jnst  leaye  your  grist  for  half  a  day, 
And  nerer  fsar  but  yonll  be  tolled." 

How  Jerry  lived  is  known  to  fame, 
But  how  he  died  there's  none  may  know; 

One  autumn  day  the  rumor  came — 
"  The  brook  and  Jerry  are  very  low." 

And  then  'twas  whispered  moumfally. 
The  leech  had  oom0,  and  he  was  dead, 

And  all  the  neighbors  flocked  to  see; 
"  Poor  little  Jerry !"  was  all  they  said. 

They  laid  him  in  Us  eactUy  bed^ 
HiB  miilei's  ooa*  his  tefy  shroud^ 

**  Bwt  to  d«st  r  the  facson  said, 
Ai^d  all  the  people  wept  aloud. 

For  he  had  shunned  the  deadly  sin. 

And  not  a  grain  of  over-toll 
Bad  ever  dropped  into  his  bin. 

To  weigh  upon  his  parting  soaL 


Beneath  the  hill  there  stands  the  mill 
Of  waAing  wood  and  crumbling  stone; 

The  wheel  is  dripping  and  clattering  still, 
But  Jerry,  the  miner,  fs  dead  'and  gone. 


DISILLUSION. 

BT  ELISABETH  AKERS  ALLEIT. 

I  DREAMED  that  I  had  long  been  dead— 
Spring  rain,  and  summer  light  and  bloom 
Had  swept  across  my  lonesome  bed. 
With  clover-scent  and  wild-bees'  boom. 
Lightening  the  place  of  half  its  g^oom. 

Serene  end  ealm,  niy  ^ttiet  gheet 
Came  softly  baek  to  see  the  place 

Where  I  had  joyed  and  Baffbred  mosl^. 
To  look  upon  his  grieving  faee 
Whose  memory  death  oould  not  erase. 

But  he,  my  love,  whom  even  in- Heaven 
I  yearned  to  oomfbvt  and  sustain, 

Knowing  how  son  his  heart  was  riven— 
My  love,  with  life  so  ehanged  to  pain 
That  he  oould  never  love  again — 

Forgetful  of  the  golden  band 
On  my  dead  finger  slumbering. 

Now  bend  above  another  hand, 
And  clasped  and  kissed  t)>e  dainty,  thing. 
And  whispered  of  another  ring. 

Alas,  poor  ghost!     I  felt  a  thrill— 
A  sudden  stab  of  mortal  pain — 

And  sighed.    He  shivered :  "  Ah,  how  ohill 
The  air  has  grown,  and  fkdl  of  rain ; 
Mj  darling,  kiss  me  warm  again !" 

Why  should  I  linger  ?    As  I  pass^ 
Her  lips  touched  shyly,  murmuring  low. 

Just  where  my  own  had  kissed  their  last 
Only  so  little  while  ago ; 
"  Ah,  well,"  I  said,  "  'tia  better  so." 

Bui  one,  who  iki  my  li^s  passed,  by 
With  friendship's  oeoleet  tonoh  and  toDe, 

I  fooad  beneath  the  darkening  sky. 
Beside  ray  grave  all  bramble-grown, 
With  sorrow  in  his  eyea-^aione. 

A  tsar,  down-glittering  as  he  f  toed» 
Hang,  star-like,  in  the  grass  below ; 

I  blessed  him  in  my  gratitude. 
He  smiled :  "  Dear  heart,  if  she  could  know 
How  Sweet  these  brier  blossoms  grow !" 

"  Bftrp€t*$  Mdgatin; 

Digitized  by  Cj0OQ  IC 


58 


ARTEUB'8   LADY'S    HOME    MAGAZINE. 


THE  SAD  DISCIPLE. 

(Mstt.  xlx.  16*2^) 
BT  LOmSK  ▼.  BOTD. 

FIR  as  a  day  of  the  Bommer-time,  fled  with  my 
far-away  childhood. 
Out  of  the  storied  Past  there  arises  before  me  a 

picture, 
So  clear  in  its  tone^  and  so  deep  in  its  shadow,  I 

see  there 
The  truth  of  a  human  life  fade  in  the  light  of  the 

truth  out  of  Heaven. 
I  see  'mid  the  aod-belored  scenes  of  the  land  of 

Judea, 
A  youth  that  gave  heed  to  his  father,  and  walked 

by  the  words  of  his  mother. 
Whose  heart  was  as  pure  in  his  breast  as  the  lily 

that  bloomed  by  the  streamlet, 
While  bright  as  the  hues  of  the  rose  were  his 

dreams  of  the  Future. 

Great  was  his  Joy  when  he  heard  of  the  words  and 

the  works  of  the  Master, 
And  he  turned  frem  his  fleeks,  and  his  stores,  and 

went  straight  to  his  presence ; 
And  meekly  he  asked  of  the  things  of  the  heayenly 

kingdom. 
And  listened,  the  while  his  heart  swelled  with  a 

rapturous  wonder. 

With  low-spoken  words  then  he  told  how  he  kept 

the  commandments, 
And  bright  grew  the  glance  of  his  eye  when  the 

Saviour  commended ; 
But,  ah  I  when  he  learned  that  the  one  thing  yet 

that  was  needftil 
Was  to  part,  for  the  sake  of  the  poor,  with  his 

worldly  possessions. 

Mournfully  over  his  face  weary  shadows  came 
creeping — 

Away  from  the  Saviour,  the  Truth  that  he  loved, 
he  departed. 

If  his  steps  were  retraced,  or  if  he  his  riches  relin- 
quished, 

No  history  tells;  and  we  muse  on  his  life— as  he 
on  that  lesson — in  sorrow. 

Christian  Standard. 

ALONE. 

BT  A9JL  POWKB. 

JUST  two  hours  absent !    Oh,  how  still  it  seems ! 
I  miss  his  ooaataat  prattle,  and  Us  noise ; 
I  neve  about  my  room  as  one  who  dreams, 

And  wish  he'd  come  again— with  books  and  toys 
Bestrew  the  floor,  and  sing  and  gayly  shout; 

Tease  me  for  papers  aad  for  strings ; 
Grow  tired  of  them,  and  scatter  all  about, 
And  mmmage  everywhere  fbr  newer  things. 

Just  two  hours  absent;  and  my  little  room 
Looks  coldly  tidy — everything  in  plaoe ; 

No  need  is  there  for  duster,  or  for  broom ; 
Buty  oh !  I  sadly  miss  the  sunny  fkoe. 


0 


The  joyous  presence  of  my  little  boy. 
Whose  absebos,  in  this  ^lace,  makes  sueh  avoid 

Now  he's  not  here  to  hinder  and  annoy— 
I  wonder  why  I  ever  am  annoyed ! 

The  very  silence  in  this  sunny  spot 

Seems  audible  in  its  intensity ; 
I'd  give— I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell  what  notr^ 

This  moment  his  bright,  laughing  face  to  see. 
Roll  on,  0  sun,  adown  the  glowing  West  I 

Glide  on,  slow  hours  I— I  yearn  once  more  to  bm 
When  evening  comes,  with  quiet  and  with  rest, 

My  little  man  come  back  again  to  me. 

MY  BABY'S  BIRTHDAYS. 

BT  EBBH   B.  BBXFORD. 

NB  year  ago  to-day  I  put  upon  my  bosom 
Some  flowers,  and  wove  them  in  among  m 
h^, 
Because  it  was  my  little  boy's  first  birthday ; 
My  little  one's,  whose  face's  deemed  so  fair. 
I  bent  above  his  cradle  when  he  slept,  and  kisM 
him. 
And  called  him  the  pet  names  a  mother  knowi 
Since  then,  ah,  me !  how  much  my  heart  has  missi 
him — 
My  boy,  my  beautiftil,  my  sweet  white  rose. 
I  said,  "  In  time  to  come,  you'll  grow  to  manhoo 

A  fair-faced  youth,  and  I  shall  love  you  so !" 
And  kissed  him  o'er  and  Ver,  while  he  was  dreu 
ing — 
My  child,  my  babe,  but  mine  no  more  I  know, 

That  was  a  year  ago.  To-day  he  keeps  his  birthdi 
Among  tbe  «ngels ;  for  he  grew  so  fair. 

So  pure  of  soul,  that  earth-love  oould  not  hold  hi 
As  fair  to-dsj  as  any  angel  there  I 

My  arms  have  not  forgotten  all  their  cunning ; 

Within  their  clasp  my  boy  they  fain  would  hoi 
And,  oh!  I  long  so  much  to  kiss  his  cheeks'  8W< 
dimples. 

And  thread  my  fingers  thro'  his  looks  of  gold 

To-day  I  went  and  knelt  beside  his  cradle. 

Where  I  had  kissed  him  one  short  year  ago, 
And  tried  to  think  his  baby-head  was  lying 

There  on  the  dainty  pillow,  white  as  snow. 
In  vain !  in  vain !    My  mother- love  could  fanc^ 

No  sweet  child-face  where  only  shadows  were 
And  though  I  clasped  my  arms,  as  though  to  foldh 

Against  my  breast,  I  could  not  feel  him  stir. 

Sweet  child,  one  year  among  the  happy  angels- 
My  child,  though  minene  nB0i»— in  some  glad  d 

I'll  come  to  you,  and  mother^love  will  teU  me 
The  boy  who  from  apy  anns,  a  baby  went  awi 

Though  you  have  grown  to  man's  estate  in  Heaven 
Do  they  grow  old  in  Heaven  ?    I  do  not  knof 

I  know  that  I  shall  know  you,  0  my  darling- 
Shall  know  and  love  yon,  as  one  year  ago. 

WMUm  Bural, 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 


EDITED  BY  ▲  LADT. 


PATCHWORK -THE  ARTISTIC  SIDE  OF 
THE  QUESTION, 

FrDBR  thii  title  we  find  ft  sensible  oomautii. 
oation  to  the  Wetttm  Bural,  We  alvrays  had 
a  weakness  for  patchwork,  despite  all  that  ean  be 
and  is  said  against  it  That  and  rag -carpet  mak- 
ing are  our  ftincy  work.  To  be  sure  we  might  earn 
a  carpet  or  a  eotinterpane  two  or  three  times  orer 
while  we  are  actual^  making  one.  But  then  we 
certainly  shouIdn^t  do  it  Our  patchwork  is  done 
when  otherwise  we  should  be  literally  silting  with 
folded  hands.  When  we  are  tired  out^when  writ- 
ing seems  like  a  snare  and  a  delusion ;  when  dot- 
els  ha^e  become  a  drug  in  the  market;  when  all 
the  new  garments  are  mad^  and  mending  is  an 
abomination,  then  how  satisfactory  it  is  to  sit  down 
to  the  rolls  of  prints,  and  revel  in  diamonds  and 
squares,  and  stars  and  octagons,  and  bright  colors 
And  dark  colors;  to  see  the  mosaic  grow  under 
one's  hands,  and  to  realize  that  there  is  so  much 
redeemed  from  actual  waste. 
The  HurcU  writer  says : 

"  There  is  a  view  of  the  patchwork  question  which 
has  not  y©t  been  presented.  Many  housekeepers, 
weighed  down  with  tlieir  •ndlets  round  of  honse- 
hold  work  and  vulgar  cares,  were  bom  with  souls 
of  artista  or  poets,  and  being  allowed  no  other  op- 
portunity, this  taste  expressed  itself  in  patchwork. 
»  ''I  would  have  no  contempt  thrown  upon  the 
humble  artiat  in  bed  quilts,  thereby  taking  away 
the  one  recreation  of  many  women's  lives.  I  ven- 
tare  to  eay,  after  the  reading  of  the  first  attack  on 
Patchwork,  many  a  heartsick  housewife  thought 
with  sadness  of  her  "folly"  expressed  in  patch- 
work, which  had  been  to  her  a  "thing  of  beauty," 
but  whieh  must  now  be  under  a  ban ;  and  I  con- 
Cms  I  was  ready  to  enter  the  lists  on  behalf  of  my 
own  pile  ©f  "  quilt"  ehromos,  teosaics,  and  biogra- 
phy. Some  patchwork  done  over  fifty  years  ago 
by  my  now  sainted  mother  and  her  IHtle  sisters  in 
their  rare  old  English  home,  is  more  valued  than 
pearls  could  be;  but  who  questions  the  utility  of 
pMils.  Aside  from  the  value  given  by  the  labor 
^  precious  fingers,  the  beautiful  pieces  are  a  chap- 
ter in  the  history  of  English  prints. 

"  An  oak-leaf  quilt»  with  its  rich  green  and  wood 
wlon  relieved  by  white,  is  a  reoord  of  the  ingenu- 
ity and  Industry  ef  a  lady  over  seventy  years  old, 
who  pieced  one  of  that  pattern  for  nearly  every 
S^  ia  her  town,  and  who  gave  to  the  poor  many 
^OMos  of  quilts  of  her  own  work.  In  her  early 
A&ys  she  pioneered  with  her  husband  into  a  heav- 
Uy  wooded  .country,  and  out  down  many  trees. 


working  side  by  side  with  him^  where  now  etand 
villas  upon  a  world-famous  avenue. 

"  Such  women  never  do  anything  useless.  An 
album  quilty  which  is  a  memorial  of  grandmother, 
aunts,  and  oousins  in  Europe  and  America,  is  above 
the  question  of  mere  utility. 

"An  old-fashioned  star  quilt  is  a  reminder  of 
far-away  Wednesday  afternoons,  when,  seated  with 
schoolmates  around  a  kind  teacher  at  the  "dis- 
trict" school,  we  worked  our  samplers  and  made  our 
first  patchwork.  How  pleasant  is  the  memory  of 
»those  dear,  sunny  days,  called  up  by  the  sight  of 
that  quilt !  Another  album  quilt  of  mine  serves 
to  recall  the  teachers  and  mates  of  seminary  days. 

"I  have  one  beantifUl  quilt  in  simple  squares  of 
English  print  of  ancient  date :  think  you  I  would 
have  put  those  pieces  into  the  rag  bag  for  the  tin- 
man? 

"  As  log-cabin  quilts  are  fashionable  and  there- 
fore allowable,  I  need  not  enlarge  in  their  defence. 
Would  it  be  too  startling  to  relate  that  I  pieced  one 
quilt  of  lawns  and  that  it  is  lovely  ?  When  quilted 
over  one  thickness  of  wadding  with  pink  cambric 
lining,  it  may  be  of  service  even  to  a  utilitarian. 

"More  I  might  record  in  the  chronicles  of  the 
Wettem  Rmtalj  lut  here  endcth  the  chapter. 

"  Let  me  say  *  by  way  of  improvement'  to  my 
domeatie  sisters  whom  fate  favors  with  plenty  of 
home  duties  (sometimes  called  drudgery),  who  have 
a  taste  for  the  beautiful,  and  whose  hands  may 
have  lost  their  Running  with  the  brush  and  crayon, 
recreate  your  weary  brains  and  develop  your  tastes 
in  the  realms  of  patchwork,  if  you  may  nowhere 
else.  You  are  Just  as  much  of  an  artist  with  your 
needle  as  more  leisure-favored  women,  whose  cray- 
oning or  oil  painting  is  of  no  greater  utility  than 
your  qniit  pictures. 

"  As  to  little  girls,  let  them  pieee  as  much  as 
they  like,  and  no  more.  Never  give  them  patch- 
work for  any  puipose  but  the  pleasure  of  it 

PlBPIinAHA.** 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  HOME. 

ALL  really  useful  and  happy  homes  have  a 
heart-centre,  towards  which  every  member 
gravitates,  drawn  by  attractions  resistless,  because 
unfelt  The  house-band  that  surrounds,  strength- 
ens and  protects,  is  usually  the  husband  and  father. 
The  house-heart  is  usually  the  wife  and  mother. 

More  than  several  times  have  we  known  the 
weak,  the  sick,  the  needy  one  of  the  family,  to 
become  the  house-hearty  to  and  fh>m  which  the 
activities  of  every  member  were  In  steady  circula- 


Digitized  by 


Gd^^le 


(SO 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


tion.  For  her  room  th«  best  in  the  house  was 
chosen.  The  stately  p&rlor  gave  up  its  best  chair 
and  picture.  To  that  room  came  the  first  flower, 
the  first  berries,  the  first  f^uit  of  orchard  and  vine- 
yard. The  newspaper  came  into  that  loom  first  of 
all.  There  the  father  "  reported"  when  returning, 
and  left  his  good- by  when  going.  Thither  the 
yonng  girl,  dressed  for  a  party,  came  in  to  be  ad- 
mired at  the  hovsehold  heart  thither  the  sons 
ha?e  come  thrice  a  day,  f^esh  with  the  last  excite- 
ment and  stories  from  the  street 

Tot  her  the  concert,  the  lecinre  and  the  sermon, 
hare  been  listened  to,  and  a  story  of  them  brought 
home.  Her  need  has  wrought  a  gentleness  and 
unity  in  the  whole  ftLmily.  Her  tranquil  judgment 
has  tempered  hasty  speeches,  and  taught  the  way 
of  impartial  thought.  Around  the  chsir,  or  couch, 
or  bed,  as  around  an  altar  thrice  consecrated,  hare 
come  the  daily  worshippers  with  Scripture,  song, 
and  prayer.  And  so,  through  years  of  chastened 
enjoyment  and  trembling  hope,  this  family  has 
found  training  in  a  life  of  unity,  purity,  and  lore. 
The  house  has  had  a  heart  Tbe  passers-by  said, 
"afflicted;"  but  the  dwellers  knew  that  the  afflic- 
tion was  working  out  fruits  most  peaoeaDle  and 
rewards  eternal. 

The  heart  ceased  to  beat.  The  room  was  empty. 
The  errands  and  the  services  of  love  ended.    And 


the  stricken  ones  stood  together,  and  with  Toiesi 
low  and  earnest,  vowed  and  prayed :  By  the  mem- 
ory of  the  past,  by  the  ache  and  emptiness  of  tliis 
hour,  and  by  the  hope  of  the  future,  we  vow  s 
holy  living  in  tha  LomI  ;  and  we  bese«eh  Him,  that 
in  his  house  of  many  homes  we  may  have  one,  and 
may  she  be  the  heart  of  it — Examiner  and  Cknm, 

THE  WAY  A  BOY  WAKES  UP. 

IT  is  morning.  Daylight  streams  into  tbe  win- 
dows ;  the  sun  shines  on  the  hilltops.  The  sounds 
of  stirring  life  are  beginning  to  be  heard  about  the 
house.  Watch  the  boy.  Still  and  motionless  ai 
a  figure  of  marble  I  As  you  look,  the  gates  of 
sleep  are  suddenly  unlocked.  He  is  awake  in  a 
twinkling— awake  all  over.  Hia  bine  eyes  an 
wide  open  and  bright— his  lips  part  with  a  shout 
— his  legs  fly  out  in  different  directions— his  ami 
in  rapid  motion — he  flops  over  with  a  spring— in 
ten  seconds  he  has  turned  a  couple  of  somersaults, 
and  presents  before  you  a  living  illustration  of 
perpetual  motion.  There  is  no  deliberate  yawn- 
ing, no  stretching  of  indolent  limbs,  no  laxy  rob- 
bing of  sleepy  eyes,  no  gradually  becoming  awake 
about  it  With  a  snap  like  a  pistol  shot,  he  ii 
thoroughly  awake  and  kicking — wide  awake  to  tlie 
top  end  ot  each  particular  hair. 


FRUIT   OTJLTURE   FOR   LA.DIE8. 

BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  GABBEinKO  FOB  LADin." 


N' 


BUDDING.  • 

[  EXT  to  grafting,  the  operation  of  budding  is 
one  of  the  most  useful  to  fruit-growers.  The 
same  results  sure  to  be  obtained  by  it  as  by  graft- 
ing, when  grafting  cannot  be  performed.  And, 
in  the  propagation  of  stone  fruit,  such  as  peaches, 
plumi^  and  tbe  like^  It  is  to  be  preferred  to  graft- 
ing 

Budding  osually  commences  in  July.  The  pro- 
per time  varies,  however,  with  the  season,  and 
with  the  nature  of  the  fruit  to  be  budded.  It  is 
safe  to  commence  whenever  well-formed  buds  are 
to  be  had,  and  when  the  bark  of  the  stock  or 
branch  to  be  budded  can  be  raised  freely  from  the 
wood.  This  will  generally  be  found  to  be  at  the 
time  when  tbe  tree  has  just  passed  the  period  of  its 
most  rapid  growth. 

Budding  consists  in  setting  a  bud  cut  from  one 
tree  into  the  bark  of  the  trunk,  or  of  a  branch  of 
another,  so  that  it  shall  grow  and  become  a  part  of 
that  tree,  and  yet,  like  a  graft,  retain  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  tree  from  which  it  was  taken. 

The  bud  to  be  inserted  is  taken  from  a  shoot  of  > 


this  year's  growth,  by  setting  the 
knife  "  in  about  half  an  inch  above  it,  and  euttiig 
downward  say  an  inch  and  a  hali^  thus  removisg 
the  bark,  the  bud,  and  a  thin  piece  of  the  wood 
just  under  the  bad.  In  setting  the  bud,  setoet  a 
smooth  place  on  tbe  stock*  taking  off  the  nsanr 
leaves  and  small  branehes.  At  thia  point  a  out  i< 
made  lengthwise  through  the  bark  of  the  itook. 
Over  the  top  of  this  ou^  a  smaller  one  is  made  at 
right  angles  to  it  The  cut  edges  of  the  bark  are 
now  to  be  raised  a  little  with  the  ivory  handle  of 
your  knife,  and  the  bud  inserted,  in  a  natural  posi- 
tion, and  pushed  downward  under  the  bark«  A 
bandage,  soft  twine  is  then  bound  round,  eovsr- 
ing  ail  parte  but  the  bud.  It  should  be  ti^t 
enough  to  hold  the  bark  in  place  without  knif- 
ing it 

After  twelve  ox  fourteen  days,  en  thrifty  <to>^ 
it  will  generally  be  fonnd  meoeiaary  to  set  9T 
loosen  the  bandage.  The  bads,  of  couiss^  will  n- 
main  dormant  till  the  following  spring,  whan  tka 
stock,  is  to  be  out  off  just  above  the  bud,  and  ilsat* 
ing  upward  from  it  All  other  buds  must  berabbsd 
off  as  they  appear. 


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FRUIT    CULTURE    FOR    LADIES. 


61 


.  THINNING  OUT  FRUIT. 

r  eertainljr  doM  look  like  waste,  and  wUl,  per- 
haps, go  hard,  yet  yon  mast  be  brave  eneugb 
thin  out  joar  frait  where  it  has  set  abondantly. 
rger  and  better  flarered  frait  will  reward  your 
r-deoia],  and,  at  the  same  time  the  strength, 
Ality,  and  prodnotiyeness  of  your  trees  and 
e«  will  be  greatly  enhaneed.  And,  besides, 
J  will  be  more  likely  to  give  yon  crops  year 
Br  year,  withoat  faiL 

Many  years  ago  an  experienced  fruit-grower 
BOTered  that,  by  going  over  his  grape-vines, 
1  taking  oat  two-thirds  of  the  smaller  grapes 
>B  the  bimofaes,  the  remaining  grapes  ihade  far 
ter  and  heavier  olasters  than  they  would  have 
\t  had  the  whole  of  them  been  allowed  to  grow. 
B  not  think  I  could  go  quite  so  far  as  this  gentle- 
■,  but,  certainly,  the  practice  of  thinning  out 
it  is  one  productive  of  the  most  encouraging 
dts.  The  work,  however,  is  not  to  be  done  all 
moe.  Be^in  early  in  the  season,  going  over 
trees,  bushes,  or  rines  from  time  to  time,  re- 
ring  an  apple  here,  or  a  grape  or  berry  there, 
he  eye  meets  it.  And  especially  take  off  the 
Jler  and  poorer  specimens,  leaving  nothing 
»tty,  or  stunted,  or  wormy. 


STRAWBERRY  BEDS. 

STRAWBERRY  grower  in  Illinois  writes 
.  Tk9  Prairie  Farmer  in  favor  of  careful  culti- 
ion  of  the  strawberry  ground  after  the  fruiting 
ion  is  over,  and  in  the  Ml  partially  covering  the 
Its  as  a  means  of  winter  protection.  A  mulch 
>and  and  well-rotted  manure  is  deemed  bene- 
tt  If  properly  cultivated  and  protected  each 
»n  after  fruiting  is  over,  strawberry  beds  will 
iace  well  for  several  years,  avoiding  the  neces- 

of  re  planting  as  often  as  is  commonly  the 
Btiee  with  many.  Oar  own  experience  has  con- 
eed  us  that,  on  this  latter  point,  at  least,  the 
irvation  of  our  Illinois  grower  is  worthy  of  oon- 
iiation. 


IE  SUMMER  PRUNING  OF  GRAPE- 
VINES. 

PR.  E.  A.  BUELL»  the  originator  of  the  cele- 
L  brated  Coneord  grape  believes  the  summer 
aing  of  grape-Tines  to  be  pernicious.  I  have 
le  it,  he  says,  until  a  very  recent  period,  not 
ng  aware  that  with  a  little  neglect  I  should 
s  had  larger  orops  and  more  vigorous  vines.  *  *  * 
is  very  well,  he  continues,  to  pinoh  the  grape 
e,  at  two  leaves,  we  will  sajr,  beyond  the  farthest 
ich.  If  the  growing  shoot  sets  three  bnnebes, 
n  at  two  leaves  from  the  third  buaohl  would 
eh  the  growing  shoot.  *  *  «    It  has  been  the 


custoiA  to  pinch  again  and  agam,  but,  dicing  the 
past  summer  I  have  let  mine  grow  without  pinch- 
ing, until  the  growing  branches,  two  or  three  yards 
long,  have  touched  the  ground,  and  covered  the 
crop  with  successive  layers  of  foliage,  not  lying  so 
close  upon  each  other  as  to  smother  the  foliage 
and  destroy  it,  but  so  close  that  it  would  keep  off 
effectually  the  first  frosts  of  autumn  from  the  ripe 
fruit. 

*  *  *  When  you  consider,  he  adds,  that  the  grape 
lives  a  thousand  years,  that  it  grows  to  a  largo 
siie  when  let  alone,  that  those  old  vines  are  always 
healthy,  I  think  you  will  see  immediately  how 
much  better  it  will  be  to  give  your  grape  exten- 
sion, and  let  it  have  that  way  which  nature  indi- 
cates for  it  so  plainly  by  its  rampant  growth 
and  habits.  Dr.  Warder,  an  experienced  grape- 
grower  of  Ohio,  writing  on  the  same  suhject, 
says : 

'*  Pinching  off  the  ends  of  some  of  the  shoots  is  a 
very  important  part  of  summer  pruning ;  but  it  is 
one  which  has  been  very  much  abused  in  praotice, 
and  still  more  so  in  the  critieisms  of  those  who 
theoretieally  condemn  the  practice.  It  is  well  fbr 
us  to  consider  that,  in  all  pruning  of  vines,  we 
must  remember  the  necessity  .of  keeping  the  plaat 
in  due  shape  as  to  its  wood,  and  that  we  desin  to 
have  this  properly  distributed.  We  want  the  new 
growth,  which  goes  to  form  the  oanes  for  the  next 
year's  fruitage,  formed  low  down  on  the  stock,  and 
not  at  the  ends  or  higher  parts  of  the  vine,  whieh 
would  soon  give  us  high,  naked  stocks,  and  bam, 
empty   trellises,    such   as    may   everywhere    be 


MULCHING  BEARING  FRUIT  TREES. 


w 


riTH  intelligent  hortieulturists  there  is  no 
longer  any  doubt  about  the  advantages  to 
be  derived  from  mulching  the  surface  of  the  orch- 
ard and  fHilt  garden.  It  is  the  least  expensive 
and  most  effective  method  of  proteoting  trees  from 
the  bad  results  often  produced  by  the  frequent  and 
sudden  changes  of  temperature  during  the  summer 
and  fall  months,  when  the  surface  of  the  ground 
is  left  exposed  to  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun. 
Moreover,  the  surface  soil  is  thus  kept  constantly 
moist  and  loose,  even  when  no  rain  falls  for  weeks, 
and  the  trees  or  fruit  reeeive  no  check  for  want  of 
moisture. 

The  pear  tree,  in  particular,  derivei^  imoMnse 
benefit  from  a  liberal  mulch.  Not  only  is  the 
fruit  made  larger  and  more  abundant,  but  it  is, 
further  almost  certain  that  summer  blight  is  thus 
prevented.  In  regard  to  the  pear,  however,  it 
should  be  remembered  that  before  severe  weather 
in  the  fall,  the  mulch  should  be  drawn  away  from 
the  tree^  and  not  restored  until  the  tree  has  parted 
with  its  leaves. 


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ARTEUB'a    LADY'S    HOME   MAGAZINE. 


lyr-LAYEBED  STRAWBEERlEa 

PREPARE  a  eompoat  of  |^od  garden  soil,  and 
well  decomposed  manure,  letting  it  be  rfeb,light, 
and  fine.  With  this  fill  small  pots,  the  site  known 
as  verbena  pots  being  sulBoientlj  large.  These 
may  be  had  at  the  potteries  for  about  a  cent  apiece, 
if  many  are  taken.  The  pots  of  compost  are  sank 
to  the  rim,  in  the  soil  ander  a  runner,  before  it 
has  taken  rooL  Lay  a  small  stone  or  clod  on  the 
runner  to  keep  it  in  place.  Roots  will  now  be 
formed  rapidly  in  the  rich  compost  in  the  pots, 


and  when  the  plant  has  become  well-rooted  it 
be  separated  from  the  mother  plant,  and  set  ii 
bed  where  it  is  to  fkvit  After  a  runner  takes 
it  will  throw  off  another,  and  this  another,  an 
on.  When  but  few  plants  are  wanted,  it  is  w< 
pinch  off  the  secondary  runners.  Beds  of  st 
berries  thus  set  out  in  July  this  year,  will 
well  next  season.  Another  great  advantag 
using  pot-layers  is,  that,  in  setting  out  the  pi 
the  roots  are  not  disturbed,  and  the  planting 
be  done  in  the  hottest  weather. — Ahridgtd 
Am.  AgricuUurUL 


E[0U8EK:EEI>ERS'  DEPA-RTMENI 


CONTRIBUTED  RECEIPTS. 

Sugar  Cakss. — One  pound  of  sugar;  six  eggs; 
three  quarters  of  a  pound  of  butter;  one  nutmeg; 
two  teaspoonfuls  of  soda ;  one  oupAil  of  cream. 
To  be  baked  in  a  quick  OTen. 

Hard  GivQiRBunAD.— One  quart  of  noiasses; 
two  oupfuls  of  sugar;  three-quarters  of  a  pound  of 
lard  and  butter;  one  cupful  ef  ginger;  a  tea- 
•poonful  of  black  pepper ;  and  a  tablespoonful  of 
•lores,  cinnamon,  and  allspice. 

Cbocolatb  Gakbs. — One  pound  of  sugar;  half 
a  pound  of  grated  chocolate ;  the  whites  of  eight 
eygs;  mix  these  ingredients  together,  and  stir 
them  for  half  an  hour;  then  mix  in  some  cinna- 
mon, doves,  or  vanilla,  and  add  six  ounces  of 
flour.  Butter  a  pan,  and  drop  small  oakes  upon  it, 
baking  them  in  a  cool  oven.  It  is  well  to  add  to 
the  above  ingredients,  two  pounds  of  almonds 
which  have  been  beaten  fine  in  a  mortar. 

Hard  Qimobr  Cakbs.— One  pound  of  butter;  1 
quart  of  molasses;  1  pound  of  brown  sugar,  which 
has  been  dried  a  little ;  three  pounds  of  flour ;  half 
a  paper  of  ground  ginger ;  a  good-sized  cup  of  milk ; 
and  one  nutmeg,  grated.   Roll  the  dough  very  thin. 

Floating  Islaicd. — Beat  the  whites  of  ten  eggs 
vntil  they  are  stiff,  and  then  add  to  them  four  table- 
spoonfuls  of  sugar,  and  enough  jelly  to  cover  it. 
Float  some  sponge  cake  on  a  quart  of  milk,  and 
put  the  beaten  egg  on  the  top  of  it. 

Farik A  1.^ — Put  together  one  quart  of  milk,  one 
tablespoon  ftil  of  sugar,  two  tablespoon  fbls  of  farina, 
and  one  teai»poonful  of  extract  of  almonds.  Boil 
for  twenty  minutes,  stirring  constantly.  Dip  your 
jelly  moulds  into  cold  water,  and  then  pour  in  the 
farina.    Let  it  stand  until  it  is  quite  cold. 

Fabiita  2. — Put  one  pint  of  milk  over  the  fire, 
and  when  it  comes  to  a  boil,  stir  in  two  and  a  half 
tablespoon fnls  of  fiarina,  and  boil  It  for  thirty  min- 
-  ntes.  Beat  the  whites  and  yelks  of  two  eggs  sep- 
arately, and  after  the  farina  has  cooked  twenty  min- 
utes add  the  eggs  to  It,  also  two  tabUspoonfuls  of  su- 
gar, and  just  enough  essence  of  almonds  to  flavor  it. 

GuvBO. — Take  a  nice  fat  hen  or  two  chickens, 
eut  up  and  put  into  a  pot  to  fVy ;  when  it  is  fHed 
brown,  not  scorchedi  put  in  two  quarts  of  finely 


sliced  okra  (the  white  is  preferable),  4  large  t 
toes,  and  2  onions  peeled  and  chopped  fine, 
covered  with  water,  and  have  kettle  tightl^y  ol 

Lbmoit  Syrup. — Take  the  juice  of  twelve 
ons,  grate  the  rind  of  six  in  it,  let  it  stand 
night;  then  take  lix  pounds  of  white  sugar 
make  a  thick  syrup.  When  it  is  quite  cool,  i 
the  juice  into  it,  and  squeese  as  much  oil  froi 
grated  rind  as  will  suit  the  taste.  A  tablespo 
in  a  goblet  of  water  will  make  a  delicious  < 
on  a  hot  day,  far  superior  to  that  prepared 
the  stuff  commonly  sold  as  lemon  syrup. 

Sprucb  Beer. — One  gallon  milk-warm  i 
one  pint  molasses,  two  spoonfiils  of  ginger,  an 
cent's  worth  of  yeast  Let  it  stand  until  the 
rises,  skim  it,  and  bottle  it. 

OiN GBR  Pop. — One  gallon  cold  water ;  on< 
a  half  ounces  ginger ;  half  pound  loaf  sugar ; 
eents*  worth  brewer's  yeast.  Let  the  whole 
ture  stand  for  twenty-four  hours  in  a  modsi 
warm  place — ^by  the  fire  or  in  the  sun — ai 
careful  not  to  stir  it  whilst  it  is  fermenting. 

FiVB  Wats  to  Destroy  Awts. — 1.  Pour, 
ously,  hot  water,  as  near  the  boiling  point  as  ] 
ble,  down  their  burrows,  and  over  their  hills 
repeat  the  operation  several  times. 

2^  Entrap  the  ants  by  means  of  narrow  i 
of  stiff  paper,  or  strips  of  board,  covered  with 
sweet,  sticky  substance.  The  ants  are  atti 
by  the  sweets,  and,  sticking  fast,  can  be  dest 
as  often  as  a  sufficient  number  are  entrapped 

3.  Lay  fresh  bones  around  their  haunts, 
will  leave  everything  else 'to  attack  these,  and 
thus  accumulated,  can  be  dipped  in  hot  wate 

4.  Pour  two  or  three  spoonfuls  of  coal  oi 
their  holes,  and  they  will  abandon  the  nest 

6.  Bury  a  few  slices  of  onions  in  their  nest 
they  will  abandon  them. 

To  Drive  Red  Ants  from  thb  Housb.- 
some  quicklime  on  the  mouth  of  their  nest 
wash  it  with  boiling  water ;  or  dissolve  some 
phor  in  spirits  of  wine,  then  mix  with  watei 
pour  into  their  haunts ;  or  tobacco  water,  ^ 
has  been  found  effectual.  They  are  aver 
strong  iBcent.  Camphor  will  prevent  their  inf< 
a  cupboard,  or  a  sponge  saturated  with  creot 


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NETV   FTJBLIO^TIOlSrS. 


w  TnTAMBre  Manual.  Compiled  from  the  works  of 
he  most  eminent  Biblical  writers.  By  Stephen 
Iswes,  author  of  **6ynohrooolog7  of  Sacred  and 
^ofime  History."  Boston :  ^m  dk  Shepard. 
rhia  is  ft  saall  but  oompaet  Toluine,  oontaining 
historical  tabular  yiew  of  t^e  gospels  f  tables  of 
>  parables,  disotmrseSy  and  miraeles  of  Christ; 
ftdietions  of  the  (Hd  Testaaent,  with  their  falfll- 
At  in  tiie  New ;  elassiflcation  of  the  books  of  the 
m  Testament,  with  obserFatiens  on  each ;  bio- 
iphieal  sketches  and  dcsoriptlons  of  places;  and 
important  ohroBologioal  table.  It  is  also  illns- 
led  with  maps,  showing  the  journeys  of  Jsflus 
1  St  Panl^  etc,  etc.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia 
J.  B.  Lippinoott  St  Qo. 

BUG  AHD  Parlor  Rxadinos:  Prose  and  Poetry.  For 
he  use  of  Reading  Clabs,  and  for  Public  and  Social 
Sntertainment.  Edited  by  Lewis  B.  Monroe.  Bos- 
on: Lt»  dt  Sktpard, 

rhe  selections  in  tiiii  volume  are  entirely  of  a 
mo^us  character,  and  embrace  flOfne  of  the 
noest  specimens  of  wit  and  humor  in  Bnglish 
d  American  literature.  It  is  a  capital  book  of 
kind,  and  presents  a  rich  fund  of  innocent 
creation,  as  a  relief  from  the  cares  of  business 
d  the  weariness  of  teiL  Future  ▼olnmes  of  the 
ries  are  announced  as  in  course  of  preparation,  in 
lieh  the  selections  are  to  be  in  a  more  serious 
in.  J.  B.  lAppincott  it  Co.,  Philadelphia,  have 
» bock  fbtr  sale. 

Bx  ARD  Dibit;  or,  The  Catastrophes  of  a  Clerk.  By 
)liyer  Optic,  author  of  "  Toung  America  Abroad," 
itc.,  etc.  With  fourteen  Illustrations.  Boston : 
^j»^Shep<Krd. 

Ibis  is  the  third  of  "The  Upward  and  Onward 
ries"  of  stories,  in  the  titles  of  which  our  old 
end  OHtot  has  displayed  an  alKterative  inge- 
ity  we  had  not  looked  for  fh>m  him.  fiowcTcr, 
Btill  retains  his  happy  ikculty  for  telling  stories 
It  will  please  the  boys,  and  at  the  same  time 
leh  them  how  to  become  braye,  honest,  helpful 
n,  hating  vice,  loring  Tirtue,  and  pushing  their 
iy  upward  and  onward  with  a  due  regard  for  the 
[fats  and  feelings  of  those  who  are  trarelling  the 
»d  of  Ufe  along  with  them.  In  the  present  toI- 
le,  Phil  Farringford  has  become  what  most 
mkee  boys  are  first  of  all  ambitious  to  be— a 
>rk  in  a  store.  The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid 
ineipally  in  Chicago  and  on  Lake  Michigan — on 
e  latter,  perhaps,  as  the  preface  nairely  informs 
I  ''because  the  author  finds  it  quite  impossible  to 
rite  a  story  without  a  boat."  For  sale  in  Phila- 
)lphla  by  J.  B.  Lippinoott  <fc  Co. 

nnoss  CoKOSRimro  «»  Bibu  Law  or  Marriaoi.  By 
Oaeof  the  People,    Philadelphia:  CkufUm,BmMm 

This  is  a  strongly  written  boo)E,  quite  outspoken 
i  its  expresfion  of  indiri^ual  opinion,  and  will 
rshsfbly  create  a»me  sti?  la  religious  and  politioal 
nUs.  The  animus  of  the  book  is  directed  against 


"  a  set  of  persons  styling  tbemselFcs  '  Mormons,  or 
Latter-Day  Saints,' "  who  have  "  set  aside,  tram- 
pled upon,  and  openly  rejected  the  holy  law  of 
marriage,  as  the  Creator  at  the  *  beginning'  estab- 
lished it."  Combating  the  assertion  put  forth  by 
the  Mormon  leaders,  that  "the  Bible,  the  Old 
Testament,  at  least,  sanctions  polygamy,"  the 
author  makes  a  thorough  examination  of  the  whole 
question,  and  rery  conolusirely  shows  that  mar- 
riage as  established  in  the  beginning  by  God,  is 
the  union  or  society  of  ons  man  with  wte  woman. 
He  contends — and  his  argument  on  this  point  is 
skilfully  conducted— that  the  Old  Testament  eren 
does  not  toleratef  much  less  tanefton,  polygamy. 
Polygamy,  he  argues,  is  the  sin  of  adultery,  and 
as  such  was  punished,  even  in  Abraham,  Jacob, 
Darid,  Solomon,  and  others  of  the  patriarchs. 

NEW  MUSIC. 

We  hare  received  from  W.  W.  Whitney,  pro- 
pxietor  of  "Palace  of  MusW,"  Toledo,  Ohio,  the 
following  pieoes  of  new  music : 

"Little  Folks'  Portfolio,"  oontaining  "six  liUle 
pieces  for  very  little  fingers,"  composed  by  Horace 
B.  Kimball,  and  scTmrally.  entitled :  1.  Careless 
Polka;  2.  The  Very  First  Walts ;  3.  LitUe  Folks' 
Marsh;  4.  Holidsiy  Quiekstep;  6.  Little  Fingers' 
Walts;  and  6.  Peter  Piper  Polka.  All  these  are 
pleasing  pieces,  and  quite  easy  of  execution.  Price 
40  cents  ea<A. 

"Strew  Fresh  Flowers  o'er  their  eraves."  Solo 
and  quartette.  Written  for  the  new  national  day 
appointed  for  decorating  ,the  graves  of  our  dead 
soldiers.  Words  and  music  by  L*  L.  Ross.  Price 
50  c«its. 

"  Halloo,  Johnny !  and  Halloo,  Yank  I  or.  Along 
the  Picket  Line."  Song  and  Chorus.  Words  and 
music  by  Ross.    Price  50  cents. 

"  The  Kingdom  of  Home."  One  hundred  prize 
song.    Musie  by  Ross.    Price  50  cents. 

"BdwardGray."  A  baUad.  Words  by  Tenny- 
son ;  musio  by  A.  Von  Bochow.    Price  50  cents. 

"Qur  Darling  is  an  Angel  Now."  Words  by 
George  Cooper;  music  by  W.  A.  Ogden.  Price  50 
cents. 

"I  Lore  a  Girl  that  Don't  Love  Me."  Comia 
song.    By  Frank  Howsjrd.    Price  40  cents. 

"  Gentle  Clara  Snow."  Song  and  chorus.  By 
W.  A.  Ogden.    Price  40  cents. 

"What  are  They  Doing  at  Home  Tonight?" 
Solo  or  Duel.  By  Frank  Howard.  Price  40  cents. 

From  Root  k  Cady,  Chicago,  we  hare  received 
copies  of  a  new  and  very  spirited  and  eflfective 
rallying  song  and  chorus,  by  George  F.  Root,  en- 
tiUed,  "  Hear  the  Cry  that  Ooams  Across  the  Sea!" 
It  is  designed  as  an  appeal  to  American  syn^Mi- 
thies  in  behalf  of  France,  and  the  proceeds  of  its 
sale  are  to  be  seat  to  that  country  as  a  generous 
ooBtribation  toward  the  relief  of  the  poor  and 
suflfering.    Price  50  cents. 


I 


Digitized  ^f^OOgle 


EDITORS'   DEPA-RTMICNT. 


MR.  HBMRT  BBROH  THB  FRIBVD  OF 

There  is  a  mtai  who  in  a  qaiet  way  is  performing 
ft  TMt  work  of  benevolenoe  toward  helpleH,  dumb 
ftnimals.  This  is  Mr.  Henry  Bergh.  Through 
his  influenoe  a  tooiety  was  incorporated  in  New 
York  in  1866,  for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  ani- 
aals.  The  influence  of  this  society  has  extended 
until  nineteen  states  have  societies  of  a  similar 
character.  The  Chrutian  Weekly,  for  May,  gives 
BS  a  brief  account  of  him  and  his  doings.  Mr. 
Bergh  gives  his  undivided  time  and  energies  to 
the  carrying  out  of  the  purposes  of  this  society,  re- 
ceiving no  salary  nor  asking  for  one.  His  name 
carries  authority  with  it»  and  is  a  terror  to  all 
violators  of  the  laws  of  the  society.  He  gives, 
says  the  Okrietian  Weekly,  "especial  attention  to 
the  treatment  of  horses ;  the  transportation  of  cat- 
tle, sheep,  calres,  poultry,  etc.,  used  for  A>od; 
«arefhl  inspection  of  their  condition  before  slaugh- 
ter, that  no  diseased  meat  may  be  sent  to  the  mar- 
ket ;  examining  the  state  of  milch  oows,  kept  in 
the  city  for  public  supply  of  *'pure  Orange  County  , 
milk;'*  stopping  brutal  sports;  breaking  up  dog  i 
and  rat  pits ;  enforcing  a  degree  of  privacy  In  the 
alangfater  of  animals,  that  children  may  not  be  \ 
made  familiar  with  scenes  of  blood;  pre^ding 
facilities  for  supplying  cattle  with  abundance  of 
fresh  water ;  and  doing  everything  potsibto  to  de- 
velop kindness  and  prohibit  all  forms  aad  tenden- 
cies to  cruelty." 

At  the  oi&oe  of  the_  society  may  be  found  the 
trophies  of  this  war  against  brataHty.  Among 
these  may  be  found  an  immense  cowhide,  cut  into 
thongs,  every  one  of  which  leaves  its  mark  on  the 
quivering  flesh,  the  same  so  worn  that  only  the 
stump  is  left,  the  g^ad  adding  a  new  tortore  to  that 
of  the  cowhide.  A  car-book  has  been  taken  from 
some  driver  who,  not  content  with  whip,  has  beaten 
his  weary  and  overtaxed  horses  with  H,  or  used  its 
sharp  point  in  lieu  of  a  goad.  A  drcwlar  piece  of 
leather,  studded  with  nails,  is  the  famous  needle- 
pad.  Fastened  to  the  bit,  with  the  rein  passing 
over  it,  every  pressure  of  the  rein  in  the  hands  of  a 
driver  skilled  in  cruelty  agonises  the  poor  h6rse, 
who  pranees  and  champs  at  the  bit,  and  specks 
himself  with  the  foam,  while  admiring  bystanders 
look  with  envy  upon  the  simulated  fire  of  a  goaded 
horse.  More  than  one  Fifth-arenue  equipage  has 
been  stopped,  and  the  outrage  removedi  by  Mr. 
Bergh,  or  undar  his  orders,  for  he  is  no  fospecter 
of  persons.  Another  pad,  stadded  with  nails  on 
either  side,  and  attached  to  a  stick,  is  made  to 
hang  down  between  the  carriage  horses  to  keep 
them  apart,  and  by  its  continual  goading  to  keep 
in  them  the  appeantnee  of  a  fiery,  untamable 
spirit.  The  spiked  collar  and  belt  are  need  in  deg- 
fighting,  the  breastplate  to  prevent  calves  flrom 
taking  milk  from  the  cow. 
(61) 


"Nor,"  says  the  paper  above  quoted,  "are  tktie 
the  only  witnesses  to  the  need  of  snoh  an  organisa- 
tion. A  driver  and  conductor  of  a  otty  line  wars 
recently  arrested  for  allowing  forty  persons  Inside 
and  sixty  outside  on  the  platforms  of  the  car,  om 
hundred  in  all.  To  drag  this  prodigious  load, 
which,  with  the  car,  is  estimated  to  have  weigkei 
twenty-one  thousand  pounds,  up  a  severe  gxade^ 
there  were  two  foable  horses,  one  of  whom  wum 
distressed  that  his  bieathhig  could  be  distiDStly 
heard  the  distance  of  a  blook." 

Fountains  so  combined  as  to  supply  pure  wiler 
to  men,  horses,  and  dogs,  have  been*  erected  in 
various  parts  of  New  York  city  under  the  soeie^ 
direction. 

A  paper  called  Our  Duwtb  AntwuBle  is  published 
in  Boston  under  the  auspices  of  a  similar  sodetj. 


MTHB  HAPPIB8T  TIMB,*'/ 
We  give,  in  this  number  of  the  Maganns^  i 
pleasant  picture  of  childhood  and  age — a  pieftare 
full  of  tender  interest  The  old  man  has  done  liii 
shaie  of  life-work ;  yon  see  that  in  his  fees.  Yet 
see,  also,  that  he  has  done  it  patiently  aad  wei^ 
and  that  bis  companions  in  t^  have  been  eeonoBji 
sobriety,  and  honesty— eafe  friends  always,  md 
sure  helpers  in  STery  time  of  need.  If  we  eeald 
open  for  you  the  pages  of  his  life-hlstofy,  you  wenid 
find  many  a  record  of  trial,  affliction,  sufferiss, 
disappointment,  and  loss ;  but  these  are  few  com- 
pared with  other  and  happier  records.  He  bu 
always  hsd  a  pleasant  home,  and  this  becaase  be 
has  made  it  pleasant  by  love  and  thrift  And 
now,  in  the  autumn  of  lifo^  still  hale,  aad  able  to 
take  his  turn  at  something  useful,  he  lives  with 
children  and  grandchildren,  a  cheerful  old  maSf 
giving  and  receiving  love. 

60  it  should  be  with  all  who  grow  old,  s^d  so  it 
would  be  if  all,  like  him,  when  starting  in  life, 
would  cultivate  the  home  virtues,  that  make  ererj 
fireside  where  they  reign  the  resting-place  of  oon- 
tentment.  As  a  man  sows  in  early  life  and  middle 
age,  so  will  he  reap  at  the  last  If  he  be  idle, 
wasteful,  or  intemperaU;  if  he  be  selilBh,  ill- 
natured,  caption^  SAd  exacting  in  his  home;  if  be 
seeks  to  rise  by  dishonest  means,  or  by  means 
hurtful  to  others— his  autumn-time  will  find  him 
a  disappointed,  miserable  old  man,  with  feir^  if 
any,  to  love  or  care  for  him.  From  this  conie- 
quence  there  is  no  escape;  it  is  the  result  of  s 
moral  law  as  sure  in  its  operations  as  the  laV  of 
gravity. 

Having  used  the  Grover  <fc  Baker  Sewing  Ma- 
chine for  eight  years,  I  feel  that  I  can  reeomniend 
it  to  the  public,  and  safely  say  it  is  tke  best  ffls- 
chiike  in  use,  it  halving  required  no  repairs  in  w 
time,  and  were  I  to  have  another,  H  wonl^  betbe 
Qwftt  A  Baker.      Mas.  t.  A.  Ckiss,  AkxoBi  0. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


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^7-  M 


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[for  ni-gjinrlie,  lawn,  cambric.  Krenadine,  and  similiir  material-.  It  i*  open,  snd 
,  the  Ivack  rendered  Tery  boutfant  by  much  loopinjE^  in  the  centre  and  slight  fiil- 

f;i«  irimminfE  ilhistrated,  consists  of  narrow  kilt-plaitod  tlouncos.  .surmounted  by 
hed  by  machine-stitching  through  thoctntre.  Bows  of  the  mnteriul,  withasinRle 
jden  at  the  termination  of  tiie  ruffles,  and  confine  the  fulneis.  For  greRAdine,  full 
id  be  substituted  for  the  crimped  ruftlos. 


m 


Fluted  ruffles,  wh 
i€Mon,  replaced  by  ki 
illustrated  above,  of  1 
encircled  bv  three  kil 
e  row  of  stftchinir  thr< 
beck,  looped  at  the  s 
Ihree-fourths  tight,  tri 
iOf  two  loops.    Ready-r 


E  IRMA  SLEEVE. 


No.  2.  NINA  SLEEVE. 


he  materials  suitable  for  the  seasen,  this  nleeve  will  be  found  especially  appropristt'' 
d  while  giving  the  ftill  effect  of  a  flowing  sleeve,  does  not  impart  the  broad  appearance 
enable  to  roanv  persons. 

igly  graceAil,  flowing  sleeve,  i-uitable  for  any  materi.'^l,  either  thick  or  thin,  and  e?pc- 
mer  materials.    The  lulness  at  the  back  renders  it  especially  styli.«i!t. 


AdApied  to  all  the 
made  in  lalack  or  col* 
with  Telvet  and  nam 


INSERTION. 


Digitized  by 


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ELAINE  BASQUE. 

I  with  phiitings  of  the  same,  Telvet,  and  narrow  laco.  looks  very  handsome 
phieU  silk,  trimmed  <fith  lace  hiHteud  of  the  plaitinns,  is  veiy  <ityliBh.  It  is 
pr  cheaper  materials,  and  is  a  good  style  fur  linen,  to  bo  trimmed  with  un- 
:  veWet,  or  for  mohair. 


No. 

No.  1.— For  boys  from  tl 
Slluatrated  is  of  white  jnmii, ) 
lar  bands  of  white,  finish^  H 
plaits,  and  is  trimmed  on  '  i 
the  apron;  and  the  cuBun 

No.  2.— A  charming  dre 
The  skirt  is  bordered  witii   i 
plaiting.    The  overskirt,  tru 
full  in  the  back,  and  looped 


THE  MAY  BASQUE. 

decide  what  material  this  stylish  basque  i»  the  moit  appropriatelT  made  up 
either  plain  or  colored,  trimmed  with  Jace  or  fringe ;  it  is  iust  as  naadsome 
I  also  a  favorite  design  for  pique,  to  be  trimmed  with  wnita  bullion  fringe 
Altogether,  it  is  one  of  the  most  becoming  designs  of  the  season,  and  wul 
prestige  as  a  favorite. 


No  style  of  apron  can  b< 
vSth  narrow  fluted  ruffles  of 


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FA.SE[ION^   DEFj^RTMEISTT. 


.  FASHIONS  FOR  AUGUST. 
VETS  AND  Hats. — The  bonnets  for  the  f  eason  are  all  modifications  of  the  gypsy  shape.    Of  hats- 
&  greater  yariety.    The  bread-brimmed  Leghorn  or  straw  hats  are  the  greatest  novelty,  and  are' 
gly  stylish  in  appearance,  although  they  have  to  overoome  a  good  deal  of  prejudice,  dilFeruig 

0  so  materially  in  shape  and  appearance  from  the  mere  apologies  for  head  coverings  whieE 
ong  been  worn.    There  are  varieties  of  styles  even  in  the  broad  brims.    There  is  the  iTilsson, 

jv^,  flat  crown,  and  a  voir  graoefU  curve  to  the  brim.  Then  there  are  round  crowns  and  broader 
They  all  trim  beautifully.  For  black  and  white  costome^  there  are  bonnets  of  black  lace, 
jwith  white  Marguerites,  and  for  black  silks  striped  with  colors,  bonnets  of  black  lace,  or  crino- 
Amed  with  soft  black  corded  ribbon,  and  flowers  matching  in  color  the  tint  of  the  dress.  Elegant 
bonnets  of  white  chip  are  trimmed  with  gros-grain  ribbon  of  a  color  to  match  the  dress,  white 
"V^rming  a  cascade  aerosa  the  ttont,  and  a  rest  for  the  ends  of  long-stemmed  English  roses,  half 

^fisnia  TSE  Hair. — The  warm  weaker,  and  the  Hmf  occasioned  by  the  rapid  loss  of  the  natural 
^■probably  had  maoh  to  do  with  the  chanses  that  have  taken  place  in  the  modes  of  wearing  it^ 
^  the  abandonment,  in  many  instancee,  of  chignons.  In  the  country  the  hair  is  mostly  worn  au 
•that  if,  waved,  and  aUowed  to  flow  loosely,  or  confined  in  a  net  In  town,  ladies  braid  their 
into  broad  strands  wbanever  it  is  practicable,  fosten  it  up  in  loops,  and  simply  attach  a  coronet 
.e  ftront,  that  is,  a  braid  arranged  as  a  coronet.  Sometimes  a  rU>bon  or  a  bandeau  takes  the 
the  braftd,  and  is  certainly  lighter  for  warm  weather. 

Tis8.~Some  pretty  ties,  to  be  worn  with  shaded  suits,  are  of  bias  silk,  of  the  lightest  shade- 
stume,  bound  with  silk  of  the  darkest  shade.  Any  becoming  color  of  sflk,  edged  with  narrow 
cines  edging,  makes  a  pretty  tie  to  wear  with  black  silk  dresses.  A  pale  blue,  or  else  a  blne- 
t,  is  worn  by  blondes  with  the  plum-colored  suits  so  fashionable  this  season,  while  brunettes^ 
Ic,  creamy  bulT,  or  tea-rose  shades. 

TBAu  Bows. — The  Watteau  bow  for  velvet  or  ribbon,  worn  round  the  throat,  is  composed  of 
>s  and  four  ends,  arranged  in  a  flat  bow,  measuring,  when  completed,  about  two  inches,  and 
piece  across,  to  simulate  the  tie.  The  velvet  or  ribbon  may  be  of  any  width  preferred,  though 
about  an  inch,  and  the  bow  should  be  sewn  to  one  end,  the  other  being  fastened  underneath 
)ok  and  eye  or  a  pin.  The  velvet  should  be  of  snfllcient  length  to  fit  easily  round  the  throat, 
atteau  bows  are  worn  either  in  black  Telvet,  or  in  ribbon  to  match  the  color  of  the  dress,  this 
ite  a  matter  of  taste. 

.ARS  AND  Ukdkbslrbtsb. — Siuoc  widc  sleeves  and  dresses  cut  quite  low  in  the  neck  are  again 
in  vogue,  lace  collars  and  undersleeves  have  almost  entirely  superseded  linen  ones,  excepting 
lling  and  similar  occasions.  The  collar  is  simply  a  band  of  lace  standing  upright  around  the 
he  neck  and  turning  ovei^in  Aront  in  a  broad  or  pointed  tab. 

i.~ There  is  a  rage  for  lace  which  finds  its  justification  in  the  beauty  of  the  new  designs  and 
aanufactures.  Duohesse  lace  (another  name  for  Honiton),  Valenciennes,  and  guipure,  in  white, 
d  tints,  are  used  in  the  greatest  profusion,  and  in  rich,  elegant  materials,  as  nothing  else  can. 
ipure  lace  over  white  fioss  fringe  has  a  charming  effect.  There  is  a  revival  of  the  embroidered 
id  lace  capes  and  fichus,  which  were  so  much  worn  twenty  to  thirty  years  ago,  but  in  the  same 
e  never  obtained  a  popular  vogue  since. 

<BR  Morning  Dresses. — For  morning  dresses  there  are  exceedingly  pretty  twills  and  piqnea 
ed,  with  colored  stripes  for  the  trimmings.  Very  neat  and  dainty  are  these  morning  dresses  f 
made  with  jacket  waists,  square  cut  basque,  and  half-opened  sleeves. 

N  Travelling-Sacks. — Double  capes — the  upper  one  cut  up  on  the  back,  and  trimmed  with 
or  braids— are  added  to  the  long  travelling- sacks  of  linen  or  water- proof  cloth.  Some  prefer 
he  small  square-cut  pelerine  cape  worn  last  season ;  but  these  are  now  more  generally  attached 
morning  dresses  of  white  linen  or  pique. 

SEASONABLE  SHORT  COSTUMES. 
{See  double-page  Engraving,) 
I. — A  simple  costume  in  light-blue  French  cambric,  the  skirt  bordered  with  a  narrow  kilt- 
ounce,  surmounted  by  a  broad  puff  edged  with  scalloped  bands  bound  with  fine  white  linen 
■he  overskirt  is  long  and  full,  open  in  the  front,  gathered  down  the  middle  of  the  back,  where 
ss  is  confined  by  a  single  perpendicular  puff,  and  looped  high  on  the  sides,  forming  one  of  the 
seful  and  becoming  overskirts  of  the  season.    The  waist  is  plain  with  pointed  neck,  trimmed 
ng,  and  ornamented  on  the  shoulders  with  bows,  scalloped  and  bound  with  braid.     To  the  belt 
led  two  short  round  sashes,  producing  the  effect  of  basques,  and  a  similar  shaped  piece  stand- 
st  the  waist  and  confined  by  a  bow.    Half- wide  sleeves,  trimmed  with  pufiing. 
2. — A  costume  of  fine  lawn,  the  ground  white,  with  a  figure  of  delicate  lilac.     The  flounce  is  of 
ly  new  design,  looped  in  the  plain  spaces  between  the  box- plaits  by  a  strap  of  plain  lilac  lawn^ 

1  a  narrow  kilt-plaited  flounce,  also  of  plain  lilac.  The  overskirt  is  very  long  and  full,  trimmed 
th  a  lilac  ruffle,  forming  its  own  heading,  and  looped  very  high  on  the  sides  by  sashes  of  liUe, 
ed  with  large  bows.  The  basque  is  short  and  pointed  in  front,  but  long  and  sash- shaped  in 
open  to  the  w^t,  and  trimmed  to  match  the  overskirt.    Duchesse  sleeves,  trimmed  to  match. 

3. — Costume  ef  Spanish  linen,  trimmed  entirely  with  the  material  disposed  in  plaited  flounces 
;heir  own  heading,  and  bias  bands,  stitched  on  by  machine.  The  costume  consists  of  a  skirt, 
with  two  flounces,  and  a  long  graceful  Polonaise,  looped  at  the  sides,  and  slightly  bouffant  in 
,  trimmed  to  correspond,  the  waist  being  ornamented  by  broad  revers  reaching  to  the  belt, 
ives,  trimmed  with  plaitings  at  the  waist. 

ir  of  these  neat  and  stylish  dresses  will  make  very  dUtingui  morning  toilets  for  the  sea-side  of 
•places,  and  no  prettier  home  dresses  can  be  desired.  ^  ^  ■ 

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Music  selected  l>y  J.  A.  OBTZK. 


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VOL.  nxvni.— 5.  Digitized  by  ^^^g  IC 


74 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 
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IRTHUR'S  LlDY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


!•- 


A  UG  UST,    1871. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 

BY  HKSTEB  A.  BENEDICT. 

THE  daj  is  aslMp  where  delight  is ; 
The  night  oometh  up  from  the  sea. 
And,  sweeter  than  day  or  than  night  is, 

The  little  ones  flock  to  my  knee. 
Sweet  Evelyn,  queenly  and  quiet, 

Lenore  with  her  dead  father's  eyes. 
And  Roland  the  prince  of  all  riot 
That  bosomed  in  innocence  lies. 

All  day  with  the  winds  they  were  straying 

Through  forests  embroidered  with  fern. 
Or  under  the  willow-boughs  playing 

That  still  for  the  river-brinks  yearn. 
They  know  where  the  pebbles  are  whitest. 

In  caverns  low  down  by  the  sea; 
Where  birds  are  the  bravest  and  brightest. 

And  breezes  the  fullest  of  glee. 

But  they  come,  when  the  whisper  of  shadows 

Is  thrilling  the  odorous  air. 
And,  sweeter  than  clover  of  meadows. 

Their  breath  flutters  into  my  hair. 
They  cover  my  face  with  their  kisses, 

My  hands  with  their  fingers  ef  snow. 
Till  my  soul  hath  prescience  of  blisses 

That  only  co-angels  may  know. 

And  though  I  am  telling  them  stories. 

My  spirit  hath  wandered  afar, 
To  the  infinite  home,  where  a  door  is. 

And  will  be,  forever  igar — 
'Till,  safe  with  the  darling  fft  keepeth. 

My  wee,  tender  lambkins  and  I, 
Are  held  in  the  sunlight  that  creepeth 

Where  never  a  shadow  may  lie. 


TWO  CITIES. 

BY  EBEN  E.  REXFORD. 

TO-XIQHT  I  read  in  the  sunset. 
With  a  deep  and  solemn  awe. 
Of  the  Revelator's  vision. 

And  the  oity  that  he  saw ; 
The  city  whose  gates  are  jasper. 
And  streets  are  paved  with  gold. 


And  of  whose  wonderful  beauty 
The  half  can  never  be  told. 

And  I  thought  of  another  city 

That  is  not  far  away ; 
The  moonlight  and  the  sunbeams 

On  its  mossy  marbles  play. 
The  houses  are  long  and  narrow, 

And  the  roofs  are  green  and  low. 
And  never  a  oare  or  sorrow 

The  silent  dwellers  know. 

There  is  never  the  sound  of  weeping 

In  this  city  on  the  hill, 
And  never  a  din  nor  tumult 

In  the  streets  so  green  and  siill. 
The  dwellers  have  done  forever 

With  our  busy  strife  and  din. 
For  whom  the  gates  of  that  city 

Have  opened  to  let  them  in. 

I  have  known  some  who  grew  weary 

Of  the  rush  and  roar  of  life 
Going  on  about  their  pathways, 

And  they  tired  of  the  ceaseless  strife ; 
And  they  turned  to  the  silent  city, 

With  its  peace  so  deep  and  sweet. 
And  found  in  its  cool,  green  by-ways 

Some  rest  for  their  weary  feet. 

Some  day  when  iwy  work  is  over. 

Life's  lesson  learned  and  said. 
They  will  bear  me  out  to  a  dwelling 

In  the  city  of  the  dead. 
When  the  low  green  roof  is  o'er  me, 

Of  my  dwelling  on  the  hill, 
I  shall  be  done  forever 

With  earthly  woe  and  ill. 


I  shall  see  the  violet  springing 

In  the  streets  so  still  and  gre^n, 
And  hear  the  lark's  sweet  tinging, 

My  roof  and  the  sky  between ; 
I  shall  miss  the  tramp  and  the  bustle 

Of  the  harrying  march  of  life, 
And  find  in  that  strange,  still  city 

The  rest  that  comes  after  strife. 


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I 


TOWARD  THE  HEIGHTS. 
IN  SIX  CHAPTERS. 

BT  8.  JENKIB  JOlfES. 

aver  there  have  been  more   rumors   to  (  it's  mighty  strange  that  nobody  has  been  abl< 

ravel  out,  and  more  social  snarls  to  dis-  \  to  discover  where  she  came  from,  yet.'' 

entangle,  since  Mrs.  Arnold's  advent  among  us,   )  "  Well,  Mrs.  Anson,"  replied  Mrs.  Tread 

than  ever  were  known  before  to  the  recoUec-  \  way,  "  I  fail  to  see  that  we  are  particularly  in 

tion  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.''                               i  terested    in    that   question.      Miss  Dalesfon 

And    the  speaker,   Miss  Kate  Winthrop,   <  doubtless  has  reasons  for  her  reserve  on  th< 

pointed  her  assertion  with  an  emphatic  little   >  subject.    That  she  is  a  lady  of  high  moral  an< 

nod  of  her  curly  head,  as  with  quick  fingers  (  mental  culture,  no  one  can  doubt ;  and  I  fee 

she  dexterously  finished  ofi*the  toe  of  a  shapely  (  that  we  have  been  very  fortunate  in  securini 

little  lamb's  wool  stocking.                                  ^  her  services." 

"  And  as  to  her  charity,  she  is  much  more  (^  **  Well,  she  may  be  high  lamt,  but  it's  mi 

liberal  with  her  advice  than  with  anything  ^  opinion  she  don't  know  nothin'  about  teachin' 

else,  though  very  willing  to  bestow  that  which  r  I  never  heerd  tell  of  so  many  newfangled  no 

others  have  provided.    And  how  does  she  per-  \  tions.    Why,  here,  right  off,  when  Sam  fiiB 

form  this  part?    With  an  air  that  makes  the  ^  started  to  school,  she  writ  a  letter  to  the  ol( 

gift  an  insult  to  the  recipient  t"                            ^  man,  askin'  him  to  get  Sam  a  readin'  book 

The  gentle-faced  lady  who  sat  beside  her  ^  and  he's  only  been  through  the  spellin'-bool 

seemed  waiting  a  little  uneasily  for  the  speaker  (  oncet,  that  was  when  he  went  to  old  Mr.  Nott 

to  Uke  breath.                                                       (  I  told  the  old  man  I'd  go  and  see  about  it  my 

"I  should  not  like  to  judge  her  harshly,  |  «e//,  and  I  done  so.    She  tried  to  argue  th< 

MiBs  Kate.     I  think  she  is  really  kind  at  (  pint — said  as  how  the  child  couldn't  detacl 

heart.                                                                      ^  no  idees  to  the  words  in  the  spellin'-book,  o: 

**  1  confess  to  being  a  little  skeptical  on  that  /  eomethin'  of  that  sort,  and  that  he'd  learn  fast 

point,    Mrs.     Treadway,"    responded    Kate.  I  er  if  he  had  the  other  book ;   but  I  ju3t  toU 

"Kind,  she   may   be,   but   plainly,    wanting  ^  her,  seein'  as  how  he  had  the  spellin'-book 

utterly,  the  nice  perception  so  requisite  in  the  }  he'd  have  to  use  it  till  he  wore  it  out.    Book 

almoners  of  Heaven's  bounties.    She  handles  ^  is  so  awful  high,  and  Sam's  had  three  in  a 

the  delicate  sensibilities  of  the  heart  with  per-  I  many  years." 

feet  freedom,  and  fails,  in  her  self-complacent  ^  **  Well,  Mrs.  Anson,"   replied  her  friend 

serenity,  to  see  the  trembling  chords  she  has  )  "  your  own  statement  proves  conclusively  th< 

swept  so  rudely."                                                   I  truth  of  what  Miss  Dalesferd  told  you.    Keep 

"  Well,  as  to  that,"  responded  Miss  Ariana  ing  little  children  interminably  conning  ove 

Marsden,  "the  class  of  persons  who  receive  >  long  columns  of  words  as  unintelligible  to  then 

charity  are  not  generally  afflicted  with  feelings  <  as  Greek,  is  a  method  of  teaching  that  is  hap 

that  are  painfully  sensitive."                                i  pily  on  the  wane.    Miss  Dalesford,"  she  con 

"Much  more  generally  than  we  are  wont  to  }  tinned,  "will  probably  be  in  to  tea  this  evening 

believe,"    replied    Miss    Winthrop.      "Why  ^  and  J  hope  that  on  better  acquaintance yoi 

should  they  be  lacking  in  human  susceptibili-  ^  will  feel  a  greater  willingness  to  co-operat< 

ties  more  than  others  ?"                                        ]  with  her. 

The  languid  beauty  elevated  her  finely  pen-  s  Mrs.  Anson's  reply  gave  little  promise  of  i 

cilled   brows,  and  resuming  her  crocheting,  ,^  consummation  so  desirable, 

forebore  to  argue  the  question.  It  was  Wednesday  afternoon ;  and  the  Oak 

"  But,  laying  all  that  aside,"  continued  Miss  )  land  Aid  Society  was  holding  its  semi-monthlj 

Winthrop,  retuming  the  thread  of  her  discourse,  <  meeting  in  Mrs.  Treadwa/s  pleasant  sitting 

"her  merciless  quizzing  of  Miss  Dalesford  on   <  room,  where  the  usual  amount  of  manual  and 

every  occasion,  proves  her  totally  destitute  of  (  lingual  labor  gave  promise  of  performance, 

fine  feelings."                                                         (  judging  by  the  alacrity  with  which  both  were 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  myidf,"  spoke  a  voice  J  going  forward, 

from  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  "I  think  <  Some  ill-natured  individual,  in  alluding  to 

(76)                                                                           '  Digitized  by  Google. 


TOWASD    TEH    HEIGHTS, 


77 


the  society,  had  been  known  to  say  that  all  it 
aocompliahed  was  to  aid  in  propagating  scan- 
dal;  and  Mr.  Frank  Ingram,  the  editor  of  The 
Oaidand  Argiu,  often  averred  that  he  was  par- 
ticalarly  glad  to  receive  an  invitation  to  take 
tea  with  the  society,  as  suoh  occasions  afibrded 
bim  nnparalleled  fecilities  for  gleaning  items 
for  the  local  column. 

But  there  was  another  view  to  this  picture. 
There  were  women  fighting  life's  battles  alone 
who  could  testify  to  very  substantial  aid  fol- 
lowing in  the  train  of  this  body  of  workers; 
and  little  children  who  rejoiced  in  neat,  com- 
ibrtable  clothing  through  its  instrumen- 
tali^. 

I  wish  I  might  have  recorded  it  free  from 
the  proverbial  gossip  of  sewing  circles,  but 
veracity  compels  me  to  say  that  such  conver- 
tttion  as  I  have  narrated,  flowed  freely  at  its 
meetings. 

The  blissfully  unconscious  object  of  Mrs. 
Anson's  censures  was,  at  the  time  they  were 
.  delivered,  drilling  her  Sam  in  a  book  of  her 
own  providing,  and  indulging  the  hope  that 
the  embryo  ideas  would  ere  long  give  tokens 
of  "shooting." 

The  hands  of  the  school-room  dock  pointed 
to  half-past  three.  The  flies  were  droning 
ladly  at  the  windows,  through  which  the  faint- 
est perceptible  breeze  was  floating.  It  was  one 
of  those  trying  days  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
**  spring  term,"  when  both  teacher  and  pupils 
feel  ready  to  endorse  most  heartily  the  decla- 
ntion  of  the  Wise  Man,  "Much  study  is  a 
weariness  to  the  flesh." 

Two  or  three  little  hands  fluttered  up  like 
restless  birds  as  the  bell  signalled  the  time  for 
a  general  exercise ;  and  the  tired  teacher  felt 
for  a  moment  tempted  to  ignore  the  fact — wea- 
rily indisposed,  as  you  and  I  sometimes  are- 
even  to  the  exertion  requisite  for  answering  a 
question.  But  abnegation  is  part  of  a  teach- 
er's work,  and  patiently  she  heard  what  each 
little  one  would  say,  and  faithfully  strove  to 
make  the  rough  places  plain.  Ahl  we  dare 
not  refuse  to  hear,  or  listen  cynically  to  the 
little  voices,  though  they  stammer  in  utterance, 
and  propound  questions  that  we  deem  so  plain 
^  to  need  no  elucidation,  for  we  know  them 
to  be  the  first  out-reachings  of  the  soul  in  the 
great  life  question—"  What  is  truth?" 

On  this  particularly  sultry  afternoon  the 
very  "object  lesson" — usually  entered  into 
with  BO  mnch  zest — failed  to  prevent  the  en- 
tiAQce  of  Somnus  at  Oak-Grove  School-house. 
Another  little  hand  is  thrust  upward  aa  the 
teacher  turns  from  the  blackboard  where  a  few 


qni^,  well-directed  strokes  have  mapped  out 
the  vertebrates  with  the  difierent  dasses. 

"  Tommy  Treadway's  asleep,  ma'am  I" 

Now,  as  every  teacher  knows  full  wdl,  an 
occurrence  of  this  kind  is  not  particularly  en- 
couraging, especially  when  one  is  doing  one'ft 
best  to  be  entertaining  as  wdl  as  instruetive. 
After  several  ineffectual  attempts,  Tommy  is 
recalled  from  the  land  of  dreams,  and  assured 
that  he  "must  keep  wide  awake,  for  we  are 
going  to  have  a  nice  talk  about  birds  and 
fishes." 

Ye  Dryads  and  Naiads !  what  could  be  more 
trying  on  such  an  afternoon?  Birds  and 
fishes! — ^tantalizingly  suggestive — the  one  of 
delightful  grottoes  in  the  deep  woods,  where 
the  winds  are  at  play,  and  the  sunbeams  never 
venture;  the  other  of  clear,  moss-margined, 
pebbly  streams  of  tempting  coolness. 

Lest  our  readers  should  be  betrayed,  by  the 
flattering  title  of  "Oak  Grove  School-house," 
into  harboring  erroneous  thoughts  of  its  Dru- 
idical  shades,  I  will  briefly  undecdve  them  by 
stating  that  the  very  nndassical-looking  tem- 
ple derived  its  cognomen  from  a  luxuriant 
collection  of  the  aforesaid  trees  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road. 

It  was  owing  to  this  fortunate  circumstance 
that  they  still  waved  their  boughs  in  the  proud 
assertion,  "No  feller  hath  come  up  against 
us." 

The  "pouring  in,"  and  subsequent  "draw- 
ing out"  process  was  finished,  and  the  in- 
formation imparted  "dinched"  by  an  aptly 
chosen  anecdote ;  and,  as  the  hands  pointed  to 
the  hour  of  four,  and  the  sunbeams  fell  slant- 
ingly through  the  western  windows  upon  the 
empty  seats,  brain-wearied  and  dissatisfied 
with  her  day's  work,  Inez  Dalesford  re-enters 
the  school-room— after  finding  Suit's  lost  bon- 
net, and  searching  in  vain  for  the  lid  to 
Jonn/s  dinner-pail — and  re-seats  herself  at  her 
desk  to  credit  the  "  excuses  "  received  for  de- 
linquents. The  first,  after  several  fruitless 
attempts  at  deciphering,  she  finds  to  embody 
the  "soul  ef  wit>"  "exkua  Jan,"  John  being 
the  most  popular  name  in  the  8diool,the  brev- 
ity calls  forth  a  perplexing  train  of  conjec- 
tures as  to  the  probable  or  possible  John 
referred  to. 

The  next  is  more  intelligible. 

"Miss  Dalb9fob3>:  Please  have  a  little 
more  sympathy.  Epaminodas  Jefferson  was 
late,  because  his  floot  was  very  sore  and  he  was 
obliged  to  walk  dowly. 

Mbs.  Jsffebsok." 

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AETSUE'a   LAJ>Y*8   HOMS   MAGAZISE. 


"  ISow,  9M  said  Epaminodas  gave  no  sign  of 
being  halt  or  maimed  on  the  playgroand,  but 
quite  theeontrary,  how  was  Sjmpathj  to  know 
there  was  a  special  call  fbr  her  presence?" 

This  train  of  thought  is  brought  to  a  sadden 
terminus. 

''Miss  Balesford,  mother  said  jou  was  to  be 
sure  and  come  to  our  house  for  tea  this  even- 
ing/' and  the  matted  curls  of  Tommy  Tread- 
way,  now  "  wide  awake,''  make  their  sppearance 
at  the  window,  and  then  disappear  as  suddenly, 
as  he  hastens  to  join  some  companions  in  the 
fishing  party,  which  is  destined  to  prove  sadly 
detrimental  to  the  immaculate  purity  of  the 
Sunday  apparel  in  which  his  fond  mother  has 
arrayed  him  in  honor  of  the  meeting  of  the  Aid 
Society. 

The  various  styles  of  salutation  which  greeted 
Miss  Dalesford's  appearance  were  character* 
istic  of  the  various  classes  composing  the  com- 
munity of  Oakland.  There  were  the  unmis- 
takably inimical  glances  of  the  disaffected; 
the  well-bred  reserve  of  the  iliU,  who  mingled 
with  **  the  masses"  only  on  occasions  like  the 
present ;  and  the  cordial  greeting  of  true  polite- 
ness, which  has  its  rise  in  true  kindliness  of 
heart. 

Inez  was  painftilly  conscious  that  with  a 
certain  class  of  the  people  she  was  very  un- 
popular. She  had  committed  at  the  outset  the 
unpardonable  sin  of  refusing  to  "board  round," 
and  her  subsequent  bold  and  persistent  innova- 
tions in  methods  of  teaching  and  governance 
were  as  fuel  to  the  flames. 

The  more  enlightened  part  of  the  community 
encouraged  the  reformation  most  heartily ;  but 
they  constituted  the  minority,  and  the  children 
of  the  school  belonged  almost  wholly  to  families 
of  the  conservative  class. 

As  the  time  wore  on,  though  there  was  no 
apparent  change  in  the  sentiments  of  the  par- 
ents, the  children  had  been  rapidly  won  over 
to  the  new  order  of  things — for  there  is  in  chil- 
dren an  inherent  love  of  system,  and  they  are 
easily  enlisted  on  the  side  of  order,  if  it  is  pre- 
senteid  to  them  in  a  kindly,  attractive  way ;  and 
such  a  wny  had  the  teacher  of  Oakland. 

There  were  still  a  few  fncorrigible  spirits  of 
insubordination,  two  or  three  clownish  boys 
and  a  hoydenish  girl,  who  stoutly  withstood 
the  **  newfangled  ways,"  and  seemed  to  take  a 
brutal  delight  in  every  infringement  they  could 
make  upon  the  regulations  of  the  school. 

A  number  of  the  ladies  visited  the  scene  of 
her  labor  occasionally,  and  one  at  least  of  the 
committee,  Mr.  Ingram,  called  quite  frequently, 
often  assuring  Miss  Dalesford  that  Chaos  had 


given  place  to  Cosmos  in  a  remarkable  de 
gree. 

All  this,  however,  did  not  prevent  the  younf 
teacher  from  feeling  the  want  of  parental  oo 
operation  most  keenly,  or  seeing  that  her  school 
fell  far  below  Uie  standard  she  had  set  up  foi 
it ;  and  her  journal  bore  frequent  testimony  thai 
the  writer's  path  lay  oftener  in  the  valley  thai 
on  the  mountain  top. 

As  she  returned  to  her  boarding-house,  Bh< 
was  met  in  the  wood-path  by  little  May  Evers 
the  daughter  of  her  hostess,  with  unmistakabK 
smiles  of  welcome. 

''O  Miss  Dalesford,  I'm  so  glad  you  an 
coming  back  1  We  have  had  such  a  lonely  tei 
without  you  I  You  are  never  going  away  t< 
stay,  are  you  ?"  added  the  little  one,  with  evi 
dent  concern  in  voice  and  manner. 

"I  can't  promise  certainly,  May,  dear;  bai 
Fm  so  glad  you  love  to  have  me  with  yoo  f 
and  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  child's  flnBhe<i 
cheeks,  there  were  tears  in  her  sad,  brown  eyes 

It  was  the  great  unrest  in  those  pleading 
eyes,  where  the  tears  welled  up  so  often,  yel 
never  flowed,  that  enlisted  the  sympathy  o: 
kind  little  Mrs.  Evers  at  their  first  meeting 
She 'knew  nothing  of  the  girPs  history,  save 
that  she  had  been  an  orphan  from  her  earlieel 
childhood ;  but  the  pure,  sad  fece  found  read} 
entrance  to  her  heart,  and  her  tender  sympathj 
manifested  itself  in  a  thousand  delicate  atten- 
tions  that  were  to  the  lonely  one  as  "  soothing 
balm  leaves  swimming  in  life's  bitter  cap." 


CHAPTER  II. 

To  all  who  were  capable  of  discerning,  oi 
suflSdently  unprejudiced  to  discern  aright,  il 
was  evident  that  there  had  been  a  shaking  oi 
dry  bones,  and  a  starting  up  into  new  lifej 
under  the  noiseless  ministrations  of  the  deli- 
cate-faced girl  whom  the  Oakland  School  Com- 
mittee had  employed  with  many  misgivings. 

Mr.  Frank  Ingram  called  attention  to  the 
flourishing  state  of  the  school,  occasionally 
through  the  columns  of  his  paper,  and  some  oi 
the  gossips  of  the  community  whispered  thai 
how  many  soever  eyes  The  Argw  might  hayc 
t#  the  educational  interests  of  Oakland,  it  was 
plain  the  editor  had  two  for  the  pretty  teacher, 
irrespective  of  her  profession.  And  the  stone 
rolled  and  rolled,  and,  contrary  to  the  old 
adage,  gathered  much  moss ;  so  much,  indeed, 
that  when,  one  bright  morning,  the  worthy 
Mrs.  Arnold  rolled  it  up  to  the  school-house, 
accompanied  by  a  number  of  questions  pre- 
sented point-blank,  and  a  generous  amount  oi 


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TOWARD    TEE    HEIGHTS. 


79 


[ittiiitoas  advice,  Miss  Dalesford  was  as- 
oanded,  and  could  only  listen  in  dumb  pas- 
mtj  while  her  visitor  drew  from  her  stores  of 
latologj,  till  the  hands  crept  past  the  hour 
yt  opening  school,  and  then  took  her  leave, 
rith  many  protestations  that  "  she  had  no  de- 
ire  to  meddle  or  interfere,  and  hoped  Miss 
)ale8ford  would  not  for  one  moment  consider 
er  as  making  unwarrantable  dictations  or  sug- 
eBtions,  because  she  had  advised  and  coun- 
Klled  her  as  a  friend  who  felt  a  deep  interest 
a  her." 

Leaving  Miss  Dalesford's  astonishment  to 
ive  place  to  hot  indignation,  the  good  woman 
rent  her  way,  with  the  complacent  conscious- 
ess  of  "having  discharged  her  whole  duty, 
hatever  the  consequences  might  be." 

And  Miss  Dalesford  read  the  beautiful  mom- 
Bg  lesson,  and  joined  with  the  children  in 
rtjer  and  praise — Mrs.  Arnold,  and  the  im- 
ort  of  her  visit,  painfully  mingling  in  it  all, 
ith  a  humiliating  comparison  of  her  own 
booghts  with  "  the  eyes  of  the  fool  wandering 
)  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

Mr.  Ingram  still  continued  his  visitations 
t  the  little  brown  school-houBC,  occasionally 
alking  home  with  Miss  Dalesford  after  school 
nd  by  his  cheerfulness  and  attractive  conver- 
ition  throwing  a  little  brightness  over  her 
Athway.  She  had  not,  she  would  not  regard 
im  otherwise  than  as  a  friend ;  he  had  aever 
iven  her  the  slightest  cause  to  consider  him 
\  any  other  light.  And  so  one  evening,  as 
»ey  walked  through  the  still,  whispering 
oods,  and  he  told  her  the  oft-told  tale,  she 
as  utterly  unprepared  for  the  revelation ;  and 
lere  came  first  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
le  could  not  conceal,  and  then  her  heart  went 
It  in  strong  pity  to  the  man  thus  with  pathetic 
ioquence  laying  his  hcart-ofiVring  at  her  feet. 
do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  she  was  the  greater 
ifierer  of  the  two ;  for  his  was  one  of  those 
iiaracters  in  which  such  an  attachment — I 
ill  not  call  it  love — is  parasitic  in  its  nature, 
ot  interwoven  with  the  soul-fibres  to  the 
ending  asunder  thereof;  and  her  heart,  with 
a  pure,  inwrought  feelings  and  fine  sympa- 
iues,  felt  in  all  its  acuteness  the  smart  she 
barged  herself  with  inflicting  on  another. 

The  visits  and  the  walks  were  suddenly  dis- 
ODtinued,  and  Mrs.  Arnold  reported  the  fact 
:>  several  of  her  acquaintances,  with  divers 
elf-congratulatory  remarks  on  having  warned 
lias  Dalesford,  and  the  reiterated  expression 
f  her  belief  that  **  he  was  trifling  with  her^ 
ut  as  he  did  with  Miss  Marsden." 


The  golden  summer  went  by,  and  the  year 
grew  ripe  in  beauty  and  fruition,  and  then 
grew  old  and  approached  its  end,  and  went  out 
amid  the  mourn^l  wailings  of  the  night  winds ; 
and  the  morning  came,  bright  and  beautiful, 
chasing  away  the  shadows,  and  hushing  the 
sad  melodies  that  swept  the  forest  aisles.  So 
we  disrobe  a  house  of  its  mourning  badges 
when  a  funeral  is  past,  and  turn  again  to  the 
cheerful  light  of  life  when  the  sad  pageantry  of 
death  is  over.  And  winter  yielded  reluctantly 
to  spring,  returning  ever  and  anon,  as  if  re- 
penting of  his  weakness,  and  the  south  wind 
came,  stealthily  resurrecting  earth's  buried 
beauty,  and  **  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  " 
appeared  once  more ;  but,  save  these  changes 
wrought  by  nature,  there  was  little  of  varia- 
tion in  the  life  of  Inez  Dalesford.  But  what- 
ever of  grief  clouded  the  brightness  of  her 
existence,  she  was  not  one  of  those  to  look 
back  upon  the  wrecks  of  the  past,  to  the  ignor- 
ing of  what  still  remained  to  do  and  sufiTer^ 
She  would  not  permit  the  shadow  that  had 
fallen  athwart  her  life  to  imbitter  herspirit, 
or  mar  the  work  Heaven  had  set  before  her. 
And  the  brave  little  woman,  with  no  index  to 
her  pain  save  the  great  grief  that  looked  forth 
from  her  eyes,  wrought  with  a  cheerful,  con- 
tinuous, unobtrusive  effort,  that  called  for  all 
that  was  best  and  purest  of  her  inner  life,  to  be 
laid  upon  its  altar,  demanding  a  daily  renewal 
of  the  same.  Who  should  say  she  would  fail 
of  her  reward  ? 

Mrs.  Arnold's  broad  shoulders  still  bore  up 
bravely  in  her  efforts  to  obey  the  i^jupction  of 
the  apostle,  even  unto  the  "bearing  of  the 
burdens"  of  the  entire  community. 

Calling  occasionally  at  the  school,  she  made 
patronizing  observations  on  the  work  Miss 
Dalesford  was  accomplishing,  reporting  in  a 
casual  way  the  various  complaints  that  had 
reached  her  ears — that  "she  was  keeping  Willie 
back  too  much ;"  or,  "pushing  James  forward 
entirely  too  rapidly  for  thoroughness;"  that 
Mr.  A.  had  said  "  it  would  take  a  fortime  to 
keep  the  pupils  supplied  with  all  the  books 
she  called  for ;"  and  "  Mr.  B.  had  told  her  that 
Mr.  C.  was  threatening  every  day  to  withdraw 
both  patronage  and  children  from  school;'' 
and,  taking  her  leave  with  the  consolatory, 
"  Now,  don't  let  these  things  trouble  you  in  the 
least;  just  go  right  along  in  the  path  of  dotj 
without  regard  to  consequences.  We  moat 
look  for  opposition  here;  good  actions  are 
always  misconstrued;  I  can  sympathiae  with 
you,"  generally  accompanying  her  cloaiiig 
strain  with  a  display  of  pocket-handkerchief 

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80 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'8    HOME    MAGAZINE. 


and  leaying  Min  DaleBibrd  to  bibooUi  her  raf- 
fled spiritiSy  mnd  forget  her  yisitor^s  sapereroga- 
tory  disclomire  as  best  she  might 

Timid  spring  had  given  place  to  her  fearless 
sister,  who  strewed  with  unsparing  hand  the 
splendors  of  her  royalty.  The  scarlet  pim- 
pernel by  the  roadside  again  opened  its  gay 
pe'als  as  Inez  Dalesford  went  to  her  daily 
tasky  or  folded  them  over  its  breast,  as  if  mourn- 
ing, when  the  sun  hid  his  face ;  and  the  little 
flower  more  often  smiled  than  wept;  but  Inez — 
ah !  she  said  to  herself  in  those  summer  days 
that  her  sky  was  never  clear. 

Mrs.  Arnold's  visits  became  more  frequent, 
her  revelations  more  startling,  and  her  hints 
more  heavily  fraught  with  ominous  import 
The  number  of  the  disaflected  was  increasing. 
"Ck)uld  not  Miss  Dalesford  do  something  to 
awaken  a  new  interest?" 

One  by  one,  several  of  the  pupils  were  with- 
drawn from  the  school ;  and  the  brave  heart 
began  to  waver  in  its  work. 

"'Tis,  oh,  to  travel  the  desert  day  by  day,  to  \ 
feel  the  weariness  of  the  journey,  the  burning 
of  the  sands,  the  thirst,  the  daily  deferred  hope 
for  a  little  of  life's  greenness  and  coolness,  the 
unvaried  existence  drifting  at  last  into  aweary 
acceptance  of  what  life  brings,  with  no  bright 
deceptive  future  to  expect;  the  miserable  sense 
of  unappreciated,  unavailing  efibrt,  driving 
the  soul  in  upon  itself,  with  nothing  but  the 
empty  goblet  it  had  expected  to  find  overflow- 
ing with  the  sparkling  elixir  of  glowing  suc- 
cess—nothing but  aching  and  unrest,  where  it 
had  looked  for  rest  and  peace !" 

"  Nay !  no  outreaching  of  the  soul  to  that 
which  is  beyond  is  ever  wholly  lost;  it  makes 
no  upward  struggle,  but  helps  to  give  it  the 
impetus  that  shall  aid  it  in  gaining  the  heights 
at  last  There  is  no  seven-fold  burning  from 
which  It  does  not  come  forth  purified  from 
some  dross,  if  it  but  wills.  There  is  no  uplift- 
ing of  the  eyes  to  the  higher  life — whether  for 
ourselves  or  others— that  is  not  met  by  an  an- 
swering beam  from  the  tanclum  sonetonmi  with- 
in the  veil ;  we  may  fail  in  our  blindness  to 
see  it  aright,  but  all  shall  be  clear  when  we 
look  back  from  beyond.'' 

Such  was  the  entry  in  Miss  Dalesford's 
journal,  one  glowing  noon  in  those  summer 
days;  and  such  the  annotation,  in  bold  charac- 
ters, which  she  found,  on  her  return  from  an- 
swering a  hurried  call  to  an  invalid  she  was 
accustomed  to  visit 

Little  May  Evers  came  eagerly,  informing 
her  that  "a  gentleman  called  while  she  was 
away ;  that  he  asked  for  a  drink,  and  then  sat 


down  in  her  chair  and  wrote  a  few  moments— 
that  she  fancied  old  Mr.  Nott  had  returned 
again ;  but  that  he  was  a  good  deal  handsomei 
than  Mr.  NoU;  that  he  had  asked  her  what 
her  teacher's  name  was,  and  " — the  little  nar- 
rator was  going  on  breathlessly,  when  Miec 
Dalesford  interrupted  her  with :  "  Well,  May 
don't  talk  to  me  any  more  now,  please."  And 
the  child  shrank  away,  half-frightened  at  the 
white,  rigid  face  and  changed  voice. 

Inez  Dalesford  went  through  the  usual  rontiof 
of  duties  on  that  afternoon  like  one  in  a  dream 
and  the  little  brains  forgot  the  mischief  the\ 
might  have  plotted  unhindered  by  the  wonted 
surveillance ;  and  the  eyes  that  turned  toward 
the  teacher's  desk  wore  various  expressions  o 
curiosity,  pity,  and  terror. 

The  clouds  of  gold  and  crimson  threw  theii 
glories  in  the  path  of  the  setting  sun,  and  tbeii 
reflected  beauty  on  the  earth,  as  Inez,  witli 
little  May,  set  out  for  home. 

"O  Miss  Dalesford!"  said  the  child,  " don'l 
the  clouds  look  beautiful  ?  I  wonder  if  it  isn't 
the  gate  of  the  Crolden  City  unveiled  for  uc 
for  a  little  while." 

It  was  a  fancy  she  had  often  indulged  in  hei 
childhood.  Ah !  she  had  since  learned  to  look 
upon  the  Pearly  Gates  as  far,  oh,  very  fiir  away; 
but  she  would  not  cloud  the  bright  dream  o1 
untutored  bliss ;  she  only  smiled  upon  the  rapt 
upturned  face,  and  prayed  silently  that  the 
pure-browed  child  beside  her  might  readi 
''  the  heights  "  by  some  other  route  than  thai 
leading  through  the  dark  vistas  her  feet  wen 
treading. 

*'  You  are  a  little  late  this  evening,"  Mrs 
Evers  said  pleasantly,  as  they  entered.  "An 
you  sick,  Miss  Inez  ?"  changing  her  tone  ai 
she  saw  the  girl's  white  face.  "  Oh,  no,  thank 
you  I"  was  answered,  with  an  attempt  at  cheer 
fulness.  ''  May  and  I  were  watching  the  sun 
set,  and  so  took  no  note  of  time,  I  suppose.  ] 
am  sorry  if  you  have  kept  tea  waiting^mj 
head  has  ached  badly  all  day — all  the  after 
noon,"  she  stammered ;  ''  I  shall  be  better  to 
morrow." 

Mrs.  Evers  wns  troubled ;  she  felt  tenderlj 
for  the  sad-eyed  girl  who  came  in  and  wen' 
out  among  them,  usually  quiet  and  thought 
ful ;  sometimes,  but  rarely,  glowingly  commu 
nicative,  as  if  her  thoughts  overflowed ;  always 
silent  respecting  herself,  carefully  guarding 
her  past  as  a  casket  of  sacred  treasure,  yet  pos- 
sessing yearnings  for  sympathy,  which,  at  rare 
intervals,  approached  almost  to  violence— fl 
daily  problem  for  the  unphilosophical  little 
woman,  which  she  had  tried  in  vain  to  solve. 
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TOWARD    TEE    S EIGHTS. 


81 


"Ha»  bad  Bell,  or  any  of  those  great,  dread- 
M  boys  given  Miss  Dalesford  trouble  to- 
day ?*'  she  queried  of  May,  after  Inez  had  re- 
tired. 

"No,  mamma,''  said  the  child;  "they  haye 
been  so  good  this  afternoon;  Miss  Dalesford 
has  been  so  white  and  strange,  I  guess  they 
felt  sorry  for  her.  I  don't  know  what  can 
have  ailed  her,"  she  continued ;  ''  she  seemed 
u  well  as  usnal  when  she  came  back  from  the 
B;leD,  but  a  strange  gentleman  had  been  in,  and 
bad  written  something  in  her  little  book  that 
noflt  bave  made  her  very  sorry,  for  she  turned, 
^\k  I  so  pale  when  she  saw  it.  I  wish  he  had 
K>t  done  such  a  naughty  thing,  for  I  liked  him 
iret-rate." 

And  the  child  prattled  on,  while  her  mother 
leemed  loet  in  thought. 

^  I  can  make  nothing  out  of  it,"  she  said,  as 
ihe  related  the  circumstance  to  her  husband. 

Mr.  Evers  was  as  much  at  loss  as  herself. 
"A  mystery  you  may  Well  say,"  he  remarked ; 
"lean  conjecture  no  solution;"  and  lacking 
^  curiosity  and  sympathy  his  wife  possessed 
10  largely,  he  soon  forgot  "the  mystery"  in 
the  plain  market  items  of  a  newspaper 
Dolamn. 

Inez  came  down  to  breakfast  looking  as 
Ibmal — perhaps  a  trifle  paler  from  her  sleep- 
less night.  She  forced  herself  to  partake  of 
ihe  delicacies  prepared  for  her  as  an  invalid, 
md,  with  a  little  attempt  at  lightness,  reported 
tierself  oonralescent,  "I  have  always  been 
troubled  more  or  less  with  headache,"  she  ex- 
plained, and  the  subject  of  her  indisposition 
neceived  no  further  notice. 

Inez  Dalesford  had,  she  thought,  stood  face 
io  fiice  with  her  heart  that  night  She  had 
[>robed  unsparingly  a  wound  she  had  delu- 
ii?ely  taught  her»|jlf  was  healed.  She  had 
Imried  again  her  dead  which  had  risen  from 
the  grave  where  she  had  laid  it  years  before. 
(Carefully  sealing  together  the  pages  which  had 
K)  stirred  the  fountain  of  her  soul,  she  now 
strove  to  take  up  again  the  thread  of  her  life, 
10  keenly  severed  on  yester  noon.  Ahl  it 
leemed  a  cycle  of  years  that  intervened  I  a  sin- 
gle summer  night  and  half  a  day ;  and,  as  she 
walked  again,  through  the  breezy  woods,  the 
Did  beaten  path  to  the  little  school-house,  she 
felt  as  we  feel  after  the  scene  in  the  death- 
chamber — the  shroud,  the  coffin,  the  dropping 
idods  are  over,  and  we  turn  back  to  the  old 
Ufe,  out  of  which  all  brightness  has  departed. 

"Bad  Bell,"  as  she  was  calleid,  had  gone  to 
Rhool  earlier  than  usual,  and  in  token  of  re- 
pentance for  her  many  misdemeanors,  swept 

voi^  xxxvm.— 6. 


the  floor  as  neatly  as  her  untidy  habits  would 
permit,  and  placed  a  spray  of  honeysuckle  in 
a  broken  mug  on  the  table.  "  For,"  as  she  told 
Lettie  Willis,  "she  felt  sure  Miss  Dalesford 
was  going  to  die;  she  had  seen  people  look 
that  way  before ;"  with  a  wise  shake  of  her 
unkempt  head — and  "  idie  felt  sorry  she  had 
bothered  her  so." 

Miss  Dalesford's  notice  of  these  little  mani- 
festations was  highly  gratifying  to  the  poor 
girl,  who  could  scarcely  recall  the  time  she  had 
done  anything  to  call  for  thanks  before;  and, 
strengthened  in  her  resolution  to  reform,  she 
managed  to  pass  through  the  day  without  once 
pulling  Tommy  Tread  way's  curls,  or  hidi 
any  of  the  girls'  dinner- baskets ;  a  feat  whJv-- 
caused  her  no  little  pride ;  and  the  result  o 
this  suddenly  awakened  self-respect  was  u 
half-successful  attempt  to  make  herself  tidy  on 
the  following  morning.  True,  the  elfish  locks 
rebelled  against  the  encroachment  upon  their 
wonted  liberty,  and  the  brown  fiice  gave  doubt- 
ful streakings  of  its  original  complexion ;  but 
the  evidences  that  an  efibrt  had  been  made 
were  unmistakable. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  golden  summer  had  drifted  into  purple 
autumn  with  its  "melancholy  days,"  when 
those  whose  life-foliage  having  fallen,  ripe 
for  the  grave,  are  wont  "  to  perish  with  the 
flowers." 

It  was  Friday  evening,  and  Inez  Dalesford 
returning  home,  fatigued  both  in  mind  and 
body,  was  rejoicing  at  the  prospect  of  rest  : 

"Rest'for  the  tired  trembliag  heart, 
And  the  throbbing  o'er-wroughfc  brain." 

As  she  drew  near  the  quaint-looking  brown 
house — her  home,  (ah  1  how  much,  and  again 
how  little  there  may  be  in  that  word,)  she  was 
startled  by  the  sight  of  Dr.  Winthrop's  dusty 
gig  at  the  little  green  gate.  The  brown  front 
told  no  tale,  as  with  its  narrow  windows  it 
looked  down  at  her,  like  a  familiar  face,  from 
among  the  locust  trees. 

How  well  she  knew  every  feature  of  thye 
house  and  its  surround!  ugs,  from  the  swal- 
lows' nests  under  the  eaves  to  the  climbing 
rose  by  the  south  window,  and  the  clusters 
of  periwinkle  on  each  side  of  the  walk  lead- 
ing up  to  the  front  door. 

She  found  the  usually  qui^  little  boarding- 
house  in  a  state  of  unwonted  excitement.  An 
invalid  on  her  way  to  the  medieal  springs  had 
been  left  by  the  morning  coach,  the  brutal 


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82 


ABTEUE'S   LADTB   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


driver  saying  ''he  didn't  want  the  woman 
dying  on  his  handa  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms." 

It  was  indeed  evident  that  the  silver  chord 
was  almost  loosed ;  and  the  labored  breathing 
of  the  sufierer  mingled  painfully  with  the  wail- 
ing of  her  child,  as  Inez  noiselessly  ascended 
the  stairs. 

Dr.  Wintbrop's  usually  merry  face  was  very 
grave  as  he  drove  away ;  and  Inez  stole  quietly 
out  into  the  passage  to  proffer  assistance,  as 
Mrs.  Evers  returned  to  the  sick  room.  As  she 
spoke  softly,  the  sufferer  moved  uneasily.  "So 
like  her  voice !"  she  murmured.  When  Mrs. 
Evers  re-entered,  she  asked,  faintly :  *'  Whom 
were  you  talking  with  at  the  door  V* 

"  Miss  Dalesford ;  a  young  lady  who  is  board- 
ing with  me," 

''Dalesford!"  repeated  the  patient,  as  if 
speaking  to  herself.  "  That  was  her  mother's 
maiden  name,  and  her  second  initial  was  D." 
She  was  interrupted  by  a  violent  fit  of  cough- 
ing, which  lasted  several  minutes.  As  soon  as 
she  was  again  able  to  speak,  she  added,  eagerly : 
'*  What  is  her  Christian  name?" 

"Inez." 

She  gave  a  sudden  start,  as  if  with  pain, 
and,  remaining  silent  a  moment,  said  with  ap- 
parent effort :  "  I  should  like  to  see  that  lady 
alone ;  I  think  I  have  known  her." 

Mrs.  Evers  reminded  her  of  the  physician's 
caution  against  excitement,  and  suggested  that 
she  should  wait  until  the  morrow ;  bat  she  re- 
fused to  postpone  the  interview. 

"  I  cannot  sleep,"  she  said,  "  until  I  know  if 
it  is  she." 

Seeing  that  her  opposition  was  producing 
the  very  effect  she  wished  to  avoid,  Mrs.  Evers 
consented  to  call  Miss  Dalesford. 

When  Inez  entered  the  room,  softly,  the  sick 
woman  was  lying  with  closed  eyes,  her  hands 
clasped  together  upon  her  breast.  Inez  stood 
by  the  bedside  looking  at  her  pityingly,  but 
failing  to  recognize  in  the  emaciated  being  the 
dearly  loved  confidante  of  former  years — beau- 
tiful, brilliant  Marion  Groves. 

The  next  moment  the  patient  opened  her 
eyes— great,  sparkling,  dark  orbs. 
'"Marion!" 

"Inez!" 

"Dear,  dear  Marion!"  and  the  lips  and 
brow  of  the  invalid  were  covered  with  kisses. 
"And  is  this  your  darling  little  babe?"  she 
asked,  bending  tenderly  over  the  unconscious 
sleeper. 

The  other  had  spoken  no  word,  save  the 
startled  exclamation  on  first  seeing  Inez. 


"  I  am  afraid  you  are  very  ill,"  passing  h 
cool  hand  softly  over  the  brow  so  marble  whi 
under  the  waves  of  raven  hair. 

The  sick  woman  shrank  from  her.  "  Don 
touch  me,  Inez  I  I  am  not  worthy.  If  yc 
knew  all,  you  would  hate  and  spurn  me  froi 
you." 

Inez  trembled  violently  at  her  words,  bi 
answered  soothingly,  entreating  her  to  compo 
herself.  The  child  woke  and  cried  pit 
ously. 

"  He  is  always  afraid  of  strangers,"  said  tl 
mother,  as  Inez  took  him  up ;  but  the  little  oi 
smiled  up  in  the  face  that  bent  over  him,  an< 
nestling  his  golden  head  against  her  breast,  wi 
soon  asleep  again. 

The  sick  woman  watched  her  uneasily.  " 
cannot  tell  you  to-night,  Inez,"  she  said  i 
length ;  "  I  must  get  more  strength ;  I  wish  yc 
to  rest  to-night — pray  do  1"  seeing  Inez  aboi 
to  demur  against  leaving  her.  "  Mrs.  Evei 
will  watch  with  me,  and  I  wish  to  be  left  aloi 
with  her ;  I  shall  not  die  to-night,  and  to-moi 
row  I  shall  tax  you  sufficiently.  Yes,  truly ! 
she  murmured,  and  her  features  contracted,  i 
in  a  spasm  of  pain.  "Please  lay  the  bal 
here  close  by  my  side." 

Inez  still  hesitated. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  to  leave  me ;  my  time  i 
not  yet  come.  I  have  much  yet  to  do ;  pra; 
for  me  that  I  may  have  strength  to  perfoir 
it." 

Her  friend  left  her,  but  not  to  sleep.  J 
vag^e  feeling  of  fear  smote  along  her  hearl 
strings,  and  a  shudder  like  an  ague  thrill  crep 
over  her.  "  To-morrow  I  shall  tax  you  soffi 
ciently."  The  words  seemed  burning  into  he 
brain,  with  the  thought  that  a  hidden  lioli 
connecting  this  woman  in  some  inexplicabl 
way  with  her  blighted  li^  was  about  to  b 
revealed;  and  when  she  knelt  to  petitioi 
strength  for  the  sufferer,  she  asked  with  stroDj 
cryings  that  she  might  drink  humbly  the  cu] 
in  which  a  new  element  of  bitterness  seemei 
about  to  be  mingled. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  conjecture  which  o 
the  two  suffered  more  acutely  during  the  long 
weary  hoars  of  that  night  But  no!— goil 
fixes  a  barb  on  the  arrow  of  pain  which  inno' 
cence  cannot  know  I 

About  midnight  the  sick  woman,  as  if  bj 
superhuman  strength,  rose  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and,  before  her  startled  nurse  could  remon- 
strate, exclaimed  in  an  excited  manner :  "  Doo't 
speak  to  me,  pray ;  take  this  key  and  look  in 
the  tray  of  the  small  trunk  for  a  purple  port- 
foUo." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


TOWARD    TEE   HEIGHTS. 


83 


She  remained  sitting  until  she  receiiyed  it. 

"Now call  Miss  Lynne,"  she Baid, hurriedly. 
If  n.  Evers  hesitated  a  moment 

"  You  mean  Miss  Dalesford  ?" 

She  nodded  assent,  and  added :  "Go,  quick- 
jrl"  The  summons  brought  Miss  Dalesford 
promptly  to  her  bedside. 

"0  Inezl  be  merciful;  I  have  suffered 
leeply;''  she  said  pleadingly,  as  her  friend 
ppeared.  "I  could  not  have  wronged  you 
»  cruelly — you,  my  friend,  who  loved  and 
rusted  me  so  deeply;  but,  0  Inezl  I  loved 
im  with  a  love  that  was  madness ;  I  have  had 
\j  recompense.'' 

Inez  grasped  a  chair  for  support,  as  the 
ricken  being  handed  her  a  package  of  letters, 
nd  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"I  would  have  made  reparation  afterward, 
Dt  I  could  not  learn  the  whereabouts  of  either 
f  you ;  and  I  learned  recently  that  he  em- 
urked  on  the  fated  Sea  OtUlJ' 
All  this  time  Inez  Dalesford  uttered  no 
mod,  and  now  she  turned  and  left  the  room 
ith  a  firmer  step  than  she  had  entered.  Her 
ianched  face  called  forth  a  startled  exclama- 
DQ  from  Mrs.  Evers,  whom  she  met  at  the 
x>r ;  but  without  appearing  to  notice  her,  she 
uried  to  her  room. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  fecord  the  struggle, 
Dg  and   terrible;    enough,  she   came  forth 

last,  purer  from  that  seven-fold  burning — 
arer  the  heighu,  from  that  fearful  con- 
ct 

As  the  graj  light  of  morning  crept  into  the 
:k  chamber,  Inez  re-dbtered,  softly.  Marion 
un  hid  her  face;  but  there  was  nothing 
reproach  in  the  tone  or  words  that  greeted 

T. 

"May  Heaven  forgive  you  as  truly  as  I  do, 
uion;  let  us  bury  the  dead  past  out  of 
;ht." 

The  little  child  was  reaching  out  his  tiny 
nds  to  her,  and  as  she  bent  to  take  him  up, 
i  pressed  the  seal  of  forgiveness  on  the  cold 
Dw  of  the  dying  woman. 
"0  Inez !  you  are  an  angel  truly,  and  I  can 
M  in  Heaven's  pardon  now.     Yes,  I  could 
in  peace  but  for  my  child ;"  and  her  great, 
^  ey^  were  fixed  pleadingly  on  her  friend's 
^  as  the  little  one  nestled  up  to  her,  and 
^  its  content. 
Hag  any  one  claims  upon  your  child  7" 
He  has  no  claims  on  any  one,"  the  mother 
•wered,  bitterly.    My  husband's  family  have 
^er  recognized  me,  being  opposed  to  oar 
krriage. 

You  remember  Albert  Ware,  Inez?— truly 


I  was  not  worthy  of  him,  and  he  was  taken 
away  before  my  child  was  born.  Poor  little 
one,  a  waif  on  life's  rough  seal"  she  added, 
plaintively,  as  she  looked  at  the  child,  her 
eyes  full  of.  the  anguish  of  mother  love  and 
pity. 

"Then,  Marion,"  said  Inez,  quickly,  "leave 
your  little  one  with  me.  My  heart  is  hun- 
gering for  something  of  my  very  own  to 
lover 

She  asked  to  be  allowed  to  kiss  her  babe 
once  more,  and  laying  Inez's  hand  amid  the 
golden  curls  of  the  little  one,  so  soon  to  be 
motherless,  she  said,  solemnly:  "I  give  him 
to  you,  Inez;  let  no  one  take  him  from 
you." 

She  sank  back  upon  her  pillow,  exhausted, 
but  with  a  peaceful  smile  on  her  face.  The 
pressing  burden  of  sin  and  care  lifted  from 
her  soul,  it  seemed,  while  even  yet  in  its 
clay  tabernacle,  to  rise  up  unto  the  Infinite. 

"  'The  inhabitants  shall  no  more  say  I  am 
sick ;  they  shall  return  and  come  to  Zion  with 
songs  and  everlasting  joy  upon  their  heads. 
They  shall  obtain  joy,  and  gladness,  and  sor- 
row, and  sighing  shall  flee  away,  *  *  * 
even,  them  will  I  bring  to  my  holy  mountain. 
There  is  a  river,  the  streams  whereof  maka 
glad—" 

When  the  sun  looked  down  with  his  full, 
glad  smile  upon  the  earth,  the  tired  spirit  wns 
borne— we  may  hope— to  the  land  where  "  they 
have  no  need  of  the  sun,  for  the  Lamb  is  the 
light  thereof." 

Many  were  the  conjectures,  and  profuse  the 
interchanges  of  opinion,  when,  after  the  death 
of  Marion  Ware,  it  was  learned  that,  she 
had  given  her  child  to  Miss  Dalesford,  and 
that  the  latter  had  accepted  the  charge. 

"  What  in  the  world  does  she  want  with,  that 
two-year-old  baby,  Td  like  to.  know  Z"  was 
the  reiterated  interrogative  ezclamatioB  of 
Mrs.  Anson. 

Mrs.  Arnold  called  upon  Inez,  at  an  early 
day,  "to  suggest  the  expediency  of  placii^g 
the  child  in  a  home  for  foundlings ;  there  was 

an  excellent  institution  of  the  kind,  at  M ; 

and  really,  Miss  Dalesford.  could  not  meet  the 
expense  and  care  of  such  a  diarge." 

Inez  heard  her  through  with  the  utmost 
coolness,  and  then  almost  annihilated  the 
stout  lady  with 'the  polite  fngidity  of  her 
reply. 

Mrs.  Arnold  reported,  a»  the  result  of  "her 
conscientious  effort,"  that  Miss  Deleeford  had 
"treated  her  with  the  most  repellant  oold« 

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I 


I 


84 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


ness ;"  BO  no  one  else  ventured  to  interpose  with 
either  qaentionB  or  advice. 

Inez  devoted  heraelf  nnweariedlj  to  her 
charge  during  vacations,  procuring  the  rar- 
vices  of  a  nurse  when  engaged ;  and  the  little 
one  clung  to  her  with  an  affection  beautiful  to 
behold. 

(To  he  oowtinued,) 


CLUTCH  HIM  WHO  CAN. 

"  VfOW  dear  the  decks,  boys,  and  let's  have 
i^   ; Clutch  him  who  can.*"    Two  rows  of 
chairs  were  placed  back  to  back  down  the 
room,  just  one  less  in  number  than  those  play- 
ing, who,  with  hands  joined  and  backs  to  the 
chairs,  walked  slowly  round   and    round   as 
Katey  played  tiie  piano.   The  instant  the  music 
Mopped,  every  one  was  to  fling  hinself  or  her- 
self into  a  seat ;  and,  as  there  was  one  chair 
short,  one  person  was  excluded  each  round,  and 
left  standing.     Then   sly  Katey  played   her 
strains  in  the  most  artful  way,  now  feinting,  as 
it  were,  and  afiecting  to  be  on  the  point  of 
stopping,  when  some  one  would   be   betrayed 
into  making  a  dive  at  the  seat;  now  hurrying 
on,  so  that  the  whole  party  had  to  canter  round 
and  round  till  they  were  out  of  breath.    Sud- 
•denly  came  the  abrupt  stoppage  of  the  music ; 
and  such  a  scuffling,  tumbling,  and  stag^gering; 
such  a  clatter  of  chairs  knocked  together,  and 
hysterical  screams  from  laughing  and  squeez- 
ing; such  frantic  and  convulsive  struggling, 
and  such  heat  and  fluster  followed,  that  it  was 
really  the  most  exhilarating  spectacle  in  the 
-world — though,  df  course,  extremely  vulgar. 
Most  comical  was  it  to  see  the  long,  stooping 
figure  of  Lord  Shipton  coursing  round   and 
being  coursed  round  by  one  of  the  lively  girls, 
a  little  nervous  about  his  corns,  half  enjoying 
the  romp,  and  treated  with  the  most  profane 
disrespect.    Billy  Webber  was  the  leader ;  he 
had  borrowed  a  pin  from  Miss  Katey,  with 
whioh  he  had  pinned  back  his  clerical  coat 
tails  for  better  freedom  of  action.    As  at  the 
end  of  each  round  a  fresh  chair  was  taken 
away,  and  a  fresh  person  became  "out,"  it  was 
amazing  to  see  how  the  excitement  and  the 
desperation  of  the  struggle  increased,  and  one 
would  have  thought  a  life  was  at  stake.    At 
lost  it  was  reduced  to  two  persons,  the  Bev. 
Mr.  Webber  (a  most  grotesque  figure,  with  his 
dexdcail  coat  tails  pinned  back,  and  his  face 
showing  signs  that  would  be  accepted  in  a 
oourt  of  law  as  certain  evidence  of  heat),  and 
Miai  Polly,  both  walking  round  and  ronod, 


hands  joined,  and  a  single  chair  between  then 

The  young  lady  was  proud  of  this  publicity 

though  her  fine  hair  was  all  tossed,  comiB 

down  at  the  back,  and  fixed  up  temporaril 

with  a  hasty  hair* pin.   Her  delicate  cheek  wi 

covered  with  a  rich  and  glowing  color,  an 

her  collar  rather  awry ;  so,  too,  was  her  drea 

"torn  off*  her  back"  through  Lord  Shipton 

stepping  awkwardly  on  it  in  the  m(Ut;  bi 

withal  she  wasafine  and  most  pictureeque  figui 

Both  danced  round,  Polly  falling  into  all  mu 

ner  of  attitudes,  panting  like  some  hunted  faw 

hardly  able  to  stand  fVom  langhter — Austere 

heated,   tumbled.     Mr.  Webber  bent  dow 

his  eyes  fixed  on  Polly,  as  if  he  was  waitii 

for  a  bird  to  rise;  his  collar  very  limp;  1 

also  much  out  bf  breath ;  and  both  slippii 

round,  watching  each  other's  eyes  as  in  a  da 

with  daggers.     Katey  artfully  protracted  t) 

situation  until  it  became  painfully  "stretched 

now  affecting  to  be  on  the  verge  of  stoppin 

and  causing  the  excited  clergyman  to  make 

plunge  at  the  chair.    "  Til  back  Polly  I"  sa 

the  father  eagerly.    "Watch  his  eye,  wife 

his    eye,    my    girl!"      Instantly    the   mm 

stopped ;  the  chair  rocked  and  tottered  wi 

the  attack  made  on  it ;  both  are  on  it— or, 

least,  Polly  would  seem  to  be  almost  in  tl 

lap  of  the  clergyman— when  suddenly  the  sc 

slips  ofl^,  and  down  she  slides  and  sits  on  t 

ground — not  ungracefully,  after  all — while  t 

clergyman  is  triumphant  on  the  vacant  fran 

Shrieks  of  laughter   ripe  from   this   tables 

Vociferous  tongues  ai«  uplifted  as  both  Bid 

claim  the  victory,  whicki  is  given,  as  of  cour 

by  "  Lord  Chief  Justice  Shipton,"  to  whom  t 

matter  is  referred,  in  Polly's  favor.    She  rii 

full  of  the  wildest  spirits,  and  bids  her  sist 

in  scarcely  a  whisper,  "  Pin  me  up,  dear,  i 

the  love  of  Heaven,  for  Pm  all  coming 

pieees  !"  —  2^om   "!ZW  Fair  Daughters;* 

Percy  FUtgerald, 


Give  a  child  a  chance  to  love,  to  play, 
exercise  his  imagination  and  aiTectioDB,  a 
he  will  be  happy.  Give  him  the  conditions 
health,  simple  food,  air,  exercise,  and  a  lit 
variety  in  his  occupations,  and  he  will 
happy  and  expand  in  happiness. 

Let  us  not  fail  to  scatter  along  our  patbw 
the  seeds  of  kindness  and  sympathy.  Some 
them  will  doubtless  perish;  but  if  one  on 
lives,  it  will  perfume  our  steps  and  rgoice  o 
eyes. — Madatm  Swetchine, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BIRDS  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


""DETTER  be  at  work,"  grumbled  John 
±)  Spence,  as  he  paased  the  min iter's 
house,  and  saw  Jeony,  the  minister's  daugh- 
ter, feeding  the  birds  that  came  every  day  to 
her  window.  *'  My  girls  have  something  else 
to  do.  ril  not  give  a  cent  to  support  such  laiy 
doings." 

**  Grood-morning,  Mr.  Spence,"  said  a  friendly 
voioe. 

"Oh I  it's  you.  Good-morning,  Egbert. 
Nice  day,  this." 

"  Elegant !  Balmy  as  May  and  soft  as  June. 
I  was  going  roand  to  see  you." 

*AhI  Jnst  met,  then,  in  the  nick  of 
time." 

"  Yes — ^in  the  nick  of  time.  I  want  to  know 
how  much  you  will  put  down  for  Mr.  Elder's 
•alary  this  year.  We  want  to  increase  it  five 
hundred  dollars,  if  we  can." 

The  countenance  of  Mr.  Spenee  fell.  He 
poshed  out  his  lips,  and  looked  hard  and  dis- 
agreeable. 

*'I^ot  one  cent,"  was  his  slow,  emphatic  an- 
swer. 

"Oh I  you're  jesting,  Mr.  Spence,"  said  his 
aeighbor. 

"  No ;  I'm  in  earnest.  My  girls  have  some- 
thing better  to  do  than  feeding  birds. 
Humph  I" 

"Feeding  birds  I  I'm  blind  as  to  your 
meaning,"  returned  Mr.  £;gbert. 

"Let  me  open  your  eyes.  Come  back  with 
me  a  little  way." 

They  turned  and  walked  a  short  dis- 
tance. 

"  Yes,  there  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Spence,  as  he 
came  in  view  of  the  minister's  house.  "  Do 
7on  see  that?"  And  he  pointed  to  a  window 
where  Jenny  Elder,  the  minister's  daughter 
Btood  feeding  half  a  dozen  birds  that  flew  dose 
to  her  hand ;  one  or  two  of  them  even  lighting 
on  her  shoulder. 

"^yell,  that  is  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Egbert. 

"  Beautiful  r 

"  Yes ;  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"I  think  she'd  better  be  at  work,"  replied 
Hr.  Spence^  in  a  hard  voice. 

Mr.  Egbert  turned  and  looked  at  his  neigfa- 
M»  mute  surprise. 
^^  "  I  mean  just  what  I  say,"  added  Mr.  Spence. 

My  daughters  have  no  time  to  waste  after 


that  feshion,  and  I  canH  see  that  I  am  under 
any  obligation  to  support  other  people's  daugh- 
ters in  idleness." 

''Jenny  Elder  is  no  idle  girl,"  said  Mr.  £g^ 
bert,  a  little  warmly. 

"  Don't  you  call  that  idleness?" 

"  No.  It  is  both  rest  and  invgioration.  The 
ten  minutes  spent  with  these  birds  will  sweeten 
her  life  for  a  whole  day.  She  will  hear  them 
chirping  and  twittering  as  she  goes  about  her 
household  duties,  and  be  stronger  and  more 
cheerful  in  consequence." 

Mr.  Spenoe  shook  his  head,  but  not  with 
the  emphasis  of  manner  shown  a  little  while 
before.  A  new  thought  had  come  into  his 
mind.  A  bird  had  flown  in  through  a  window 
of  his  RouL 

"  Work,  work,  work,  every  hour  and  every 
minute  of  the  day,"  said  Mr.  Egbert,  "  la  not 
best  for  any  one — not  best  for  Jenny  Elder, 
nor  for  your  daughters,  nor  mine." 

"Nobody  said  it  was,"  replied  Spence, 
"But — but—"  His  thoughts  were  not  very 
clear,  and  so  he  hesitated. 

"  The  rest  tJiat  gives  to  the  mind  a  cheerful 
tone,  that  makes  it  stronger  and  healthier,  is 
the  true  rest,  because  it  includes  refreshment 
and  invigoration." 

"  Nobody  denies  that,"  said  Mr.  Spence. 

"  And  may  not  Jenny's  ten  moments  with 
the  birds  give  her  just  the  refreshment  she 
needs,  and  make  her  stronger  for  the  whole 
day  ?  If  not  stronger,  then  more  cheerful ;  and 
you  know  how  much  comfort  to  a  household 
one  cheerful  spirit  may  bring." 

"  You  have  such  a  way  of  putting  thing*," 
replied  the  neighbor,  in  a  changed  voice.  "  I 
never  saw  it  in  this  light  before.  Cheerful- 
ness — oh,  dear  t  I  am  weary  looking  at  dis- 
contented feces.  If  feeding  birds  at  the  win- 
dow is  an  antidote  to  fretfulness,  I  shall  re- 
commend my  children  to  begin  at  once." 

"  Let  the  birds  oome  first  to  your  window," 
said  Mr.  Egbert. 

"Oh,  I'm  too  old  for  anythug  like  that," 
was  replied. 

"  To  the  windows  of  your  soul,  I  mean." 

Spence  shook  his  head.  "You  shoot  too 
high  for  me." 

"  Thoughts  are  like  birds— right  thoi^hte 
like  doves  and  sparrows ;  wrong  thou^ts  like 
hawks  and  ravens.    Open  the  windows  of  your 


Digitized  by 


G8(^gle 


8« 


ARTHURS   LADT8    HOME   MAGAZINE, 


mind,  and  let  true  thoughts  come  in.  Feed 
them,  and  they  will  sing  to  you  and  fill  your 
soul  with  music.  They  will  hear  you  up  on 
their  wings;  they  will  lift  you  into  purer 
regions.  You  will  see  clearer  and  feel  strong- 
er.     You  will  he  a  wiser  and    a   happier 


^  I  never  did  hear  any  one  talk  just  as  you 
do,  Egbert  I''  said  the  neighbor.  '*  You  look 
into  the  heart  of  things  in  such  a  strange 
way." 

''  If  we  can  get  down  to  the  heart  of  things, 
we're  all  right,"  was  the  smiling  answer. 
^  And  now  I  want  to  know  how  much  we  may 
count  on  from  you  toward  Mr.  Elder's  salary. 
Open  wide  the  windows.  Let  just  and  gener- 
ous thoughts  come  in." 

'*  As  much  as  last  year ;  perhaps  more.  I'll 
think  over  the  matter,"  was  replied. 

While  sitting  at  dinner  with  his  family,  on 
that  day,  Mr.  Bpence  broke  the  constrained 
silence — the  usual  accompaniment  of  their 
meal — with  the  words : 
"  I  saw  a  beautiful  sight  this  morning." 
Both  the  sentence  and  the  tone  in  which  it 
was  spoken  were  a  surprise.  A  weight  seemed 
removed  from  every  one— a  shadow  fell  from 
each  dull  countenance.  All  eyes  were  fixed 
in  enquiry  upon  him. 

''  Jenny  Elder  at  a  window,  with  the  wild 
birds  feeding  from  her  hands  and  sitting  on 
her  shoulders,"  added  Mr.  Spence. 

"Oh,  yes ;  I've  seen  it  often,"  said  Margaret, 
his  oldest  daughter,  a  light  breaking  over  her 
face.  "  Jenny  is  so  good  and  sweet  that  even 
the  birds  love  her.  I  wish  they  would  come 
to  my  window." 

"  You  must  ask  Jenny  her  secret,"  said  the 
father,  with  a  gentleness  in  his  voice  that  was 
such  a  surprise  to  Margaret  that  she  looked  at 
him  in  wonder.  Mr.  Spence  noticed  and  un- 
derstood the  meaning  of  her  look.  He  felt  it 
as  a  revelation  and  a  rebuke. 

The  dead  silence  passed  away.  First  one 
tongue  and  then  another  was  unloosed ;  and  in 
a  little  while  the  whole  family  were  in  pleas- 
ant conversation — a  thing  so  unusual  at  meal- 
time that  each  one  noted  the  fact  in  a  kind  of 
bewildered  surprise. 

Mr.  Spence  opened  the  windows  of  his  soul 
still  wider,  and  let  the  singing  birds  come  in. 
All  the  hours  of  that  day  he  pondered  the  new 
ideas  suggested  by  his  neighbor;  and  the  more 
he  considered  them,  the  clearer  it  became 
that  there  was  a  better  way  to  secure  the  hap- 
piness of  himself  and  family  than  the  hard  and 
narrow  one  he  had  been  pursuing.     Minds 


needed  something  as  well  as  bodies.  Tastei 
and  feelings  had  their  special  needs.  Soul- 
hunger  must  be  satisfied. 

As  he  came  home  from  his  shop  that  even- 
ing, he  passed  a  store,  the  windows  of  whicli 
were  filled  with  cages  of  singing-birds.  And 
as  his  eyes  rested  on  them,  he  remembered  hoi 
often  he  had  heard  Margaret  wish  for  a  canary ; 
and  how  he  had  as  often  said:  "Nonsense 
you've  got  something  better  to  do  than  wasting 
your  time  with  birds." 

Mr.  Spence  saw  things  in  a  difibrent  lighl 
now. 

"  She  shall  have  a  bird,"  he  said,  speakug 
to  himself,  and  turned  into  the  store. 

"O  father!  not  for  me?" 

Mr.  Spence  was  taken  by  surprise  at  the 
sudden  outburst  of  delight  that  came  from 
Margaret,  when  she  understood  that  he  had 
really  brought  her  the  bird.  Tears  filled  hei 
eyes.  She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
kissed  him. 

"  It  was  so  kind  of  you — and  I  wanted  i 
bird  so  much  I"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I'll  be  so  good, 
and  do  everything  for  you  I  can." 

What  a  sweet  feeling  warmed  the  heart 
of  Mr.  Spence  through  and  through.  The 
delight  of  this  moment  was  greater  than  any- 
thing he  remembered  to  have  experienced  for 
years. 

"  I  am  glad  my  little  present  has  given  yon 
so  much  pleasure,"  he  answered,  subduing 
his  voice  that  he  might  not  betray  too  much  of 
what  he  felt.  "  It  is  a  good  singer,  the  man 
said." 

"  It's  a  beauty,"  returned  Margaret,  feasting 
her  eyes  on  the  bird ;  **  and  1*11  love  it,  if  it 
doesn't  sing  a  note." 

"Such  a  little  thing  to  give  so  much  pleas- 
ure I"  Mr.  Spence  said  to  himself,  as  he  sat 
pondering  this  new  phase  of  life.  And  to  his 
thought  came  this  reply :  "  A  cup  of  water  is 
a  little  thing,  but  to  thirsty  lips  it  is  sweeter 
tlian  nectar." 

And  then,  as  ifs  %  window  had  been  opened 
in  his  soul,  a  whole  flood  of  new  ideas  and 
thoughts  came  in  upon  him,  and  he  saw  that 
the  mind  had  needs  as  well  as  the  body ;  and 
that  unless  these  were  supplied,  life  would  be 
poor  and  dreary — just  as  his  life,  and  the 
lives  of  his  wife  and  children,  had  for  the  most 
part  been. 

Mr.  Spence  never  shut  that  window,  but  let 
the  birds  fly  in  and  out  at  pleasure.  When 
Mr.  Egbert  next  saw  him,  he  doubled  his  sob- 
scription  for  the  minister's  salary. — The  Worh- 
infftnan,  T.  8.  A. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BY  7IPBZ86IWAT  F0TI8. 


No.  VI. 


w 


TE  had  n  rerj  nice  sapper  at  the  doctoi^e. 
Some  people  go  yisiting  just  to  eat,  aad 
have  a  good  time  generally— a  real  stuffing 
bee— bat  we  didn't.  The  deacon  had  to  con- 
fer with  the  doctor  about  increasing  Brother 
Jinkins's  salary,  and  Sister  Bodkin  and  I  had 
to  talk  about  the  annual  missionary-bozy  and 
the  Mite  Society,  and  the  festival  to  pay  for 
the  new  church  bell ;  so  that  neither  of  us  went 
perposely  to  tea. 

Oh,  she  had  eome  of  the  daintiest  jumbles  at 
topper  I  I  do  helieve  I  must  ha^e  eaten  six, 
tnyhow  1  I  was  so  pleased  with  them  that  I 
took  my  pencil  and  blank  book  out  of  my 
leticole  and  wrote  down  just  how  they  were 
Bade. 

Teke  one  pint  of  sour  cream,  three  eggs,  two 
cops  of  white  sugar,  one  teaspoonful  of  soda; 
season  with  cinnamon,  cut  in  rings,  and  try  fa 
hot  lard  to  a  light  brown.  Any  housewife  will 
•ee  that  the  lard  in  which  they  are  fried  does 
not  penetrate,  because  there  is  no  lard  among 
the  ingredients. 

Sister  Bodkin  says  when  she  makes  nice 
ones — say  when  she  is  expecting  company— 
ihe  DLakes  them  exactly  like  this  recipe ;  hot 
when  she  makes  for  the  hired  men  and  her  own 
healthy  fitmily  to  eat^  eyery-day  cakes,  she 
QMS  light-brown  sugar,  and  makes  the  sour 
oeam  about  half  buttermilk ;  and  even  then 
they  are  excellent. 

I  learned  a  new  thing,  too,  about  pickles. 
We  have  good  cider  yinegar ;  but  every  time 
I  make  a  jarful  of  pickles  a  scum  ^ill  rise  on 
tep  before  they  are  all  used,  and  then  the  yine- 
gar will  lose  its  acidity,  and  the  last  of  the 
pickles  are  generally  thrown  out.  Sister  Bod* 
kin  always  puts  ia  a  handful  of  crushed  horse- 
ladifih  roots  among  her  pickles  before  she  poors 
Ihe  vinegar  over,  and  it  preserves  them^  and 
the  huit  are  better  than  the  first.  There  is  no 
hetter  preservatiye  than  horseradish  roots. 
They  are  easily  grown,  too.  The  lower  side  of  | 
her  garden  is  loose,  loamy  soil,  and  the  boys 
ploired  a  deep  furrow,  and  set  out  in  it  a  Vow 
ofieots^  and  then  filled  in  looeely  about  them, 
8ood,  rich  leaf  and  chip  maanie,  with  an  occa* 
sional  shovelful  of  sand  scattered  about,  and 
^ey  always  have  all  the  horseradish  roots  they 
^tut  to  use.    Afier  a  root  is  dug  cp^  and  she 


has  cut  off  and  used  all  the  long,  shapely, 
straight  ones,  she  sets  out  the  top  again  with 
the  thick  root  attached,  and  presses  the  earth 
closely  around  it,  and  it  will  grow,  and  her 
long  row  across  the  garden  is  always  there. 

Sister  Bodkin's  work  lay  on  a  chair  beside 
the  lounge  in  the  sitting-room,  so  as  to  be 
handy  to  pick  up  whenever  a  moment's  leisure 
ofiered  itself.  No  one  would  guess  what  it  was 
in  twenty  guesses.  The  doctor  had  a  poor 
student,  a  motherless  young  man,  oyer  whom 
sister  exercised  all  a  mother's  care  and  watch- 
fulness. She  saw  the  cloth  just  beginning  to 
grow  bare,  and  a  little  thin  on  the  knees  of  his 
gray  cloth  pantaloons,  and  he  had  no  pieces  left 
to  patch  them  with.  So  she  availed  herself  of 
the  last  alternative,  which  was  to  cut  off  the 
legs  about  half  way  above  the  knees,  and 
change  the  right  to  the  left,  and  the  left  to  the 
right.  That  brought  the  knees  at  the  back  of 
the  legs;  and,  though  they  were  thin,  they 
would  never  wear  out  then.  The  seam  ran 
right  round  the  legs,  be  sure,  but  she  sponged 
and  pressed  them  nicely  and  smoothly,  and  no 
one  would  observe  it  unless  he  scrutinized  pretty 
closely.  I  thought  that  was  very  clever  of  her, 
besides  being  so  motherly,  and  kind,  and  care- 
ful. Alter  a  pair  of  pantaloons  has  once  been 
patched,  they  will  seem  and  feel  shabby  to 
some  folks. 

The  legs  must  be  cut  off  exactly  alike^  and 
in  precisely  the  same  place,  and  before  they 
are  sewed  on  they  must  be  basted,  so  as  to 
make  the  seams  on  the  outside  of  the  1%  meet 

Qood  Sister  Bodkin  1  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted 
to  frame  her  dear  loving  face  between  my  two 
palms,  and  kiss  her  in  a  neighborly  way ;  but 
then  she  would  not  have  understood  me,  and 
the  why  and  the  wherefore  of  it;  she  would 
have  blushed  and  twisted  her  neck  in  trying  to 
get  away,  and  have  said:  ''Oh,  you  Pipeey 
Potts,  of  all  queer  women  you  do  have  the 
queerest,  oddest  ways  I" 

Some  women  are  so  self-sacrificing,  and  so 
noble,  and  lovable^  that  to  me  they  almost 
seem  sanctified,  holy. 

But  it  was  nearly  bedtime,  and  Humbug  was 
whinnying  out  at  the  post  in  the  street,  and 
wanting  to  hurry  home  to  her  colt  that  was 
shut  up  in  the  stable* 


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Giggle 


88 


ARTEUR*8   LADT8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


The  cool,  fresh  air,  that  used  to  make  my 
cheeks  red  long  ago,  came  not  to  me  as  a  friend 
on  our  ride  home.  While  the  deacon  was  qosej 
and  comfortable  in  his  lined  camlet  cloak,  the 
wind  cut  my  breath  and  set  me  to  wheeling 
most  dismally.  I  didoH  like  it  very  well  of 
father  when  he  chuckled  and  said  that  I 
wheezed  like  the  doors  of  the  wagon-shed  in  a 
windy  November  night 

I  growled  out  and  told  him  it  was  his  own 
fault,  because  he  droTC  so  fast,  and  kept  click* 
ing  at  the  old  mare,  and  making  her  go  faster 
and  faster.  He  said  he  had  to  do  it,  for  the 
poor  colt  had  been  shut  up  the  whole  after- 
noon, and  wanted  its  grog  by  that  time.  So  I 
wound  my  shawl  artistically  round  my  head 
and  oyer  my  mouth,  to  shut  out  the  fresh  air, 
and  I  hummed  a  familiar  hymn  as  the  wheels 
of  the  top  carriage  buzzed  up  the  hills  and 
down  the  hills,  and  bobbed  across  the  culverts, 
and  up  to  the  dear  old  gate  at  home. 

Brother  Jinkins  had  been  oyer  to  Brook 
Valley  marrying  a  couple  the  following  day, 
and  called  in  on  his  way  home,  and  Jonathan 
put  his  beast  in  the  stable  before  he  knew  that 
he  did  not  intend  stopping  for  supper.  He 
said  he  had  not  dined  at  the  wedding,  and 
if  I  had  an  early  tea  he  wouldn't  mind  wait- 
ing. 

Indeed,  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do,  because 
we  had  been  whitewashing,  and  had  depended 
on  lunch  mostly  until  we  would  get  eyerything 
cleaned  up  nicely.  The  girls  looked  aghast  at 
each  other.  Somehow  one  does  want  things  a 
little  nicer  when  the  preacher  comes.  Ida 
nudged  Lily,  and  tliey  went  into  the  dining- 
room  together,  and  I  heard  her  gasp  out: 
''  Lillian  Potts  I  what  shall  we  do?" 

"  Why,  let  us  just  leave  it  to  Pipsty,"  was 
her  reply.  "  You  know  she  has  a  way  of  get- 
ting out  of  all  kinds  of  scrapes,  with  fifes  a-toot- 
ing,  and  banners  a-flying,  and  honors  cluster- 
ing about  her ;  let  us  not  worry,  but  keep  cool, 
and  watch  the  corners,  and  do  whatever  she 
tells  us.  Hoi  Pm  not  afraid  of  the  poor 
preacher— just  a  human  man,  made  out  of  the 
dust  of  the  earth." 

Would  you  believe  it?  While  I  stood  before 
the  cupboard,  bending,  with  the  two  wide-open 
doors  in  my  two  hands,  contriving  how  to  get 
up  a  good  sapper  out  of  next  to  nothing,  I 
heard  the  timidest  little  rap  at  the  back  door, 
and,  hurrying  to  open  it,  who  should  be  there 
but  the  Widow  Gordon's  little  Flossy.  She 
said :  *^  Miss  Potts,  my  ma  sent  you  this  cake, 
with  her  love,  and  she  hopes  you'll  like  it.  It 
is  called,  *  Poor  Woman's  Fruit  Cake.' "    And 


there,  folded  up  in  a  fresh  newspaper,  was  a 
cake  of  her  own  making. 

I  said:  "Tell  your  ma  that  I  thank  her. 
and  love  her;  that  my  cupboard  was  just 
like  old  Mother  Hubbard's  until  the  cake 
Cii^me." 

The  child  sparkled  out  a  bright,  sunny 
laugh,  and  with  a  pat  of  her  bunchy  liftie 
hands,  leaped  off  the  steps  like  a  playful,  happy 
lamb  as  she  ran  home. 

So  there  was  that  much  toward  supper- 
came  as  unexpectedly,  too,  as  if  it  had  dropped 
down  out  of  the  serene  blue  heavens  at  the 
door  of  my  empty  cupboard. 

Next  I  made  some  biscuit,  and  told  Ida  to 
take  the  dish  with  a  remnant  of  cold  chicken 
and  gravy  in  it,  and  pick  all  the  meat  off  the 
bones,  and  put  it  in  the  pan  with  what  cold  gravy 
there  was  in  the  bottom  of  the  dish.  There 
were  three  cold  potatoes  in  the  cupboard,  like- 
wise, that  I  told  her  to  peel  and  cut  in  little 
blocks,  and  put  in  with  the  chicken,  and  then 
take  those  two  old  slices  of  bread  and  batt^ 
that  were  left  of  the  deacon's  lunch  the  day  he 
went  to  the  bridge  sale,  and  lay  than  on  top, 
with  the  buttered  side  down.  Then  add  batter, 
pepper,  and  salt,  and  when  they  began  to  get 
warm  to  pobr  over  all  a  pint  of  cream,  and  juit 
before  it  came  to  the  boil  break  in  a  couple  of 
fresh  eggs,  and  set  it  off,  with  the  cover  fitted 
closely  over  the  top.  That  would  make  three 
things  for  tea.  What  would  the  fourth  be? 
Brother  Jinkins  was  hungry,  and  there  must  be 
something  more  substantial  added  yet,  I  knew. 
There  was  some  cold  oommeal  mush,  which  I 
cut  in  thin  slices  and  fried  until  it  was  brown, 
taking  care  to  turn  the  pieces  carefully,  so  ss 
not  to  muss  them,  but  leave  them  looking  ss 
appetizing  as  possible. 

Well,  with  biscuit,  and  tea,  and  nice  hard 
yellow  butter,  and  blackberry  jelly,  and  pickle^ 
and  honey  in  the  comb,  this  was  a  supper  good 
enough  for  any  preacher.  I  had  a  geranimn 
in  full  bloom,  and  I  cut  off  one  of  the  branches 
and  set  it  in  a  liUle  vase  at  the  back  psrtof 
the  table;  and  when  I  added  this  finishing 
touch,  I  called  the  girls  in,  and  said :  *'See  if 
this  will  do." 

Lily  peeped  in,  and  then  flew  to  the  diniiig- 
room  door,  and  with  very  round  eyes,  said: 
''Ida  Josephine  Potts,  just  oome  here  I  Ob, 
ean't  our  Pipsiseiway  ^  things  up  nicely  t  I 
believe  she  was  bom  to  be  an  empress  or  a 
milliner,  or  something  unoommon ;"  and  then 
she  caught  me  and  kissed  me  as  noisily  tf 
though  she  were  a  young  bear. 

We  all,  Brother  Jinkins  induded,  like  Mi*. 


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OTSSM    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS. 


89 


Gordon's  cake,  and  because  anybody  can  make 
ill  I  will  give  yon  the  recipe. 

She  takes  dried  fruit — say  apples  or  peaches 
<-«nd  cots  them  up  into  pieces  about  the  siie  of 
nisins,  aod  cooks  them  a  little  while,  until 
they  are  about  half  done,  in  just  water  enough 
to  coYer  them  welL  Tlien  she  pours  off  the 
juice,  and  cooks  them  in  molasses  enough  to 
merely  cover  them.  This  done,  her  fruit  is 
prepared  ready  for  the  cake.  She  makes  it 
like  we  all  make  a  good,  plain  cake,  only  she 
uses  molasses  instead  of  sugar.  When  dipping 
or  pouring  the  batter  into  the  pan,  she  occa- 
sionally puts  in  a  spoonful  of  the  pjrepaied 
frulL  It  will  require  to  bake  longer  than  cakes 
usually  do,  and  is  really  good ;  and  there  is  no* 
body  too  poor  to  have  this  kind,  surely.  It  is 
a  little  trouble  to  prepare  the  fruit,  and  is  good 
economy  of  time  to  fix  a  quart  bowl  full  at 
once. 

While  we  had  a  good  fire  in  the  kitchen,  I 
told  the  girls  it  would  be  a  saving  of  time,  and 
fire,  and  water,  and  opportunity,  to  take  half 
the  water  out  of  the  teakettle  and  make  a  kettle 
of  mush,  to  fry  when  needed,  and  also  to  pot  a 
couple  of  handfuls  of  those  nice  dried  cling 
peaches  in  the  stewpan  on  the  back  part  of  the 
itove  to  cook  slowly.  They  would  come  handy 
fi>r  supper  any  time  within  a  week,  maybe 
when  we  had  company,  or  I  had  a  sick  spell, 
or  when  some  one  would  drop  in  too  late  for 
our  regular  meals. 

I  have  learned  that  these  little  things  never 
come  amiss.  Any  morning  that  I  sleep  a  little 
late,  or  have  bread  to  sponge  before  breakfast, 
and  not  time  to  bake  or  boU  potatoes,  then  I 
fry  mush.  It  is  a  good  breakfast  dish,  if  not 
pot  on  the  table  too  frequently. 

While  there  was  a  good  fire,  too,  I  put  on  a 
gallon  of  new  buttermilk  to  boil,  with  which 
to  scald  the  flour  for  setting  yeast,  as  we  had 
to  bake  the  next  day.  It  is  easier  prepared 
than  to  cook,  and  mash,  and  strain  potatoes, 
aod  fuss  around  and  make  so  many  things  to 
wash,  and  makes  better  bread  in  the  en)).  I 
think  this  is  a  great  saving  of  time.  While 
the  buttermilk  is  over  the  fire  it  mpst  be 
Btirred  often,  so  that  it  will  not  form  a 
curd. 

I  said  at  night:  Now  if  to-morrow  is  a  good 
day,  I  most  run  around  a  little  among  my 
neighbors;  they'll  begin  to  think  I  don't  care 
maeh  for  them.  I  always  have  a  good  time  of 
it,  and  come  home  feeling  so  much  better,  and 
loving  my  home  so  much  more;  and  then  I 
^ways  learn  something  new.  Now  don't  think 
that  I  mean  gossip,  news,  tattle;  not  that, 


but  to  learn  something  new,  and  good,  and 
useful  to  myself  and  to  my  friends. 

I  had  an  attack  of  the  asthma  in  the  night, 
and  thought  I  would  die  of  sufibcation.  The 
sweat  rolled  off  my  face,  and  I  was  so  oppressed 
in  trying  to  breathe  that  I  could  not  spare 
breath  to  thank  my  family  for  the  little  kind- 
nesses they  bestowed  upon  me. 

So  my  plans  for  the  day  were  broken  upon, 
and  I  was  glad  to  sit  in  my  sewing-chair  and 
darn  socks,  and  put  pockets  in  tlte  girls'  new 
dresses,  and  sew  on  buttons  and  loops  for  the 
men,  and  make  myself  useful. 

I  always  keep  my  work-basket  handy,  so  if  I 
am  not  very  well,  or  sit  down  to  wait  until  the 
busy  men  come  to  their  meals,  or  a  neighbor 
woman  comes  in  to  sit  awhile,  then  I  can  im- 
prove the  time,  and  sew  on  a  patch  or  dam  a 
heel,  or  do  something  to  save  the  passing  mo- 
ments. 

Sometimes  easy,  idle  women,  who  are  never 
in  a  hurry,  will  sit  and  sit,  and,  in  spite  of  your 
intimations  to  the  contrary,  will  tell  all  about 
their  neighbors'  afiairs,  and  thus  kill  a  great 
deal  of  precious  time. 

While  we  do  most  heartily  disapprove  of  too 
much  visiting  and  gadding  about,  and  too 
many  long  stories,  and  too  much  talk  about 
our  neighbors,  and  their  private  afiairs,  we 
must  be  friendly,  and  courteous,  and  kind. 

I  believe  the  poor  illiterate  woman  who  calls 
and  sits  an  hour  or  two,  should  leave  your 
threshold  a  better  and  a  gladder  woman  than 
when  she  came.  Into  her  spirit  you  should 
infuse  some  of  the  strength  of  your  own. 
Make  her  happier,  and  the  more  willing  to 
bear  her  cross  cheerfully,  no  matter  if  that 
cross  be  a  drunken,  brutish  husband,  a  petulant 
old  mother-in-law,  a  daughter  disgraced  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  or  a  poor  idiotic  baby. 

Oh,  too  often  these  crosses  are  carried  with 
tears  and  wails,  unreconciled  I  God  help  us  to 
see  wherein  we  can  aid  in  making  them 
lighter! 

I  would  not  let  Ida  wash  the  blankets  and 
sheets  the  next  day,  as  she  had  intended,  be- 
cause she  was  up  with  me  so  much  in  the  night ; 
so  I  sent  Jonathan  up  the  creek  to  get  the 
Widow  McRae.  She  is  a  little  woman,  but 
with  the  help  of  the  wringer  could  do  the  wash- 
ing very  easily. 

She  is  an  excellent  washer,  with  two  excep- 
tions, and  they  are  very  common  ones  among 
all  women.  She  is  very  apt  to  allow  the  stains 
to  settle  in  the  tablecloths,  unless  I  watch  her 
pretty  closely.  It  is  caused  by  putting  them 
in  wliter  that  is  not  boiling,  and  does  not 


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ARTHUR' 8   LADY'S   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


reach  the  boiling  heat  while  tbej  are  in 
it. 

One  day  she  Baid  to  me,  ''  Wall,  now,  Miss 
Potts,  I'll  haye  the  biler  off  out  o'  yer  way 
in  less'n  no  time.  I  jest  want  these  table- 
cloths to  scald  a  minute.'' 

"Ah I  but  litUe  widow,''  said  I,  '<!  want 
them  to  boil  briskly  about  ten  minutes ;  if  not, 
the  stains  will  settle  in  them,  and  we*ll  never 
get  them  out  at  all,  at  all  i  I  used  to  do  just 
as  you  do,  when  I  was  a  motherless  little  girl, 
and  had  no  one  to  teach  me.  I've  spoiled 
more  than  one  of  the  pret^  tablecloths  my 
poor  mother  had  spun  and  woren ;  nice  fiird's- 
£ye  linen,  and  Huck-a-back,  and  M's,  K's, 
and  0*B,  and  Diamond  Check ;  and  though  my 
girlish  tears  used  to  fall  bitterly  upon  them  at 
the  ironing-table,  nobody  erer  told  me,  if  any- 
body knew,  until  about  eighteen  years  ago  I 
read  a  scrap  of  dear  Jennie  June's,  in  her 
ably  edited  western  paper,  and  that  explained 
it  all.  No,  don't  scald  any  dirty  or  stained 
thing  you  wash.  Wash  it  clean  and  boil  it, 
or  drop  it  into  boiling  water,  if  you  like.  Some 
stains,  say  of  blood  on  a  handkerchief,  is  better 
put  on  in  cold  water.  But  we  must  learn  these 
little  things  by  experience." 

I  felt  really  proud  that  I  could  teadi  the 
Widow  McBae  something  that  would  help  to 
make  her  character  as  a  washwoman  a  good 
one.  I  told  her  how  to  wash  men's  socks. 
Some  women  will  give  them  a  few  rubs  on  the 
board  in  dirty  suds,  that  has  been  used  for 
nearly  everything  else  before. 

Put  them  into  a  good,  hot,  clean  suds ;  let 
them  soak  a  minute ;  then  soap  the  dirty  places 
well,  and  turn  them  and  give  them  a  good 
rubbing  on  the  board,  first  thing,  before  they 
go  down  into  the  suds  again.  Bub  and  squeeze 
until  the  dirt  Lb  all  out ;  roll  them  up,  b^n« 
ning  at  the  toe,  or,  laid  in  a  fold  from  the  heel, 
and  wring  and  squeeze  welL  Put  them  in  the 
same  manner  through  another  hot  suds,  with- 
out rubbing  soap  on ;  wring  them  a  half  dozen 
times ;  and  when  they  smell  clean,  why  they 
are  clean.  Don't  give  one  fold,  and  one  wring 
lengthwise,  and  sling  them  without  turning 
them  across  the  line,  and  call  them  washed. 
Stretch,  and  put  into  the  right  shape  for  the 
iooi,  before  yon  hang  them  up.  If  the  foot  is 
a  little  too  short  for  his  toes,  you  can  stretch 
it  the  right  length;  if  the  leg  is  too  small, 
stretch  it  in  width ;  if  too  big  and  wide,  stretch 
it  in  length.  Take  a  pride  in  doing  this  hum- 
ble work  well  and  honorably,  for  the  love  you 
bear  the  dear  feet  that  they  will  coyer  and 
make  comfortable.    All  work  where  loVe  is, 


is  honorable,  and  is  sweet  employment  to 
the  hands  that  obey  the  desires  of  the  heart. 
I  had  always  been  troubled  more  or  less 
about  the  dishcloth  question,  until  lately.  It 
is  not  every  quality  of  rag  that  will  make  t 
dishcloth.  Most  women  prefer  old,  soft,  white 
linen ;  but  it  is  so  linty,  and  stringy,  and  ten- 
der, that  it  answers  a  poor  purpose.  A  piece 
of  calico  is  not  respectable  enough;  an  old 
piece  of  a  shirt  is  more  suggestive  of  the  prs^ 
tical  than  the  ideal ;  and  I  had  just  about  de- 
spaired, and  was  using  a  square  of  old  white 
drilling,  all  the  time  wondering  what  woold 
make  a  nice  dishcloth,  and  possess  all  the  re- 
quirements necessary.  But  one  day  I  wu 
passing  along  the  streets  in  Pottsville,  and  as 
I  chanced  to  cast  a  glance  down  Conltei'g 
Alley,  teepe  I  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  down 
to  my  very  feet,  came  something.  I  stepped 
back  in  surprise  and  looked  up,  and  there  was 
Cousin  Olive  at  her  kitchen  window,  (ther 
live  np  stairs,)  and  she  was  laughing  like  ''all 


"Oh,  dear  me,  Pipsey!"  she  said;  "yoo 
looked  as  surprised  when  my  new  dishcloth 
dropped  off  its  nail,  and  sailed  down  to  yon, 
as  though  some  old  bachelor  had  sent  yoa  a 
valentine,  all  embellished  with  doves,  billing 
and  cooing,  and  adorned  with  intertwiniog 
hearts,  and  all  manner  of  soft  nonsense.  0 
dear,  but  that  was  funny  I"  and  she  leaned  oat 
ofthe  window  a^d  laughed  long  and  merrilj. 
I  was  a  little  "riled,"  and  I  took  it  up  between 
my  thnmb  and  finger,  and  made  a  face  as  if  i 
was  swallowing  a  pill  of  assafoetida,  and  held 
it  away  from  me,  and  said :  *'  Is  this  your  diali- 
doth,  Cousin  01?"  and  then  I  looked  at  it  ai 
if  I  thought  it  was  not  dean. 

"  Yes,  it's  mine,  a  splendid  good  one,  too, 
and  I'll  let  you  kiss  baby  Lenore  half  a 
dozen  times  if  you  will  fetch  it  up  to  me." 

"No,  kiss  her  yourself"  said  I,  a  litUe  net- 
tled ;  "  I'd  rather  have  a  clean,  respeetahK 
nicdy-hemmed,  new  dishdoth,  any  time,  in 
preference  to  your  baby's  moist,  damiBj) 
gummy,  buttery,  second-hand,  third*cousin'fl 
kisses ;"  and  as  I  folded  the  dean,  dry  doth, 
and  laid  it  in  my  black  bombazine  reticule^  on 
top  of  my  handkerchief  and  smelling  bottle,  I 
heard  her  snap  off  the  bloseomy  end  oX  her 
merry  laugh,  and  doee  the  window  with  a  de* 
dded  dam. 

I  don't  know  whether  she  was  mad  or  not ; 
she  is  always  poking  fun  at  me,  and  I  thought 
it  was  a  good  chance  to  get  a  si^actory  dish* 
doth,  and  pay  her  out  of  the  same  kind  of  coin 
that  she  bad  dealt  out  to  me. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


OTHER    PEOPLE' a    WINDOWS. 


91 


To  oool  my  excitement  I  reached  down  into 
my  capaciovs  reticale,  and  took  ont  and  smelt 
of  my  hartBhom,  and  then  bit  off  a  generous 
bite  from  the  dry  calamus  root  that  I  alwayi 
keep  about  me.  It  is  good  to  steady  one's 
nenres  and  make  a  person  feel  kind  of  peart 
like. 

When  I  got  home  I  washed  the  new  dish- 
cloth, and  hang  it  up  where  such  things  be- 
long. It  was  a  square  piece  of  that  kind  of 
blae-and- white  cotton  check — the  white  pre- 
dominating— of  which  farmers'  and  mechanics' 
shirts  are  made. 

It  was  softy  and  nice,  and  new,  and  easily 
kept  clean,  and  was  just  the  kind  I  had  been 
deairing  for  that  use. 

I  went  to  PottBvilie  and  bought  three  yards 
of  it,  sixteen  cents  a  yard,  and  made  it  all  up 
into  cloths  of  a  oonvenient  size,  and  hemmed 
them  nicely.  One  is  in  the  wash  e^ery  week. 
We  keep  them  in  one  end  of  ^  certain  drawer, 
snd  1  like  the  arrangement  Tery  much.  We 
ue  old  white  linen  towels  to  wipe  the  dishes 
on.  They  are  always  kept  dry  and  white.  A 
calieo  rag  is  just  the  thing  to  wash  pots  and 
ketdes,  and  spiders  and  pans. 

One  should  observe  caste  in  dishcloths. 
There  is  the  aristocratic  and  the  plebeian,  and 
Mch  should  keep  its  own  place  and  station. 
Unles  care  is  exercised  in  this  matter,  there 
will  be  bad  work  made. 

Just  after  I  had  slipped  off  into  a  good,  sound 
deep  last  night,  I  was  wakened  by  grandma's 
ihrill  cry  of:  "Ho,  Pipseyl  ho,  Pipeey  !*'  I 
put  on  a  shawl,  and  stepped  into  the  deacon's 
•iippers,  and  was  soon  at  her  bedroom  door. 
"See  here  I"  she  said;  "your  par  has  been 
hackin*  and  cough  in'  like  all  natur*  eyer  since 
be  went  up  to  bed ;  and  I  can't  stan'  it  to  hear 
the  poor  man  any  longer.  Now  yon  put  some 
hard  lumps  of  white  sugar  in  a  saucer,  and 
leare  it  on  the  stand  close  beside  his  bed,  and 
tell  him  to  put  a  lump  in  his  mouth,  and  let  it 
melt  away  gradually,  and  he'll  not  cough  any 
mor^  and  will  be  asleep  in  less  than  fifteen 
minutes." 

''Wouldn't  salt  be  better,  grandma,"  I  sug- 
Sttled.  "  IVe  seen  folks  use  it  for  a  liule  tick- 
ing cough  that  annoyed  them,  and  kept  them 
*wtke  and  restless." 

^  Why,  no,  Pipsey ;  only  see  the  philosophy 
^  it,"  said  she,  as  she  raised  up  in  bed  and 
beaded  her  fists  down  into  her  one  small  pil- 
W,  and  made  a  little  nest  for  her  head  to 

cuddle  in. 
"  V\\  just  tell  you  how  it  is :    Salt  cleanses, 

^  cuts,  and  lays  bare  and  clean  the  place  in 


the  throat  where  the  troublesome  tickling  is, 
and  is  apt  to  make  it  raw  and  sore,  while  sugar, 
gradually  melted  and  gradually  swallowed, 
makes  a  soft  covering,  or  mucus,  that  soothes 
all  the  irritation,  and  in  a  little  while  the  cough 
ceases.  I  know  all  about  it,  as  well  or  better 
than  any  doctor. 

"  Pipsissiway,  I  raised  eleven  children,  and 
never  lost  but  one,  and  that  was  my  first  baby, 
and  I  had  no  experience,  and  no  judgment,  and 
it  is  almost  the  same  as  though  I  killed  my  dear 
little  Jeremiar  outright  I'll  tell  ye  all  about 
it  sometime;  but  it's  much  good  it'll  do  you, 
deary  me  I 

"Come,  now;  get  the  lumps  of  sugar,  and 
do  as  I  tell  ye,  and  tell  your  par  word  for  word 
what  grandma  told  ye;  and  then  go  right  off 
to  bed,  and  cover  up,  or  you'll  be  coughin'  and 
Wheezin'  next." 

Well,  before  I  was  safely  in  bed  again,  fa* 
ther's  cough  was  stilled,  and  he  was  snoring 
like  the  bozsing  of  a  spinning-wheel  with  a 
new  patent  head  on  it. 

Oh,  there's  nothing  better  about  a  house  than 
a  good  old  grandma,  in  a  big,  wide,  long  apron, 
and  neckerchiefs,  and  white  lace  caps  with  full 
borders  all  around  the  beautiful,  serene  old  face. 

I  am  sorry  that  they  are  becoming  so  scarce; 
only  occasionally  is  it  that  we  meet  one,  and 
then  very  often  they  are  unhappy,  and  are 
treated  by  fashionable,  flippant  litUe  misses 
like  old  books  that  are  out  of  date,  or  those 
that  do  not  belong  to  the  class  called  "  standard 
authors." 

I  just  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  to  my  mar- 
ried sister.  Defiance  Green,  when  Mrs.  Barlow's 
hired  girl  came  in,  softly,  asking  to  borrow  my 
flat*  irons. 

I  do  not  like  to  lend  such  things ;  sometimes 
they  are  sent  home  rusty,  or  are  daubed  with 
burnt  starch,  or  the  dinner  pot  has  boiled  over 
upon  the  handles,  or  something  to  make  the 
wrinkles  come  in  my  broad  Boman  nose ;  but 
I  never  refuse  anything  to  good  Mrs.  Barlow. 
StiU  I  think,  as  rich  as  she  is,  she  might  own 
as  many  irons  ms  I  do. 

It  is  poor  economy  to  stint  in  these  neces- 
saries, that,  once  bought,  will  last  all  through 
a  lifetime.  Better,  when  buying  a  delaine 
dress,  to  get  a  neat,  dark  calico  one,  and  save 
money  enough  to  get  two  new  smoothing  irons. 
That  was  the  way  I  did.  I  had  told  the  dea- 
con, time  after  time,  that  two  irons  were  not 
enough  when  our  family  was  so  lai^ ;  that  if  I 
had  more,  the  children  could  iron  the  towels 
and  sheets  on  one  table,  and  it  would  be  such  a 
help  to  me. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


92 


ARTEUB*a  LADrS   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


He  Baid :  "  Pooh  I  what  extrayagance  I  Your 
dead  mother  never  had  but  two,  and  she  never 
oomplained;  and  when  my  father^s  family 
moved  to  Ohio,  in  1811,  we  brought  one  amall 
flat-iron,  and  that  was  all  the  one  my  mother 
ever  had,  and  she  brought  up  a  family  of  I 
twelve  children  on  it,  and  we  ail  wore  home- 
made linen  clothes. 

"  The  way  my  mother  ironed  waa  this :  when 
the  stiff  lin^n  shirta  and  pantaloons  were  nearly 
dry,  she  would  rub  than  brbkly  acroas  the  top 
of  a  cbair-back  with  a  see-saw  motion,  that 
would  take  the  worst  wrinkles  out  of  them  and 
make  them  soft  and  rather  smooth.  To  iron 
sheets  of  linen,  she  would  foid  them  nicely 
and  evenly,  and  lay  them  on  a  chair,  and  ait  oh 
them  all  day  while  she  spun  flax  on  the  little 
wheel.  Sometimes  it  would  take  her  three  or 
four  days  to  iron  all  the  sheets ;  frequently  her 
daughter,  who  spun  tow  on  the  other  little 
wheel,  would  assist  her  mother.  They  called 
it  'killing  two  birds  with  one  stone.' 

*'  Ob,  you  know  nothing  about  hard  times  1 
It  was  the  hardest  for  me  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  to  be  stinted  in  salt.  We  used  to  go  to 
Zanesville,  down  on  the  Muskingum,  ninety- 
five  miles  away,  with  two  old  hones,  and  pack 
salt  home  on  their  backs.  Poor  neighbors 
would  come  with  tin  cups  or  teacups  to  '  borry 
a  leetle  salt.'  We  always  gave  to  the  very 
poor,  because  mush  eaten  with  milk  was  almost 
nauseating  without  salt,  and  our  boiled  turnips 
were  not  good  without  a  little  sprinkling  of 
salt. 

''And  now,  Pipsey,  salt  is  almost  as  plenty 
as  snow  in  the  winter;  and  oh  how  we  did  use 
to  suffer  for  it  I  Sometimes  when  I  knock  the 
head  out  of  a  new  barrel,  and  see  the  snowy 
contents  lying  before  my  eyes  in  such  a  bulk, 
I  feel  like  running  my  arm's  full  length  down 
into  it,  so  exuberant  is  the  emotion  when  I 
look  back  fifty  years,  and  so  vividly  remember 
our  sore  need  of  the  now  abundant  luxury." 

And  yet,  wanting  in  the  very  necessary  arti- 
ele  of  salt,  as  well  as  other  things  that  we  now 
consider  indispensable,  oh,  bat  they  were  happy 
in  those  olden  times  I 

A  few  of  those  dear  old  pioneers  yet  live  in 
Sylvan  Dell  and  Pottsville,  and  only  last  week 
a  few  of  them  had  a  cosey  meeting  in  the  sub- 
stantial old  mansion  of  one  of  the  oldest  set^ 
tiers,  Uncle  Lutz  Oliver,  aged  ninety-six  years. 
He  drove  up  in  his  big  spring  wagon  to  Potts- 
ville, and  called  at  the  house  of  Unole  John 
and  Aunt  Betsy  Ooulter,  a  beautiful  old  couple, 
aged  respectively  eighty  and  seventy-six.  They 
celebrated  their  golden  wedding  nearly  seven 


years  ago.  Mother  Conlter's  Sister  Patty,  aged 
seventy,  whose  home  is  in  Wisconsin,  was  viul- 
ing  her,  and  they  all  got  into  Uncle  Lutz^a 
wagon  and  went  down  to  hb  home  to  spend 
the  day.    They  had  good  times. 

In  going  down,  Betsey  and  Patty  got  to  laoghf 
ing  heartily  aloud,  when  Luts  turned  aroood, 
tali  and  straight  and  noble  as  a  mountain  pine, 
and  said:  ''Come,  girls,  quit  your  giggling; 
that's  all  I  do  dislike  about  girls,  they  will 
giggle,  morning,  noon,  and  night ;  they  see  » 
many  funny  things  to  laugh  at.  Come,  girl^ 
what'll  the  neighbors  think?" 

"Other  People's  Windows!"  I^obody  cu 
say  that  Pipsey  Potts  is  a  blab,  or  a  gossip, « 
tattler,  or  whatever  you've  a  mind  to  call  it; 
or  ever  went  round  peepin'  into  other  folb'i 
windows,  and  at  the  same  time  n^lected  look- 
ing  into  her  own  and  the  deacon's,  and  the 
family  windows  at  home — so  there  now  1 

Kobody  ever  said  I  was  a  meddlesome  (^d 
maid,  attending  to  other  people's  businesB  ud 
neglecting  my  own,  except  that  long-toogoed, 
pugnacious  old  widow,  Philinda  Sneeks.  She 
was  the  thorn  in  my  side  for  many  a  long 
year.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her,  I'd  been  the 
lawful  wife  of  Squire  Dougherty ;  but  she  wasM 
artful,  and  full  of  winsome  ways,  that  she  conld 
almost  draw  him  away  from  my  side  with  one 
of  her  deceitful  smiles  when  she  would  chance 
to  meet  us  out  riding  together  in  his  new  poog. 

But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there— let  the 
dead  past  remain  buried — ^I'd  rather  be  Mia 
P.  Potts  to-day,  respected  and  admired  daugh- 
ter of  DeaoOB  Adonijah  Potts,  of  Pottsville^  a 
member  in  good  standing  in  the  old  Begolar 
Baptist  Church,  than  to  shine  in  the  shintent 
of  allipack,  and  the  gayest  of  half-wool  crim- 
son delaine,  with  my  feet  pinched  and  cmmpled 
all  up  in  ^o.  6  lasting  gaiters,  riding  proodlf 
in  old  pnrsey,  purple  Squire  Dougherty's  ncr 
pung  as  his  third  wife.  Heh !  none  of  your 
old,  battered,  second-hand,  third-rate,  dished* 
over,  widower's  hearts  formal  I'll  take 'cm 
fresh,  or  not  at  all. 

But  because  my  former  neighbor,  PhUinds 
Sneeks,  was  one  of  a  certain  class  of  bouse* 
keepers  all  over  our  land,  I  want  to  tell  yoa 
about  her.  Now  don't  understand  me  as  tiy- 
ing  to  take  advantage  of  her,  in  a  low,  revange- 
fiil  spirit,  out  of  spite,  just  because  she  nerer 
wrote  a  line  for  the  papers,  and  never  cosid, 
and  never  will,  because  she  couldn't  if  she 
wanted  to,  and  was  to  die  for  it  the  next 
minute.  I  wouldn't  stoop  to  revenge  myseit 
Poor  thing,  she  could  make  as  good  biscuit  as 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTEEB    FEOPLE'8    WINDOWS. 


93 


I  ooald,  if  she  didn't  happen  to  forget  the  sslt 
and  the  goda  and  the  flour.  She  was  one  of 
thoee  who  had  no  eystem  ia  hoasekeeping;  and 
every  woman  who  is  the  head  of  a  household 
knows  what  that  means. 

In  a  well-conducted  family,  the  washing  is 
always  done  Monday.  The  dirty  clothes  aie 
always  put  into  the  clothes-bag,  or  basket,  im- 
mediately, and  there  is  no  dlfficnlty  then  on 
the  morning  of  the  wash-day.  Tuesday-  is 
ironing  day,  and  those  two  days  iires  should 
be  made .  to  do  double,  or  triple  service. 
Get  all  the  work  out  of  the  extra  fires  possi- 
ble. 

Mrs.  Sneeks  never  washed  on  Monday,  but 
more  frequently  on  Friday,  or  on  Saturday, 
and  then  about  every  two  weeks.  The  dirty 
clothes  were  scattered  all  through  the  house, 
and  not  near  all  of  them  could  be  found. 
Of&n  tae  young  Sneeks  were  called  in  from 
the  field  to  take  ofi*  a  dirty  shirt,  or  pair  of 
socks,  or  to  wear  the  old  trousers  of  an  elder, 
or  younger  brother,  until  their  own  could  be 
washed. 

ril  never  forget  one  time  that  Fhilinda  and 
I  were  going  to  Kitty  Lowe's  funeral,  and  be- 
fore we  started  she  cuffed  and  pounded  her 
second  boy  to  make  him  stay  at  home ;  he  was 
determined  to  go,  too.  She  thought  she  had 
mastered  him ;  but  before  we  got  quite  there, 
here  he  came,  like  a  dog,  as  hard  as  he  could 
mn  ;'and  all  the  pulling  of  ears,  and  potmding 
in  the  back,  and  jerking  by  the  foretop,  did  no 
good — he  would  not  yield. 

She  said,  "Well,  I  suppose  you'll  have  to 
go,  then ;  but,  dear  me,  the  rags  are  fluttering 
all  over  you  like  loose  feathers;  but  then  I 
don't  know  what  else  to  do !    George  Washing- 
ton, you're  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  Job 
himself  I  come  into  the  end  of  the  bridge  here 
with  me,  and  I'll  try  if  I  can  fix  your  rips,  and 
tears,  and  rags,  so  that  you'll  look  decent;" 
and  the  weak  mother,  who  was  robbing  her 
children  of  character  and  integrity,  turned  the 
boy  down  across  her  lap  and  pinned  down  his 
shirt  so  as  to  hide  the  boles  in  his  dilapidated 
trousers.    Then  she  pinned  op  a  rip  on  the  in- 
side of  the  leg,  and  with  a  drawn-down  mouth, 
and  sadly  wrinkled  brow,  she   contemplated 
her  handiwork,  saying:  "Now  do  you  ihink, 
George  Washington,  you  can  walk  slowly  and 
carefully  enough  not  to  lose  the   pins  out? 
viaybe  it  will  help  to  make  you  behave  your- 
Mlf ;  step  off  till  I  see."    Oh  I  he  stepped  as 
cu^lly  as  if  the  hidden  pins  were  coals  of 
fin  about  his  feet 
"  It  will  be  as  good  as  a  yoke,  or  a  hobble^ 


you   little  rascal,"  I  couldn't  help  growling 
out,  it  relieved  me  so. 

Would  you  believe  it?  he  tipped  his  faoe  up 
sidewise  tauntangly  at  me,  and  wiggled  his 
thumb  from  the  end  of  his  stub  nose;  the  little 
yellow  imp  I 

He  walked  off  as  widely  and  as  stiffly  as  an 
old  canal  horse ;  but  he  was  limber  enough  at 
the  grave.  The  pins  had  all  lost  out,  and  be 
was  as  free  as  a  lamb,  and  was  the  foremost 
person  on  the  gravelly  brink  of  the  open 
grave. 

Well— children  are  just  what  their  parents 
make  them.  The  plastic  material  can  be 
wrought  into  whatever  they  choose.  But^ 
woman^fashion,  I  wander  off  into  story-telling. 
I  don't  know  what  we  women  would  do  if  our 
wings  were  olipt^  and  we  could  not  sail  off,  and 
wide  around,  and  fly  where  we  pleased  occa- 
sionally. 

There  was  not  one  set  day  on  which  to  iron, 
or  bake,  or  scrub,  in  the  family  of  the  Sneekses. 
Whenever  one  of  the  girls  or  the  mother 
needed  a  garment,  they  went  and  ironed  it 
without  any  sprinkling,  or  trying  to  do  it  well. 

There  was  no  set  morning  or  evening  in 
which  to  change  their  linen— they  generally 
wore  it  till  some  one  of  the  family  suggested  a 
ehange,  in  no  very  elegant  language. 

They  never  baked  until  they  were  ont  of 
bread,  and  then  if  they  could  borrow,  it  was 
frequently  done.  They  never  kept  yeast,  un- 
less it  was  accidental.  When  they  did  bake, 
they  did  not  use  all  the  flour  in  the  tray,  by 
adding  a  little  bit  more  warm  milk  or  water, 
as  a  careful,  well-brought-up  housekeeper  would 
have  done,  but  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
tray  back  into  the  barrel  or  bin,  full  of  wet 
places  that  would  dry  out  into  flinty  lumps; 
and  rather  than  go  to  the  trouble  of  aifdng, 
they  would  use  it  without. 

To  save  frying  or  roasting  meat,  they  would 
boil  up  a  potful  at  a  time,  and  the  hungry  boys 
would  soon  grow  very  tired  of  cold,  dry,  boiled 
meat. 

8he  never  considered  what  would  be  proper 
to  set  before  her  fiunily  at  different  meals— 
they  would  have  beans,  and  cabbage,  and  po- 
tatoes, and  onions,  and  such  hearty  food— as 
apt  at  breakfast  and  supper  as  at  dinner. 

Instead  of  saving  their  canned  fruit  until 
the  warm  days  of  spring  and  summer,  whe^ 
nature  calls  loudly  for  them,  they  would  all 
be  eaten  in  the  cold,  snowy  days  of  winter, 
wadded  down  indiscriminately  with  &t  pork, 
and  apple4umplings»  and  spare-rib  pot-pies^ 
and  buckwheat  cakes^  and  com  bread.    When 


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ARTHUR* 8   LADY'S   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


May,  and  June,  and  July  came,  the  canii  were 
found  empty,  just  when  their  cooling,  juicy, 
fruity  acids  would  have  done  their  poor  bil- 
ious bodies  good.  It  was  no  uncommon  thing 
for  them  to  have  canned  peaches  for  breakfast^ 
in  the  winter  time,  or  a  boiled  dinner  of  vege- 
tables with  meat,  for  supper  in  the  evening. 

They  never  made  soap  until  all  the  old  stock 
was  used  up  and  they  had  borrowed  of  the 
neighbors.  Then  they  made  a  kettleful  at 
a  time,  of  white,  slimy,  greasy  stuff,  that  a 
good  housewife  would  not  deign  to  use.  They 
never  had  good  ashes,  because  they  had  no 
place  to  keep  them  under  shelter,  and  so  the 
rains  soaked  all  the  strength  out  of  them ;  and 
they  never  saved  soap- grease  carefully.  It 
was  sometimes  thrown  into  an  old  barrel  in  an 
outhouse  without  a  cover  over  it,  and  their 
own  and  the  neighbors'  dogs  carried  it  off.  In- 
stead of  caring  for  her  wash-boiler,  it  generally 
stood  around  for  days  at  a  time,  with  a  drib- 
ble of  dirty  suds  or  rinse-water  in  it,  or  slop 
for  the  cows,  when,  immediately  after  using, 
it  should  have  been  wiped,  dried,  and  hung  up 
in  a  safe  place.  Tin  pails  and  pans  will  last  a 
woman  almost  a  lifetime,  if  wiped  and  dried 
thoroughly  after  using  them. 

But  the  tin  ware  in  a  careless  woman's 
kitchen  never  lasts  more  than  a  year  or  two ; 
so  that  Philinda  Sneeks  is  no  exception — 
more's  the  pity;  the  name  of  that  class  is 
legion. 

A  woman  cannot  be  called  a  good  house- 
keeper, or  a  good  wife — one  in  whom  her  hus- 
band can  safely  trui>t — if  she  belongs  to  this 
slovenly  class  who  have  no  system  of  house- 
keeping, but  work  only  when  they  feel  like  it, 
and  let  things  lie  at  loose  ends  all  the  time. 
The  very  soul  of  such  a  woman  is  slovenly, 
soiled,  repulsive,  and  altogether  unlovely.    In 
person  she  is  never  neat — her  neck  and  ears 
and  hands  always  show  the  need  of  soap — she 
wears  no  collar,  has  holes  in  her  stockings,  the 
bands  of  her  skirts  are  ragged  or  ripped  half 
off,  her  shoelaces  are  broken,  or  knotted,  or 
too-  short,  or  gone  altogether ;  is  always  losing 
her  gloves  and  veil ;  her  skirts  are  too  long,  or 
temporarily  tucked  up ;  is  careless  about  keep- 
ing her  underclothing  out  of  sight ;  shows  no 
taste  in  the  selection  of  texture  or  color  when 
buying  new  clothes ;  uses  bad  grammar  and 
vulgar  language ;  is  hasty  in  temper,  and  never 
apologizes  for  rudeness  to  others.    There  are 
BO  many  surface-women,  who  never  think,  or 
see,  or  understand,  or  take  home  to  themselves 
the  experience  of  others.  No  wonder  that  hus- 
bands are  glad  to  steal  away  and  spend  their 


evenings  in  stores,  and  shops,  and  groceries 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  there  are  disobedient 
disrespectful,  wayward  children.  At  the  dooi 
of  the  wife  and  mother  must  lie,  even  in  thi 
day  of  reckoning,  the  great  blame. 

Let  us  look  well  to  our  duty,  and  when  w( 
find  what  it  is,  shrink  not  from  it,  or  be  scaret 
at  its  magnitude.  It  is  no  cross  if  we  tak( 
hold  of  it  cheerfully,  in  good  time,  and  with  i 
trust  in  God.  We  must  not  wait  until  it  is  at 
heavy,  and  there  ia  no  place  wherein  om 
hands  can  grapple. 

Oh,  it  is  so  much  nobler  to  be  a  real,  wide 
awake,  positive,  sensible,  earnest  woman,  will 
heart  and  head  and  hands  ready  to  work,  thai 
to  be  a  useless,  idle  dawdler,  whipped  abooi 
with  every  wind  that  blows,  doing  no  good  and 
benefiting  none. 

{To  h€  wiUinuedL)  ' 

— .^^A^r ''"- 

THAT  ONE  DROP. 

FOR  two  years  past  I  have  been  laboring  to 
save  an  inebriate.    After  several  relapsei 
he  became  perfectly  sober  and  gave  hope  o( 
permanent  reform.    His  wife  remarked,  "If 
he  fails  again,  it  will  kill  me."    Things  went 
on  smoothly  several  months.    That  once  dark- 
ened home  had  become  once  more  a  sonny 
spot    But  one  day  the  reformed  man  met  an 
old  friend,  who  invited  him  to  dinner.    At 
the  table  wine  was  furnished,  and  the  enter- 
tainer pressed  the  reformed  inebriate  to  take 
a  glass  with  him.    He  knew  the  man's  former 
habits.     The   unhappy  man   swallowed  one 
glass,  and  it  unchained  the  demon  in  a  mo- 
ment.   From  that  hour  to  this  my  poor  friend 
has  hardly  seen  a  sober  day,  and  nothing  but 
a  miracle  of  Ood's  grace  will  ever  lift  him 
from  the  bottomless  pit  into  which  one  treach- 
erous glass  of  champagne  hurled  him  in  an 
instant.    In  this  case  it  is  not  difficult  to  de- 
cide who  was  the  greatest  sinner.    The  man 
who  urges  a  reformed  inebriate  to  touch  a  drop 
of  intoxicating  liquor  deserves  to  be  impris- 
oned for  ten  years  at  hard  labor.    He  is  not  a 
safe  person  to  run  at  large,  for  where  is  the 
moral  difference  of  assassination  with  a  knifi^ 
and  assassination  with  a   "social  glass"  of 
poison  7  Db.  Cuyler. 

As  long  aa  mankind  shall  continue  to  bestow 
more  liberal  applause  on  their  destroyers  than 
on  their  benefactors,  the  thirst  of  military 
glory  will  ever  be  the  vice  of  the  most  exalted 
characters. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


TRIFLES. 


0 


,NE  of  the  most  fatal  luistakes  that  I  know 
of  in  household  economy  in  a  neglect  of,  or 
indifference  to,  the  influence  of  little  things. 
"Oh,  it's  only  a  trifle,"  is  a  saying,  which, 
acted  on,  has  wrecked  the  comfort  of  many  a 
home.  Let  ns  think  of  a  few  trifles  fiimiliar  to 
tu  all,  and  the  consequences  they  frequently 
lead  to,  which  hj  our  want  of  thought  or  ob- 
eerTation  are  unfamiliar. 

It  was  a  trifling  fault  in  Mrs.  Tilths  serrant, 
which  her  miatrees  was  too  much  occupied  to 
xemonstrate  against,  remedy,  or  prevent,  that 
she  seldom  put  the  kettle  lid  on  close  and  tight, 
K>  that  the  water  became  smoky ;  and  poor  Mr. 
Tilt,  a  delicate  man,  unwilling  to  annoy  his 
otherwise  excellent  wife  by  complaining  of 
trifles,  often  wae  unable  to  relish  his  breakfast 
Unrefreshed,  and  therefore  uncomfortable,  he 
began  his  long  day's  desk-work  at  his  oflSce  in 
the  city,  and  wondered  at  bis  feeling  sinking, 
Md  yet  with  no  appetite  for  food  at  mid-day. 
He  must  have  Bomething;  a  little  stimulant 
will  set  him  right,  he  thinks,  and  give  him 
working  power  for  awhile,  and  so  the  daily 
^ram  becomes  a  daily  necessity,  and  then  it 
loses  its  efiect  unless  increased,  and  Mr.  Tilt 
loses  his  relish  for  ^  solid  food,  and  becomes 
thinner  and  weaker  every  day,  until  people 
exclaim:  *^ Deisk-work  is  killing  poor  Tilt." 

''I  wish  he  could  eat  such  a  break£E»t  as  I 
do,"  says  a  vigorous  man,  quite  as  old  and  as 
hard-worbed  as  Tilt.  Tilt  might  have  an- 
swered, had  he  eeen  the  well-spread  and  weH- 
served  breakfast-table  of  his  acquaintance:  *'I 
wish  I  had  such  a  breakfast  to  eat." 

Tea,  coflee,  or  cocoa,  smoking,  not  smoky. 
Gw)d  appetizing  bread  and  bntter,  wholesome, 
well-oooked,  well-served  simple  relishes  to 
promote  the  appetite  at  the  cheery  morning 
>Qeal,  send  the  consumer  out  on  his  brisk  walk 
to  husinesfl  so  satisfied  and  well,  that  the  toils 
of  the  day  are  cheerfully  encountered,  healthy 
appetite  at  accustomed  hours  comes,  and  night 
finds  him  wearied,  certainly,  but  not  exhausted. 
Surely  any  cause  that  spoils  the  appetite  for 
breakfast  is  not  really  a  trifle. 

A  stair-rod  comes  loose  in  the  carpet  of  a 
^ht  of  stairs,  just  at  that  awkward  turn  in  the 
Bturcase  where  the  carpet  always  needs  careful 
folding  and  exact  laying.  Mary,  the  lioose- 
Bttid,  thinks  it  a  trifle.  She  is  not  going  to 
bother  herself  to  put  it  right  till  the  regular 
^7  for  cleaning  the  stairs  comes  round. 


"Perhaps  mii^us  won't  notice  it,  for  she's 
got  a  whole  bundle  of  new  books  from  the 
library,  and  her  eyes  aint  quite  so  sharp  then 
for  every  little  trifle." 

But,  as  it  happened,  the  mistress  had  her 
Acuities  of  observation  still  more  sharpened 
that  day,  for  she  heard  that  a  near  neighbor 
had  caught  his  foot  in  a  loose  stair-carpet,  and 
fallen  down  a  long  flight,  badly  spraining  his 
ankle,  besides  other  injuries,  which  his  age 
made  serious.  The  talkative  servant,  who  told 
the  incident  to  all  the  tradespeople,  with  many 
useless  tears  and  protestations,  wound  up  with, 
"Only  to  think,  such  a  trifle,  just  one  stair-eye 
got  out  somehow  I" 

I  think  that  awkward  nail  left  in  the  edge  of 
the  flooring  at  Mrs.  Scampers,  which  I  know 
had  a  way  of  catching  to  the  braid  of  every- 
body's dress  that  came  near  it,  would  have  re- 
mained there  until  now,  in  spite  of  that  lady's 
remark — "  Dear  me,  that  nasty  nail  I  I  must 
have  it  removed.  How  those  trifling  annoy- 
ances make  themselves  felt  1" — ^but  that  Amelia 
Scamper,  having  tried  on  a  beautiful  worked 
muslin  dress  her  father  gave  her  as  a  birthday 
present,  came  to  exhibit  herself  to  her  parents, 
and,  turning  swiftly  round,  the  delicate  em- 
broidery caught  the  retributive  nail,  and  a 
frightful  rent,  all  across  the  pattern  into  the 
front  breadth,  tore  not  only  the  dress,  but  the 
temper  of  the  party. 

"  Amelia,  who  told  you  to  swing  round  like 
that?" 

*'  Mrs.  Scamper,"  said  the  father,  "  why  ever 
do  yon  not  see  that  your  servants  do  their  work, 
properly  7  What  business  had  that  nail  thero?" 

"  Mr.  Scamper,  you  always  say  everything  is 
my  fiiulL  I  can't  be  answerable  for  every 
trifle—how  can  1?" 

After  all  this  rending  of  garments  and  feel- 
ings, I  hope  the  nail  was  removed,  but  it  would 
have  been  better,  surely,  had  it  been  knocked 
in  or  taken  out  when  first  observed. 

"My  dear,  is  Jane  in  the  habit  of  leaving 
our  street  door  ajar?"  said  Mr.  Scan,  one  even- 
ing on  his  return  home,  and  finding  his  house 
entrance  unguarded  by  the  usual  lock. 

"  Oh,  no ;  how  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ? 
She  only  just  stepped  out,  for  something  is  the 
matter  with  the  latch-key,  1  think,  and  she 
cannot  use  it." 

"Let  me  see  it."  The  "something"  was 
only  crumbs  and  dust,  easily  removed,  and  the 


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ARTEUR'8    LADY*8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


key  was  restored  with  the  words:  ''Keep  it 
hung  up  on  its  proper  nail  in  the  kitchen,  and 
not  laid  ahout  in  the  dust,  for  the  future,  for  it 
is  dangerous  leaving  the  door  unsecured  in  this 
crowded  neighborhood." 

"  How  much,  my  dear,  you  do  make  of  any 
little  trifle,"  was  the  remark,  in  an  injured 
tone,  of  Mrs.  Scan. 

Jane  noticed  that  tone,  and  took  it  as  proof  | 
that  her  mistress  was  not  so  particular  as  her 
master,  and  so  she  shaped  her  course  by  the 
trifie  of  those  few  words.  I  think  it  was  not  a 
month  after  that  she  rushed  off  to  post  some 
letters,  the  latch-key  was  not  on  4t8  nail,  but 
up  stairs  in  the  pocket  of  the  gown  she  had 
taken  off  that  afternoon.  Why  should  she  go 
all  the  way  up  stairs  for  it,  when  the  pillar 
poet  was  just  round  the  corner — no,  she  would 
just  step  out  on  that  trifling  errand,  and  the 
door  would  be  all  safe,  of  course.  Away  went 
Jane ;  and  just  as  she  was  putting  the  letters 
into  the  post,  a  remarkably  civil -spoken  young 
man  asked  her,  saying  he  was  a  stranger  from 
the  country,  the  name  of  the  street,  and  how 
far  it  was  from  the  Begent's  Park?  Would 
she  just  point  it  out,  he  did  not  quite  under- 
stand ?  Jane  gave  him  a  very  exact  direction, 
and  repeated  it,  going  on  a  step  or  two,  so  as 
to  show  him  how  there  was  a  street  round  the 
next  turning  that  branched  off  just  in  the  route 
he  sought.  The  young  man,  hardly  staying  to 
thank  her,  then  went  swiftly  off,  and  Jane, 
looking  after  him  witli  vacant  stare,  slowly  re- 
traced her  steps  to  the  house.  The  door  was  shut. 

"Bother  the  wind,  it's  blown  the  door  to. 
Or  master  has  come  home,  and  he'll  be  making 
another  fuss,  and  vex  the  mistress,"  was,  as  she 
afterwards  owned,  tlie  thought  of  the  girl.  She 
had  to  ring  for  admission.  Mrs.  Scan,  how- 
ever, was  not  pleased  at  having  to  open  the 
door  for  her.  But  what  was  that  momentary 
displeasure  to  her  consternation  when,  on  Jane 
lighting  the  hall  lamp,  she  exclaimed :  "  Why, 
Jane,  what  have  you  done  with  your  master's 
great-coat  and  his  umbrella?  Why,  his  rail- 
way rug  was  rolled  up  there  to-day." 

To  this  the  only  answer  was  a  loud  scream 
from  Jane,  who,  amid  senseless  shrieks,  ex- 
claimed :  "  I  saw  'em  there  only  a  minute  or  to 
ago,  when  I  just  stepped  out  to  post  the  letters." 
Up  comes  Mr.  Scan  at  that  moment  1  leave 
my  readers  to  judge  whether  he  thought  the 
matter  a  trifle;  neither,  ultimately,  did  poor 
Jane.  She  lost  her  place,  and,  having  been 
seen  speaking  to  the  young  man  who  was  justly 
considered  an  accomplice  in  the  robbery,  was 
yery  near  losing  her  character.    But  her  mia- 


tresa  said,  very  justly :  ''  I  blame  myself  mo 
than  you;  I  am,  I  know,  too  apt  to  negU 
little  things  and  call  them  trifles." 

Mr.  Scan  was  not  much  in  the  humor 
comfort  himself  with  a  quotation  then,  I 
afterwards  I  found  both  him  and  his  wife  foj 
of  the  old  motto: 

**  Think  naught  a  trifle,  though  it  small  appears, 
Sands  make  the  moantain,  UMmenta  make  the  yei 
And  trifles  life. 


BORN  RULERS. 

THERE  are  born  dictators  as  well  as  be 
poets.  Certain  people  come  into  the  woi 
with  the  instinct  and  talent  for  ruling  a 
teaching,  and  certain  others  with  the  deti 
and  instinct  of  being  taught  and  ruled  ov< 
There  are  people  bom  with  such  a  superfluc 
talent  for  management  and  dictation,  that  th 
always,  instinctively  and  as  a  matter  of  coor 
arrange- not  only  their  own  affairs,  but  those 
their  friends  and  rriations,  in  the  most  efficic 
and  complete  manner  possible.  Such  is  t 
tendency  of  things  to  adaptation  and  harmoi 
that  where  such  persons  exist  we  are  sore 
find  them  surrounded  by  those  who  take  i 
light  in  being  guided,  who  like  to  learn,  and 
look  up. 

Now  the  fact  is  quite  striking  that  the  p< 
sons  who  hold  this  position  in  domestic  poli 
are  often  not  particularly  strong  or  wise.  T 
governing  mind  of  many  a  circle  is  not  bj  si 
means  the  mind  best  fitted  either  mentally 
morally  to  govern.  It  is  neither  the  best  n 
the  cleverest  individual  of  a  given  numl 
who  influences  their  opinions  and  condo 
but  the  person  the  most  perseveringlj  se 
asserting.  It  is  amusing,  in  looking  at  tl 
world,  to  see  how  much  people  are  taken 
their  own  valuation.  The  persons  who  alwa 
have  an  opinion  on  every  possible  subjf 
ready  made,  and  put  up  and  labelled  for  ii 
mediate  use,  concerning  which  they  have  i 
shadow  of  a  doubt  or  hesitation,  are  from  tb 
very  quality  bom  ralers.  This  posidvenei 
and  preparedness,  and  readiness,  may  spin 
from  a  universal  shallowness  of  nature,  bot 
is  none  the  less  efficient.  While  people 
deeper  perceptions  and  more  insight  are  ws^ 
ering  in  delicate  distresses,  balancing  tttt 
mony  and  praying  for  lights  this  commoi 
place  obtusenes^  comes  in  and  leads  all  captiT^ 
by  mere  force  of  knowing  exactly  what 
wants,  and  being  incapable  of  seeing  beyos 
the  issues  of  the  moment.— ifrs.  SUnwe,  tn  (2lr« 
tian  UnUm, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


A  DOLLAB  A  DAT. 


BY  VIBGINIA  F.  TOWNSEND. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

r!  WHS  a  year  thnt  veiy  daj  Bince  Joe  Day- 
ton had  gone  to  sea,  Darley  Hanee^  on  his 
old  beat  around  Thornley  Common  and  Mer^ 
chants'  Block,  hawking  the  newspapers,  remem- 
bered that  £ict.  It  brought  a  big  lump  into 
bis  throat  more  than  once— -at  the  yerj  time, 
toO|  when  he  was  shouting  the  Standard  at  hb 
loadest  and  the  sales  were  briskeBt.  In  fiacty 
that  intmsive  lump  may  have  lost  him  a  cus- 
tomer or  two ;  but,  poor  as  Darley  was,  I  do 
not  belieye  he  would  have  foregone  the  mem- 
017  for  the  sake  of  the  castomer. 

The  summer  had  gone  over  the  old  '4ean-to" 
in  the  ouukirts  of  Thornley,  just  as  so  many 
aammers  had  gone  before,  dying  out  at  last  in 
the  heayenly  glory  of  the  autumn. 

Eveiything  had  gone  as  usual,  except  that 
the  inmates  were  a  year  older.  The  pinch  and 
the  straggle,  the  tug  and  the  strain  to  make 
both  ends  meet,  were  not  lessened  for  those 
joiiiig  heads  and  hearts — there  were  the  old 
^ly  petty  economies  for  Prody,  the  screwing 
iad  twisting,  the  wearing  dread  and  anxieties 
for  each;  but  for  all  that,  the  frail  little  craft 
had  weathered  the  heavy  seas,  and  rounded  the 
capes  and  headlands  of  another  year. 

Barley  always  cut  antics,  and  executed  the 
inoet  marvellous  of  somersaults  when  the 
monthly  rent  was  paid,  shooting,  "We've 
polled  through  another  month,  girls.  Hip, 
lup,  hurrah  I" 

Of  course  the  girls  took  matters  more  qui- 
etly, but  Prudy's  long  breaths  of  relief,  and 
^e  light  in  Cherry's  "  bluest  eyes  you  ever 
>&w^  were  not  less  significant,  in  their  way, 
^  Darley's  gratulations. 

Yet  I  tremble  sometimes  lest,  hard  and  bit- 
ter as  this  poverty  was— in  whose  perpetual 
ihadow  these  young  lives  were  growing  toward 
manhood  and  womanhood — I  should  make  it 
"^cm  a  more  awful  thing  than  it  really  is.  It 
lud  its  compensations.  What  human  condi- 
tion has  not?  I  am  not  sure,  too,  that  any 
man  or  woman  is  better  o£f  for  not  having 
known,  sometime,  what  it  was  to  go  without 
>  dinner  for  lack  of  something  to  buy  it 

Brains,  like  bones,  do  not  harden  under  too 
tender  cherishing ;  and  the  main  thing  in  this  , 
haman  life,  after  all,  is  to  get  some  strc^e  of  ( 
'^  good  work  out  of  us,  whether  of  mind  or 

VOL.  xxxvm.— 7. 


muscle — to  see  to  it,  too,  that  the  heart  go  well 
into  the  work,  of  whatever  sort  this  latter 
may  be. 

The  summer,  with  its  mornings  cloaked  in 
dews  and  songs  and  blossoms,  with  its  still 
splendor  of  moons,  with  the  noiseless  pomp  of 
its  starry  evenings,  did  not  go  over  the  young, 
fresh  souls  in  the  ancient  "lean-to*'  without 
brimming  them  over  with  joy  and  gladness  also. 

There  were  times  when  the  iaoe  of  the  wolf 
at  the  door  hid  itself  away — ^when  Darley  and 
CSierry,  and  even  Prudy  forgot  they  were  poor 
— when  Nature  took  the  three  right  into  her 
strong,  mfttherly  heart,  and  made  them  keep 
the  wild  holiday  of  their  youth. 

At  these  times  there  were  rambles  in  the 
woods,  searches  after  wild  flowers,  and  mosses, 
and  berries,  which  the  Great  Mother  poured  out 
with  her  liberal  hand ;  there  were  moonlight 
walks  by  the  banks  of  the  river;  and  when  the 
autumn  came  on,  and  the  green  sea  of  June 
was  no  more,  and  in  its  place  stood  a  vast 
army,  with  plumes  of  crimson  and  gold  for  the 
winds  to  toss,  the  newsboy  and  his  sisters  went 
into  the  wood-pastures  and  upon  the  hills  to 
gather  nuts,  and  not  even  the  thought  of  the 
winter  that  was  steadily  coming,  with  its  mis- 
erable cry  for  fires  and  l?unp*light,  could  keep 
Prudy  Hanes  from  going  half  wild  in  the 
beauty  and  stillness  of  those  autumn  after- 
noons. 

It  was  not  "  all  bad"  for  them;  you  see.  I 
think  it  never  is  for  anybody,  who  believes  in 
God,  while  they  are  in  this  world  of  His. 

One  evening,  almost  on  the  edge  of  the  winter, 
the  newsboy  and  his  sisters  sat  together  again 
in  the  "lean-to." 

There  was  no  moon  to-night,  and  only  stars 
occasionally  putting  out  for  a  few  moments,  dim, 
mournful  faces  between  cold,  hurrying  clouds. 
There  was  a  dismal  snarling  of  winds  outside, 
which  settled  down  occasionally  into  a  low,  half 
heart  broken  moan. 

"O  dearP'  said  Cherry,  with  a  little  shiver; 
''I  wish  the  wind  would  just  shut  up  that 
dreary  cry ;  it  troubles  me." 

Darley  has  been  listening  to  it,  between 
reading  ^he  newspapers.    He  speaks  up  now. 

'*The  wind  seems  to  me  just  like  the  voice 
of  a  spirit  moaning  over  all  the  beauty  and 
gladness  that  are  gone." 


Digitized  by 


Cfaogle 


93 


ARlHUR'a   LADTa   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


He  oomes  out  oocaBioDallj  —  thU  homely, 
crostj  Darley  —  in  the  most  unexpected  way, 
with  the  quaintest  and  prettiest  fancies. 

Pnidj  regards  him  thoughtfully  a  few  mo- 
ments now;  then  of  a  sudden  she  breaks  out: 

**Darley,  I  wonder  if  you  wont  be  a  poet 
Boroe  day  I" 

Darley  colors  a  little,  with  surprise  and 
pleasure,  and  then,  thinking  of  his  hard  hand- 
to-hand  fight  with  fate,  grunts  out: 

''Fine  prospect  of  my  ever  being  that!" 

"  Ah,  well,"  says  Pnidy,  "  the  sweetest  poete 
have  sung  in  the  dark  and  in  trouble ;  and  if 
the  music  is  there,  shut  up  in  your  soul,  Darley 
Hanes,  it  isn't  all  the  poverty  and  struggle  of 
to-day  can  keep  the  song  from  coming  out, 
when  the  time  comes." 

While  this  talk  is  going  on,  Cherry  gets  a 
plaid  shawl,  and  wraps  it  around  her  slender 
shoulders,  and  comes  back  with  a  loag  shiver, 
which  Prudy  remarks. 

"  We  must  get  up  the  stove,  to-morrow.  Tve 
put  it  off  to  the  very  last  gasp;  but  it  bn't 
good  economy  to  save  fire  and  get  sick,"  the 
girl  says. 

''You  found  that  out  last  year,  when  you 
took  the  fever,  poor  old  Prue;  didn't  you?" 
adds  Darley.  '*That  just  came  of  putting  off 
getting  the  stove  up." 

"And  there's  no  good  old  Joe  Dayton  to 
help  us  get  well,  on  his  boots,  now,  if  we  are 
sick,"  pipes  in  Cherry. 

"  Bless  his  dear,  honest  old  soul  I  No,  there 
isn't.  I  wish  I  knew  where  he  was  to-night," 
exclaims  Darley;  and  Prudy,  although  she 
says  nothing,  looks  up  with  a  glance  which 
adds  a  hearty  amen. 

"  I  wonder,"  continues  Cherry,  "  if  we  ever 
shall  be  any  better  off  than  we  are  now  ?  I 
don't  see  the  faintest  ghost  of  a  chance  for  it." 

"Nor  J,"  says  Darley,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Yet,  girls,"  looking  up  with  sudden  anima- 
tion, "  I  tell  you  what,  I  do  feel,  sometimes,  in 
my  bones,  that  Pmdy's  dream  is  coming  true — 
it  may  be  a  long  time  first ;  but  before  we  die, 
anyhow ;  and  I  always  wonder  what  I  shall  do, 
and  how  I  shall  feel  when  the  time  comes." 

"  O — ^h  my  I"  exclaims  Cherry,  drawing  her 
breath  between  her  teeth,  as  she  tries  to  con- 
template this  dazsling  and  remote  possibility. 
"  Do  you  think  it  will  ever  be  as  Darley  says,  • 
Prudy  ?  Such  wonderful  things  do  happen  in 
books,  you  knew." 

"  I  know — in  books,"  Prudy  answers,  grave- 
ly, "  It  may  happen  sometime,  when  Darley 
is  grown  up,  or  old,  or  married." 

"  Married !"  echoes  Darley,  with  a  sniff  of 


ineffable  contempt  "  Prudy  Hanea,  I  did  thin 
you  had  more  sense !" 

"Yea,  Prudy,  I  really  did,"  adds  Cherry. 

"Oh,  you  geese  I  did  you  really  suppose 
fancied  we  could  ever,  any  of  us,  make  txn 
fools  of  ourselves  as  to  go  and  get  married 
inquires  the  elder  sister. 

Darley  does  not  relbh  having  the  tab] 
turned  upon  him  in  this  way.  "  I  found  oi 
long  ago,  he  says,  solemnly,  "there  was  i 
telling  what  crotchet  a  girl  might  get  into  h 
head." 

"I  found  out  long  ago,"  subjoined  Prad 
with  that  freezing  air  of  superiorkf  which  w 
particularly  tantalizing  to  Darley,  "  there  n 
no  kind  of  telling  what  stupid  absurdities 
boy  might  run  his  neck  into." 

Darley  opened  his  lips  for  an  angry  rejoi 
der.  A  squall  was  evidently  brewing  in  t 
family  atmosphere.  They  were  not  always  wi 
and  patient,  and  sweet-tempered — these  lit 
peoples ;  and  yet  the  wonder  was  that  that  sou 
craft  of  theirs  doubled,  bravely  as  it  did,  t 
capes  and  headlands  which  rose,  threatenii 
along  the  stormy  coast  of  their  youth. 

Cherry  came  to  the  rescue  in  the  nick 
time.  '*  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  we  shall  go 
just  as  we  always  have  done,  and  sink  or  swi 
together ;  and  if  the  dollar  a  day  ever  cook 
we  shall  cut  it  into  three  slices,  you  know,  jt 
as  we  have  all  the  good  things — the  cakes,  ai 
candies,  and  oranges — which  have  ever  fall 
into  our  lines." 

"That's  so!"  added  Darley,  heartily,  for^ 
ting  to  answer  Prudy.  •   • 

In  a  little  while  the  elder  sister  spoke  i 
again.  "It's  frightful  to  think  of  the  incJ] 
we've  been  growing  this  summer  I" 

"  I  don't  see  as  we  are  any  taller,"  answer 
Cherry, 

"  Ah  I  but  jrou  will,  when  you  come  to  try 
your  winter  clothes.  I  had  them  out  of  the  o 
trunk,  this  afternoon,  and  everything  was 
short  and  scrimped  that  I  wondered  how  ] 
were  to  get  into  them.  If  one  could  only  11 
a  mootii  without  eating,  I  could  see  my  w 
through ;"  and  Prudy  drew  a  long  sigh. 

'*  I  suppose  that  means  the  way  to  some  n< 
gowns  for  you  and  Cherry,"  answered  Darle 
with  a  touch  of  his  quaint  humor. 

"  Oowns  I "  repeated  Cherry,  with  her  spark 
of  a  laugh.  "  What  an  antediluvian  you  ai 
Darley  1  Your  great-grandfather  might  ha' 
talked  about  gowns ;  but  boys  of  your  day  ai 
generation  are  presumed  to  know  that  gii 
wear  dresses." 

DarJey  grew,  of  a  sudden,  wonderful Iv  '^^>fl 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


99 


ind  outside  the  winds  snapped  and  clutched 
uigrily  at  the  poor  handfuls  of  dead  leaTes 
«  the  boiighs,  and  then  went  off  into  that 
Irearj  plaining;  and  overhead  the  clouds  hur- 
ied  like  gray  spectres  across  the  stars. 

Cherry's  careless  mention  of  his  great-grand- 
ather  has  started  a  new  train  of  thought  in 
)sriey's  brain. 

Ketcham,  the  butcher,  was  standing  in  the 
loorway,  when  Darley  came  up  with  the  even- 
ng  papers.  The  man  Was  a  regular  snbscriber, 
nd  always  threw  in  a  joke  or  a  good-nstnred 
Up  on  the  shoulder,  when  he  happened  to 
eoeive  the  paper,  as  he  did  to-night,  from 
)arley's  own  hands. 

This  time,  however,  some  stranger  was  stand- 
Dg  in  the  doorway;  and  after  Darley  had 
rhisked  off  the  paper  from  his  pack  and  placed 
\  in  Keteliam's  hand,  he  overhead  the  bu teller 

"Ton  eoDie  from  the  old  place,  sir.  You 
lost  remember  old  Squire  Butterfieldf ' 

"Perfectly,"  was  the  reply. 

"The  boy  yon  jast  saw  give  me  this  paper 
ras  his  grandson." 

"Good  Heavens!  Well  that  is  a  turn  of 
fortune's  wheel  with  a  vengeanoe." 

"Yes;  ifs  cur'i's  how  things  go  up  and 
own  in  this  here  life,"  said  Ketcham. 

"  What  became  of  the  father?"  inquired  the 
Iranger,  without  regarding  Ketcham's  moral- 
ling. 

"Smart,  bat  thriftless,"  was  the  answer. 
Broke  down  under  misfortune  and  drink; 
Dd  one  night,  coming  home  with  his  brain 
lore  or  less  fuddled,  he  fell  into  the  river; 
nd  that  was  the  last  of  Squire  Butterfield*s 
ne  son-in-law." 

Ketcham  had  a  habit  of  loud  talking.  His 
ack  was  turned  to  the  newsboy,  who,  creeping 
towly  down  the  street,  had  overheard  all  this 
tlk.  Darley  had  not  once  thought  he  was 
Atening  to  conversation  which  was  not  in- 
aided  for  him,  else  some  native  instinct  of 
ODor  would  have  hurried  him  out  of  the  sound 
f  Ketchatn's  voice. 

This  careless  talk,  however,  had  come  up  at 
Dtervals  ever  since  to  trouble  the  boy. 

With  a  sensitive  family  pride,  which  misfoiv 
one  had  perhaps  strengthened,  the  grand- 
hitdren  of  Squire  Bntterfield  had,  more  or 
e«,  a  vague  impression  that  some  shadow  of 
rrong  or  misfortune  clung  to  their  father's 
uune  and  Hfe. 

1^0  word  of  reproach  or  bitterness  had  ever 
piMed  the  lips  of  the  dead  mother  when  she 
>UMd  her  husband  to  his  children,  but  the 


sadness  that  clung  to  her  face — to  her  voice 
even-*-could  not  fail  to  make  its  own  impres- 
sion on  their  yoqng  souls. 

Ketcham's  careless  gossip  had  set  the  facts 
before  Darley  in  sharp,  hard  lines  enough,  and 
the  talk  could  not  fail  to  come  back  afterward, 
bringing  its  own  sting  with  it 

Darley  was  silent  a  long  time,  so  were  the 
girls,  listening  to  the  winds  outside;  even 
Prudy  sitting  with  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  after  she  had  finished  her  sewing,  and  not 
taking  up  the  book  which  lay  close  at  hand. 

"Prudy,"  said  Darley,  of  a  sudden,  **do  you 
know  what  kind  of  a  night  that  was  on  Which 
papa  was  drowned  ?" 

"Why  no;"  looking  dreadfully  startled. 
"  What  can  have  put  such  a  question  into  your 
head,  Darley  ?' 

"  I  can't  tell— the  wind,  maybe.  I  fancy  it 
must  have  been  such  a  kind  of  night  as  this 
that  it  happened." 

"  Why  Darley !"  said  Cherry,  staring  from 
her  brother  to  her  sister. 
\  "  Do  you  remember  anything  about  it,  Pru- 
dy?" asked   Darley,  keeping  straight  to  the 
point,  in  spite  of  the  startled  faces. 

"Sometimes  I  seem  to,"  speaking  in  a  low 
voice,  as  though  half  communing  with  herself; 
"and  then,  when  I  try  to  think  steadily,  it  all 
grows  misty  like  a  dream  ;  but  once  in  awhile 
it  comes  clear  again,  as  a  hill  does  when  the 
wind  blows  the  fog  aside,  and  I  seem  to  be  sit- 
ting up  in  bed  and  shivering  in  the  cold,  and 
the  dawn  is  just  looking  in  at  the  window; 
and  there  are  voices  and  cries  outside;  and 
suddenly  the  door  opens,  and  mamma  bursts 
into  the  room,  and  she  stares  at  me  with  great 
wild  eyes  that  do  not  seem  to  see  me,  and  her 
face  is  white  as  a  spectre,  and  has  such  an 
awful  look  that  I  begin  to  cry  ;  and  she  wrings 
her  hands  and  says  something  about  her  poor 
little  fatherless  children,  and  walks  up  and 
down  the  room,  calling  on  God;  and  then 
otlier  people  come  in,  and  the  chamber  is  full 
of  scared,  shocked  faces;  and  they  bear  her 
away.  And  that  ia  all  I  remember ;  and  when 
I  talk  of  it,  it  seems  to  all  fade  away  from  me." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two ;  and 
all  the  young  faces  were  very  sorrowful,  living 
over,  in  a  faint  way,  the  mother's  awful  an- 
guish.   Cherry  was  the  first  to  speak : 

"Poor  mammal  i  was  only  a  little  baby 
when  that  awful  thing  happened." 

"It  was  in  the  river,  wasn't  it?"  asked  Dar- 
ley, under  his  breath.  He  had  an  object  in 
putting  this  question. 

"Yes^   in  the  river,"  the  girl  answered. 


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ARTHUR'S   LADT8   SOME    MAGAZINE. 


hardly  abore  her  breath.  "  It  happened  the 
year  after  we  left  Grandpa  Butterfield's  old 
place  and  came  to  Thorn  ley;  papa  had  not 
been  well  for  a  long  time,  and  was  subject  to 
attacks  of  yertigo,  and  this  most  have  over- 
taken him  on  the  bridge  while  he  was  coming 
home  that  night." 

Darley  drew  a  long  sigh,  partly  of  pain, 
partly  of  relief.  It  was  evident  that  Prudy 
knew  no  cause  of  the  fatal  catastrophe  beyond 
that  which  she  assigned  to  it.  Darley  resolved 
devoutly  that  Ketcham's  version  of  their 
father's  death  Hhonld  never  reach  the  ears  and 
wonnd  the  hearts  of  his  young  sisters  if  he 
could  help  it.  Their  life  was  overshadowed 
eoough  already,  Qod  knew. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  boy  that  some  taint  of 
shame  and  disgrace  clung  to  his  blood,  as  he 
hurried  away  that  afternoon  from  the  sound 
of  Ketcham'ii  voice. 

But  now  there  woke  up  some  new  sense  of 
courage  and  manliness  in  his  soul  as  he  looked 
at  his  young  sisters,  and  resolved  to  shield 
them,  if  possible,  from  the  knowledge  of  their 
father's  sin. 

Barley  had  never  loved  his  dead  mother  so 
tenderlj  ;  his  heart  had  never  felt  so  soft  to- 
ward his  sisters  as  it  did  to-night. 

Whatever  wrong  others  had  done  ihem,  he 
at  least  was  sure  of  what  he  owed  to  these 
.young  girls.  "And  blush  for  whomever  yon 
may,  you  never  shall  for  your  brother,  girls," 
said  Darley  to  himself,  with  a  flash  in  his  deep- 
set  eyes. 

So,  though  Ketch am's  talk  hnrt  sorely  at  the 
time,  though  it  came  back  often  afterward  with 
a  pang  that  made  Darley  Hanes  wince  as 
though  some  cloud  of  inherited  shame  hung 
forever  about  his  life,  yet  I  doubt  whether,  in 
the  long  run,  the  careless  gossip  of  the  butcher 
did  the  boy  any  real  harm. 

Less  than  a  month  after  the  talk  between 
Ketcham  and  the  stranger,  Darley  Hanes 
wrote  in  the  Supercargoe's  account-book,  as 
follows : 

A  strange  thing  happened  last  night.  It's 
troubled  me  ever  since.  I  haven't  told  the 
girls — what's  more,  1  don't  mean  to. 

AAer  supper  last  night,  I  went  out  for  a 
walk.  I  don't  know  what  took  me,  I'm  sure, 
for  I'm  usually  tired  enough  to  sit  still,  after 
beating  around  Thomley  Common  and  Mer- 
chants' Blobk  for  two  or  three  hours. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  the  sight  of  the 
young  moon,  hanging  like  a  slender,  golden 
shell  just  above  the  hill.  Anyhow,  I  wentj 
and  the  evening  was  cool  and  still,  and  I 


got  to  thinking  of  Joe  Dayton,  and  wondering 
where  the  fellow  was  that  very  moment,  and 
first  I  knew,  I  found  myself  away  off  on  the 
road  to  Pine  Bridge,  with  the  woods  on  one 
side,  and  the  great,  wide,  lonely  meadows  on 
the  other. 

I  faced  about  tqnare  for  home,  for  I  wis  i 
couple  of  miles  from  it,  and  I  said  to  myself: 
*^  Joe  Dayton,  old  boy,  you  are  responsible  foi 
this!" 

Just  then  a  couple  of  figures  came  out  in  the 
moonlight  where  the  road  forks  that  leads  to 
Chestnut  Hollow.  They  were  in  a  hurry,  and 
did  not  notice  me,  and  one,  the  taller  and 
older,  was  talking  in  a  loud,  angry  voice,  and 
as  he  drew  near  I  heard  these  words : 

"^^ow,  Forsyth,"  with  an  awful  oath,  "Tyf 
set  the  matter  plumb  before  you;  I  must  hare 
that  little  sum  without  delay.  There's  no 
squirming  out  of  it.  My  grip's  on  you,  and 
you'll  find  it's  the  Devil's  himself,  if  you  try 
to  sneak  out  You  must  fork  over,  by  fail 
means  or  foul." 

There  was  some  answer,  but  it  was  in  a  lowei 
tone,  and  I  did  not  hear  it ;  then  as  the  two 
came  near  me,  I  felt  a  shock  go  all  through 
me,  for  I  saw  the  younger  of  these  figures  hiu 
my  friend. 

He  saw  me,  too ;  but  he  looked  at  me  al 
first  with  a  kind  of  wild,  worried  stare,  ti 
though  he  did  not  recognize  me,  though  he 
did  afterward,  and  bowed.  The  man  whowai 
with  him  stared,  too,  with  those  great,  bold, 
wicked  eyes  of  his,  which  seems  to  be  all  1  can 
remember  of  his  face,  except  his  long,  thick 
beard.  He  could  not  have  been  an  old  man 
either,  I  am  sure  of  that. 

So  they  went  past  roe  in  the  faint  light,  foi 
the  young  moon  was  dipping  that  slender, 
yellow  horn  of  hers  behind  the  hill. 

I  could  not  get  over  it  all  the  evening.  The 
girls  kept  wondering  what  made  me  so  glum, 
aQd  at  last  I  got  mad  and  was  bearish  to  both. 
A  fellow  likes  to  be  let  alone  sometimes  wiili 
his  thoughts. 

I  wish  I  could  have  knocked  that  rascal 
down  last  night,  who  dared  talk  to  my  friend 
in  that  style.  It  would  have  done  every  drop 
of  blood  in  me  good. 

I  am  sure  young  Forsyth  is  in  some  dread- 
ful trouble ;  I  wamt  to  go  to  him  and  tell  him 
I  am  ready  to  help  him — stand  by  him— do 
anything ;  but  then  of  what  use  could  a  poor, 
friendless  boy  be,  a  boy  without  a  dollar  in  the 
world,  hawking  newspaipers  about  the  town  ? 
No,  there^s  no  use  in  wisliing,  only  I  cannot 
get  the  misery  of  young  Forsyth's  eyes  when 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY, 


101 


be  ]<ioked  at  me  last  night  out  of  my  thoughts. 
What  dtd  that  villain  mean,  I  wonder,  when 
he  talked  of  his  grip  on  my  friend  7 

There's  some  dreadful  wrong  and  trooble 
•omewhere,  and  all  you  can  say  or  do,  Darlej 
Hanes,  is  "  Grod  have  pity  on  the  boy !" 

And  when  it  conies  to  that,  you  are  such  a 
great  sinner  yourself,  you  are  in  a  good  deal  of  i 
doubt  about  a  prayer  of  yours  doing  anybody 
much  good* 


CHAPTEE  XVI. 

Ramsey  Forsyth  had  fallen.  I  put  that  fact 
at  the  beginning,  because  I  wish  to  make  this 
part  of  my  story  as  brief  as  possible,  instead  of 
fdllowing  the  miserable  youth,  step  by  step, 
in  that  career  which  was  certain  to  end  at  last 
in  crime. 

Yet  in  the  boy's  case  there  was  something 
to  excuse,  and  a  great  deal  to  pity.  Any  one 
must  hare  feit  this,  remembering  with  what 
high  hopes  and  honest  purposes  he  bad  gone 
ODt  from  Thorn  ley  a  couple  of  months  ago,  and 
there  was  OTery  prospect  he  would  have  re- 
turned, not  only  with  a  clean  conscience,  but 
with  credit  to  himself,  if  the  Devil  had  not 
started  up  in  his  path  in  the  shape  of  Marcus 
Bopes. 

From  the  moment  the  Galifomian  had  de- 
termined, to  use  his  own  phrase,  "  to  get  some 
meat  out  of  that  nut,"  Ramsey  was  doomed. 

The  man  had  clung  to  the  youth  like  his 
ihadow ;  had  flattered  his  yanity,  praised  his 
jokes,  and  used  all  his  shrewdness  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  to  make  himself  agreeftble 
Mid  oeoessary  to  young  Forsyth. 

It  was  easy  work ;  so  easy  that  Ropes,  who 
liked  to  employ  his  talents  on  the  execution  of 
a  master- piece,  in  helping  forward  the  work  of 
the  Devil  in  this  world,  sometimes  was  half- 
disgusted  that  he  had  no  nobler  quarry  to  hunt 
down.  But  the  times  did  not  allow  him  to  be 
^Mtidioufl,  and  he  was  bent  on  "  taking  a  slice 
out  of- old  Forsyth's  loaf,"  which  meaning, 
peeping  out  of  its  metaphor,  was  simply 
**  Healing  a  few  thousands  of  the  other's 
money." 

Byery  day,  under  Rotie's  influence,  Ramsey 
Foniyth  grew  bolder  in  evil.  He  went  to 
nces,  to  wine  suppers,  to  places  of  amusement 
whose  very  name,  associated  with  his  Fon,  would 
We  made  the  elder  Forsyth  pour  out  a  volley 
of  oaths;  he  went  again  and  again  to  gambling 
'^obm,  and  won  and  lost ;  he  learned  to  langh 
u  the  foul  jokes  of  his  companion ;  he  aped 
^^»S^h  talk  and  manners ;  and  all  this  while 


the  man  was  biding:  his  time,  and  hiding  the 
smile  of  a  fiend  under  that  handsome  beard 
of  bis. 

All  Ropes's  yillanous  projects  were,  how- 
ever, suddenly  disconcerted  by  a  snmmdis 
which  Ramsey  received  from  his  father  to 
retum  home  for  a  week. 

Forsyth  had  no  suspicion  that  anything  was 
going  wrong  with  his  son,  but  the  man  thought 
it  necessary  to  prepare  the  youth  for  some  new 
movements  in  the  business  he  was  ne^tiating, 
and,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  on 
the  son's  part  but  to  obey  the  paternal  sum- 
mons, which  Ramitey,  with  an  uneasy  con- 
science, was  reluctant  enough  to  do. 

Horse-betting,  boat- racing,  wine  suppers,  and 
gambling  houses  are  expensive  enjoymentn. 
Ramsey  had  proved  them  so,  and  had  borrowed 
more  or  less  money  of  Ropes,  the  former  get- 
ting desperate,  and  trusting  that  a  '*run  of 
good  luck  "  at  cards  would  relieve  him  from 
all  indebtedness ;  and  he  found  Ropes  the  most 
accommodating  of  creditors. 

The  day  before  Ramsey  was  to  leave  the 
city,  the  Gallfornian  came  into  the  room,  cigar 
in  mouth,  and  that  inevitable  swagger  which 
wast  Ramsey's  admiration  and  deepair.  Ropes 
was  a  little  broader  in  his  jokes  than  usuhI 
this  morning,  and  there  was  a  covert  leer  in  his 
eye,  which  those  who  knew  the  man  we]J  would 
have  felt  boded  evil  to  somebody. 

**  See  here,  my  boy,"  he  said,  at  last,  there's 
a  little  matter  of  debt  and  credit  between  you 
and  me,  which,  as  the  general  has  ordered 
you  to  head  quarters,  we  may  as  well  have 
settled  up  now  as  ever ;"  and  he  handed  some 
papers  to  Ramsey. 

The  youth  looked  them  over,  drew  his  breath, 
and  then,  dumbfoundered,  glanced  up  to  the 
impassive  face  of  his  companion.  Ropes  had 
made  young  Forsyth  his  debtor  for  three  thou- 
sand dollars. 

"Well,  all  right  there,  isn't  itr'  said  the 
other,  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket  and  his 
voice  at  its  smoothest. 

The  talk  that  followed  is  not  for  these  pages. 
Before  it  was  through  the  Devil  had  looked, 
out  of  his  mask,  and  Khowed  something  of  his 
true  features  to  Ramsey  Forsyth. 

Stung  to  desperation,  and  beginning  at  last 
to  suspect  that  he  bad  beto  the  dupe  of  a  shrewd 
rascal,  young  Forsyth  protested,  denied,  and 
at  last  flung  the  lie  in  Ropes's  /ace. 

A  sardonic  laugh  made  answer.  It  was  time 
now  to  put  off  the  mask,  and  the  man  did  it 
efiectually. 

Entreaties,  bullying,  threats^  cunea  were  all 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


102 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   ^OUE    MAGAZINE, 


in  turn  brought  to  bear  on  the  mitenble  jonih, 
whO)  cowed  and  f«cared  at  last,  entreated  Ropes 
to  have  pity  on  him. 

The  iron  was  hot  now.  Bopes  strtck.  He 
Ihtnted  monej,  and  he  swore  he  would  hare  it, 
by  fair  means  or  foul. 

"  There  was  only  one  door  of  escape  open  to 
Kamsey,  and  it  was  a  mere  ceremony,  after  ail. 
He  could  forge  his  lather's  name  for  ilie  sum 
total.  If  he  refused  to  do  thi», 'there  was  the 
other  alternative:  Koikes  would  transmit,. that 
▼ery  day,  an  account  of  the  whole  transaction 
to  the  elder  Forsyth." 

The  man  had  shrewdly  oounted  on  the  effect 
this  threat  would  have  on  young  Forsyth. 
Kaoisey  rayed,  tore,  prayed,  but  the  other  was 
inexorable ;  and  at  last,  exhausted  betwixt  de- 
spair and  terror,  and  belieying  it  was  the  only 
way  to  save  himself  from  his  father's  wrath, 
Ramsey  took  the  pen,  with  a  shaking  hand 
and  a  fiice  like  a  spectre;  then  suddenly  dashed 
it  down  as  though  it  were  a  flaming  brand.  *^I 
would  rather  you  cut  my  arm  off  at  the  so<^et 
than  do  this  thing,  Ropes,"  he  cried. 

The  man  picked  up  the  pen  with  a  sneer. 
''  In  half  an  hour  the  mail  North  closes,''  he 
said.  "Don't  be  a  fool,  Forsyth.  The  old 
man  will  never  be  the  wiser." 

And  at  last  Ramsey  took  the  pen  and  wrcte 
hi$  father' $  name. 

In  due  lime  young  Forsyth  returned  to 
Thornley.  It  was  wonderful  how  well  the 
youth  carried  himself,  considering  what  was 
on  his  mind  at  this  crisis.  But  nobody  sus- 
pected anything  was  wrong.  Indeed,  his  fa- 
ther, though  somewhat  parsimonious  in  praise, 
was  secretly  much  gratified  with  the  business 
sagflcity  which  his  son  had  of  late  dereloped, 
and  began  to  congratulate  himself  that  the  boy 
had  reaped  in  his  first  his  last  field  of  wild 
oats. 

But  Ramsey's  fate  followed  him  to  Thoni- 
ley,  and  discovered  himself  there,  the  second 
day  after  the  youth'a  return,  in  the  shape  of 
Ropes. 

It  was  no  part  of  the  yillain's  policy  to  R>ake 
.  himself  amenable  to  the  law.  He  was  at  heart 
a  coward ;  and  though  he  possessed  the  forged 
note,  he  had  not  the  courage  to  present  it  for 
payment,  conscious  that,  when  the  crime  was 
discovered,  his  own  share  in  it  might  conngn 
him  to  the  State  prison. 

But  lie  knew  Ranytey,  and  knew  also  that 
he  could  hold  the  forgery  as  a  rod  of  terror 
over  the  wretched  boy.  So  he  came  tp  Thorn- 
ley  ;  and  the  two  had  more  than  one  sorrep^ 
titious  interview. 


Ropes,  by  diAl  of  shrewd  qaeationing,  had 
discovered  that  Forsyth  frequeDtly  had  laige 
sums  of  gold,  for  some  months,  under  his  own 
roof. 

The  CalKbrniaii  was  now  bent  on  foretng 
Ramsey  to  rob  his  fiAher's  safe. 

The  three  thousand  dollars  once  in  Ropea^s 
hands,  he  could,  to  qnote  his  own  wordi*,  ** de- 
camp, and  cover  his  tracks,"  while  yonng  F<]^ 
sy  th  would  bear  the  brunt  of  the  crime. 

"As  for  Forsyth's  putting  the  breaks  of  the 
law  on  his  son.  Ropes  did  not  believe  a  word 
of  it ;  though  such  threats  might  do  to  scare 
such  a  white-livered  young  rascal;  at  all 
events,  that  was  the  other's  bosineea:  what 
Ropes  wanted  was  the  money." 

In  these  last  days  young  Forsjth  had  been 
growing  wiser.  He  was  perfectly  consciooi 
that  all  the  money  he  had  borrowed  of  Rope^ 
at  gambling-tables  and  horseraces,  could  not 
amount  to  more  than  a  third  of  the  sum  which 
the  latter  claimed.  He  saw,  too,  clearly  enoogh, 
how  he  had,  all  along,  been  the  wretched  dope 
of  a  shrewd  villain's  schemes;  bat  this  knovl- 
edge,  so  dearly  bought,  did  not  in  the  leui 
tend  to  diminish  the  power  which  the  ether 
had  over  him;  perhaps  it  rather  aggravated 
Ramsey's  sense  <^  his  utter  helplessness  at  tkb 
juncture. 

The  wretched  youth  shrank  with  horror,  al 
the  beginning,  from  the  commission  of  theaev 
crime  which  Ropes  urged  upon  him  ;  and  agaia 
the  latter  brought  up  to  yonng  Forsyth  the 
dreadfiil  alternative  of  placing  before  hisfiithtf 
the  proofs  of  the  son's  foigery. 

The  villain  had  no  more  idea  of  doing  thii 
than  he  had  of  walking  straight  into  the  fire; 
but  he  had  discovered  the  precise  point  where 
his  power  over  Ramsey  lay,  and  he  used  hie 
knowledge  mercilessly. 

The  discovery  of  his  crime  to  his  ihthcr 
seemed  to  young  Forsyth  more  terrible  tbu 
death  itself.  The  thought  always  drove  him  hsif 
frenzied — ^the  wonder  being  that,  at  this  awiiil 
crisis,  he  managed  to  carry  himself,  at  hoD^ 
with  his  old  off-hand  blustering  airs ;  so  thit 
Procter  said  to  Gressy :  *•!  tell  you,  it  mtket 
a  fellow  wonderfully  jolly  to  go  to  New  YoA 
Just  hiar  Ram,  now!" 

And  the  "jolly"  youth,  meanwhile,  was  Iti" 
tening  to  the  sound  of  his  own  hollow  laugh' 
ter,  half  expecting  it  would  change  io(o  s 
shriek  of  madness. 

All  this  time,  too,  through  the  wretched  da^f 
and  the  miserable,  sleepless  nights,  the  talk  of 
Rqpes  was  at  work  in  the  youth's  soul. 
Hunted  and  driven  to  bay,  young  Fon/l^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


103 


stared  all  about  him;  and  the  onlj  door  of 
escape  seemed  to  be  thia  one  of  crime,  from 
which,  bad  as  he  was,  he  shrank  mpHIi  unutter- 
able horror. 

Yet,  a  little  of  the  money  locked  up  in  hia 
father's  safe  would  rid  Ramsey  of  Hopes,  and 
deliver  him  from  the  hourly  terkx>r  which  he 
had  of  his  father's  discovering  the  forgery — the 
man  having  solemnly  sworn  to  deliver  all 
proofe  of  thia  into  Bamsey's  hands  on  the  mo- 
ment that  Bopes  should  receive  the  payment 
of  his  debts. 

As  for  the  theA,  young  Forsyth  knew  his 
Other's  business  habits  well  enough  to  under- 
stand that  it  might  be  weeks,  or  even  months, 
before  he  would  have  any  use  for  this  money, 
or  discover  its  abstraction,  and  he  hoped  on  his 
return  to  New  York  to  find  some  means  to  re- 
place the  whole  before  its  theft  had  transpired. 
So  the  Devil  still  had  a  last  card  with  which 
to  tempt  Ramsey  Forsyth. 

Bopes  waa  impatient  to  be  out  of  Thomley ; 
and  you  can  imagine  what  the  chance  of  escape 
irom  thia  man  looked  to  Ramsey  Forsyth. 

It  was  almost  midnight  at  Thomley.  Barley 
Haoes^  on  his  lonely  walk  to  Fine  Bridge  the 
evening  before,  had  overheard  a  part  of  the 
talk  betwixt  Ropea  and  young  Forsyth^  at  the 
last  interview  the  two  had  had  together. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  the  key  turned 
softly  in  the  lock  of  the  door  of  a  small  room 
at  the  end  of  the  hall  op  which  Richard  For- 
syth slept ;  and  a  few  moments  later  there  was 
a  stealthy  tread  across  the  floor,  and  then  a 
dim  gas-light  shone  through  the  room. 

Then  Ramaey  Forsyth  stood  by  the  safe ;  his 
hands  shook,  and  tliere  was  a  dreadful  look  in 
his  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  livid|  as  though  a 
wind  of  death  had  breathed  across  them. 

Hers  again  I  must  make  my  story  brief. 
Young  Forsyth  had  possessed  himself  of  the 
W  iu  his  iSather's  writiog-deak  that  evening. 
He  opened  the  safe ;.  he  fumbled  about  in  some 
of  the  small  oompactments  until  he  found  some 
packages  of  bank  notes ;  he  took  out  three  of 
these;  he  held  them  up  in  the  dim  light;  and 
^f  you  had  stood  very  near  you  might  have 
heard  his  hard-drawn  breaths,  and  once  or 
twice  the  chattering  of  his  teeth. 

There  was  no  need  that  Ramsey  should  count 
the  rolls;  each  was  marked  a  thousand  on  the 
■lip  of  yellowish  paper  which  bound  the  money, 
ud  Ramsey  oould  trust  his  fhther's  hand. 

The  thing  was  done  now.  All  that  remained 
%as  to  Boeet  Ropes  just  in  the  edge  of  the  dawn 
under  Pine  Bridge^  and  deliver  the  money  and 
'^ccive  the  forged  check  in  turn,  and  then 


Ramsey  would  be  free  once  more — free  with 
that  crime  on  his  soul ! 

He  went  back,  after  he  had  glanced  at  the 
figures  on  each  roll,  and  locked  the  safe.  Get- 
ting np,  he  heard  a  faint  sound,  which  made 
his  strained  nerves  start  and  quiver  as  though 
a  volley  of  musketry  had  been  fired  outside. 
He  turned  around,  and  felt,  rather  than  saw, 
that  a  figure  was  standing  in  the  doorway.  In 
his  excitement  and  desperation  he  did  not 
recognize  it,  and  it  flashed  across  him  that 
robbers  had  broken  into  the  house. 

A  pistol — one  that  his  father  had  bought 
only  the  day  before — lay  on  the  mantel.  Kot 
knowing  what  he  was  doing,  Ramsey  seized 
this,  shouting :  "  Keep  o%  I  tell  you !" 

But  the  figure  advanced ;  and  Ramsey,  in  the 
dreadful  excitement  with  which  that  midnight 
work  bad  fired  his  brain  and  blood,  believed 
the  robbers  were  about  to  murder  him,  not  per- 
ceiving there  was  but  one  figure. 

Still,  he  said  afterward,  he  did  not  intend  to 
fire;  he  did  not  know  that  the  pistol  was 
loaded ;  but  for  all  that  it  went  off. 

The  figure  started  and  wavered,  and  sank  to 
the  floor  with  a  cry — a  cry  which,  for  the  mo- 
ment, transfixed  Ramsey  Forsyth. 

Then  there  burst  out  of  his  lips  an  awful 
shriek,  and  the  words  that  followed  it  were: 
"  O  God,  I  have  murdered  my  father  I" 

Then,  like  some  mad  thing,  Ramsey  Forsyth 
tore  out  of  the  chamber,  and  left  the  figure 
lying  there,  and  the  rolls  of  money  scattered 
on  the  floor. 

{To  be  continued.) 


Rich  Without  Mowbv. — Many  a  man  ia 
rich  without  money.  Thousands  of  men,  with 
nothing  in  their  pocket,  are  rich.  A  man 
born  with  a  good,  sound  constitution,  a  good 
stomach,  a  good  heart  and  good  limbs,  and  a 
pretty  good  head-piece,  is  bich.  Good  bones 
are  better  than  gold,  tough  muscles  than 
silver,  and  nerves  that  flash  fire  and  carry 
energy  to  every  function  aire  better  than  houses 
and  lands. 

Good  Luck. — Some  young  men  talk  about 
luck.  Good  luck  is  to  get  up  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Good  luck,  if  you  have  only  a 
shilling  a  week,  is  to  live  on  eleven  pence  and 
save  a  penny.  Good  luck  is  to  trouble  your 
head  with  your  own  and  let  others'  business 
alone.  Good  luck  is  to  fulfil  the  command- 
ment, and  do  uoto  other  people  as  we  would 
wish  them  to  do  unto  us. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


LOVE  AND  FEAR. 


BT  T.  8.  ABTHtTB. 


"  F\TD  you  hear  me,  sir  ?" 


I  not  deaf/'  mattered  tbe  boy  in  un- 
dertone, not  meant  for  the  ear  of  his  father,  but 
reaching  it  neverthelesfl. 

Red  anger  burned  instantly  in  the  face  of 
Mr.  Somers ;  his  eyes  flashed  with  cruel  pur- 
pose; his  arm  moved  with  an  impulse  to 
strike. 

"Take  care,  sir  I"  Mr.  Somers  advanced 
toward  the  lad  in  a  threatening  way;  but  re- 
strained the  hand  half  raised  for  a  blow. 

"Off  with  you,  this  instant  I"  he  said,  in  a 
passionate  way ;  "  and  don't  let  the  grass  grow 
under  your  feet.  If  you're  not  back  in  thirty 
minutes  by  the  watch,  I'll  flog  you  within  an 
inch  of  your  life." 

And  Mr.  Somers  drew  out  his  watch  to  note 
the  time ;  then  turned  from  the  boy,  actually 
trembling  with  excitement. 

Richard — that  was  the  lad's  name— mani- 
fested neither  fear  nor  alacrity ;  but,  instead,  a 
kind  of  dogged  impasaiveness.  He  made  no 
response,  whatever.  The  stormy  utterance  of 
his  father  did  not  seem  to  afiect  him  any  more 
than  if  it  had  been  the  murmur  of  wind  in  the 
trees  overhead.  Rising  from  the  ground, 
where  he  had  been  sitting,  with  a  piece  of 
wood  in  his  hand,  which  he  was  modelling 
into  the  form  of  a  boat,  he  moved  away  with  a 
loitering  step.  Not  a  sign  beyond  this  was 
there  that  he  had  heard,  understood,  or  in- 
tended to  obey  his  father. 

"  Thirty  minutes !"  muttered  Richard,  as  he 
walked  along,  as  leisurely  as  if  he  had  the  day 
before  him.  "He  knows  I  can't  go  in  thirty  \ 
minutes  without  running  every  step  of  the  way 
there  and  back ;  and  I'm  not  going  to  do  it  for 
him  or  anybody  else.  Let  him  flog  me  if  he 
will.    I  won't  stand  it  long." 

Quick  footsteps  would  have  taken  Richard 
to  the  end  of  his  short  journey  to  a  neighbor's 
house  and  back,  in  less  than  twenty- five  min- 
utes; but  anger  had  awakened  anger,  and 
harshly  applied  force  a  feeling  of  resistance. 

"  I'm  not  a  dog  to  be  kicked  I"  so  he  talked 
with  himself,  "  or  a  mule  to  be  driven.  That's 
not  the  way  to  treat  a  boy.  Flog  me  within 
an  inch  of  my  life!  I  wish  he  would  kill  me 
one  of  these  days.    Then  he'd  be — " 

Richard  could  not  utter  the  words  that  com- 
menced forming  on  his  tongue.    A  good  im-  \ 
(104) 


pulse  restrained  him.  He  felt  a  little  shockc 
at  the  wickedness  of  his  thought.  After  th 
he  walked  on  more  briskly,  as  if  to  atone  li 
obedience  for  the  evil  desire  cherished  for 
moment  in  his  heart.  But  his  feet  soon  lii 
gered  again.  There  waa  no  willing  mind  i 
the  boy.  Propulsion,  not  attraction,  move 
him  onward,  and  his  was  a  nature  prone  1 
resist.  On  his  way  many  attractive  thin] 
presented  themselves,  and  he  stopped,  hei 
and  there — sometimes  in  forgetful ness  of  h 
errand;  sometimes  in  wilful  disregard  i 
his  father's  command — wasting  the  time  ar 
rendering  punishment  a  thing  next  to  ce 
tain. 

Full  thirty  minutes  had  expired  when  tl 
boy  reached  his  destination. 

"  Won't  you  step  down  to  the  post-office  u 
mail  this  letter  for  me?— that's  a  good  boy  I 
said  the  gentleman,  to  whom  he  had  been  sei 
with  a  message.  The  request  was  made  i 
such  a  kind  voice,  and  with  such  a  pleasai 
smile,  that  Richard  felt  that  he  could  g 
through  fire  and  water,  as  the  saying  iB,1 
oblige  him. 

"  Certainly,  sir,**  he  replied,  in  the  mo 
compliant  manner,  reaching  out  his  hand  f( 
the  letter.  "I'll  do  it  with  the  greate 
pleasure." 

"As  well  be  killed  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb 
said  the  boy,  as  he  took  his  way  to  the  pea 
office.  "  The  half  hour's  up,  and  the  flogg" 
earned.  He  can  only  take  the  other  inch  < 
my  life  at  the  worst,  and  then  there'll  be  i 
end  of  it." 

And  he  tried  to  whistle  np  a  state  of  con 
plete  indifierence:  but  the  notes  he  sentoi 
upon  the  listening  air  were  not  light  an 
thought-free,  i^b  the  robin's  warble,  nor  swe 
and  tender  as  the  little  yellow  bird's  sodj 
The  boy's  mind  was  not  at  ease. 

After  depositing  the  letter,  Richard  sani 
tered  away  in  a  listless,  indeterminate  manne 
Going  home  was  not  in  his  mind.  There  wi 
an  angry  father  there ;  and  punishment  awaitc 
his  reUim.  He  did  not  feel  in  the  least  ii 
clined  to  meet  the  flogging  within  an  inch  < 
his  life  at  an  earlier  moment  than  was  abs( 
lutely  necessary.  A  sight  of  the  river  whie 
ran  a  short  distance  from  tbe  town,irave  dir« 
tion  to  hb  wavering  thought ;  and  off  hestarte 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


LOVE   AND    FEAR. 


105 


ibr  the  pleaMuit  Btream  on  whose  hoiom  he 
lored  to  glide,  bending  to  the  ligh^springing 
oar. 

"  Toa  don't  expect  to  see  him  in  half  an 
hotUTy  of  course/'  said  a  gentleman,  who  had 
heen  witness  to  the  contest  between  the  boy  and 
his  father,  and  who  had  not  fkiled  to  notice  the 
excited  and  baffled  state  of  Mr.  Somen's  mind. 
Age,  character,  or  relation  gave  him  warrant 
for  this  free  speech.  It  was  not  received  as  an 
intrasion,  bat  in  some  deference  of  manner. 

"  He  knows  the  penalty."  Mr.  Somers  knit 
hb  brows  aeverely.  Crael  purpose  drew  his 
lips  firmly  together. 

''  Which  yoQ  mean  to  inflict  f 

''As  sorely  as  there  is  strength  in  this  right 
arm!"  And  he  stretched  out  the  vigorous 
member. 

"Even  to  within  an  inch  of  the  boy's  life?" 
A  pair  of  calm  eyes  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
angry  &ther ;  a  mild,  rebnking  voice  was  in  his 
ears. 

"  I  will  bend  or  break  him,  sir.  That  is  my 
^yaij.  What  hope  is  there  for  a  wilfully  dis- 
obedient child  f 

"  Small  hope,  I  fear,"  said  the  other. 

"Then  is  not  my  duty  plain?" 

"  There  ia  no  question  as  to  your  duty,  in  the 
abstract,  being  plain— the  doty  of  securing  sub- 
miftBion  from  your  child — but  it  is  barely  pos- 
sible that  you  are  not  using  the  right  mcMis. 
Mrs.  Howitt  has  expressed  beautifully,'  in  a 
single  line,  a  truth  that  may  help  you  to  see 
some  better  way  to  reach  the  case.  Do  you  re- 
member it?" 

Mr.  Somers  shook  his  head. 

"  For  love  hath  readier  will  than  fear." 

"  Love  I"  There  was  a  spirit  of  rejection  in 
the  voice  of  Mr.  Somers. 

**  We  need  not  be  unkind,  aastere, 
For  love  hath  readier  wiU  than  fear.** 

The  neighbor  repeated  the  couplet  in  a  low, 
emphatic  voice,  his  tones  lingering  on  the 
words  that  needed  expression,  so  aa  to  bring 
oat  the  full  meaning  they  had  power  to  convey . 
The  eyes  of  Mr.  Somera  fell  away  from  his  face. 
He  showed  a  slight  uneasiness  of  manner*  His 
rtem  countenance  relaxed  something  of  its 
sternness. 

"A  homelier,  but  more  strongly  expressed 
form  of  the  same  sentiment,  is  given  in  the  old 
proverb,  made  when  language  went  to  its  mean- 
^g  by  the  shortest  way :  '  Honey  catches  more 
flies  than  vinegar,'  Now,  friend  Somem,  hav- 
ing tried  the  vinegar  for  a  good  while,  and  with 
OHMt  dLicouraging  results,  let  me  suggest  your 
'eK>rt  to  honey.    In  other  words^  change  your 


whole  mode  of  discipline.  Speak  kindly,  and 
in  a  low,  firm  voice  to  Richard,  instead  of  in. 
the  bluff,  imperative,  querulous,  or  angry  man- 
ner in  which  you  almost  always  address  him. 
Let  him  feel  that  you  really  love  him ;  that 
there  is  a  soft,  warm,  attachable  side  to  your 
character,  and,  my  word  for  it,  he  will  move  to 
your  bidding  with  winged  feet.  I  have  studied 
the  boy,  and  see  in  him  good  and  noble  quali- 
tiea.  But  be  has  inherited  from  his  father  a 
certain  impatience  of  control,  and  a  will  ever 
on  the  alert  to  resist  unduly  applied  force. 
You  may  lead  him,  by  love^  anywhere ;  but, 
under  the  rule  of  fear,  you  wiU  drive  him, 
certainly,  beyond  your  influence.  Forgive  my 
plain  speech.  I  have  wished  to  say  this  be- 
fore^ but,  until  now,  saw  no  good  opportunity." 
The  whole  aspect  of  Mr.  Somers  underwent 
a  change.  Conviction  struck  to  bis  heart.  He 
saw  that  he  bad  been  unjust  to  the  boy,  unlov- 
ing, unkind.  Back  to  his  own  early  days  hia 
thought  went  with  a  bound,  and  there  came 
vivid  remembrances  of  states  into  which  he  had 
been  thrown  by  harsh  treatment,  states  from 
which  no  punishment,  however  severe,  could 
move  him.  Kindness  had  always  been  to  his 
heart  like  melting  sunshine;  sternness  like  an 
icy  wind.  And  Richard  was  like  him.  How 
strange  that  he  had  never  thought  of  this  be- 
fore! 

A  long  sigh  quivered  up  from  the  oppressed 
heart  of  Mr.  Somers. 

"  If  I  could  only  think  so,"  he  said.  "  But 
the  obetinate  seif-wiU  of  the  boy  is  so  finnly 
inrooted." 

"  That  you  can  never  tear  it  up  by  force^" 
spoke  out  the  friend.  "The  only  way  is  to 
weaken  its  vital  currents,  to  cut  off  the  flow  of 
life,  and  let  it  wither  for  lack  of  sustenance, 
and  die." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Somers, 
in  a  troubled,  uneasy  way.  "  But  what  am  I 
to  do  now  ?  I  gave  him  half  an  hour  in  which 
to  do  an  errand ;  laid  my  commands  on  him, 
and  enforced  them  by  threats  of  punishment. 
Is  my  word  to  go  for  nought?  Shall  a  boy 
defy  me?" 

A  flash  of  anger  gleamed  over  the  father's 
fooe. 

"  Gently,  patiently,  forgivingly  deal  with  the 
offender,"  replied  the  neighbor,  as  he  laid  his 
hand  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Somers.  "Let  love 
rule,  not  anger.  Is  he  all  to  blame?  Ko. 
Does  not  the  origin  of  the  wrong  lie  most  with 
yourself?  Has  it  not  grown  out  of  your  un- 
wise discipline?  Begin  correction  at  the 
source.    First  get  in  a  right  attitude  yourself, 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


106 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S  HOME   MAGAZINE. 


and  then  bring  him  right  As  yon  proraked 
diBobedienoe  in  th«  present  caae,  restrain  the 
panii^ing  arm/' 

**  fiat  1  shall  forfeit  my  word." 

*' You  will  do  that  even  if  you  pvoish/' 

"How  so  r 

"  You  will  hardly  go  to  within  an  inch  of  tbe 
boy's  life.  You  were  angry,  and  went  beyond 
yourself.  Take  counsel  of  reason,  now.  Pas- 
sion and  pride  are  blind  impulses^  and  sure  to 
lead  OB  from  the  right  path.  Think  away  from 
your  present  unhappy  relation  to  the  unhappy 
boy,  and  let  love  for  him  prompt  you  to  seek 
only  his  good.  He  is  a&r  off  from  you  now ; 
draw  him  near,  eveti  within  the  circle  of  ten- 
derly embracing  arms.  That  is  ywr  duty,  my 
friend.    Enter  into  it,  and  all  will  be  well." 

The  neighbor,  after  saying  this,  retired,  leav- 
ing Mr.  8omers  to  the  oompanionship  of  his 
own  thoughts.  There  was  now  a  weight  of  | 
concern  on  the  father's  heart  Anger  had 
given  place  to  a  troubled  feeling.  He  drew 
out  his  watch  as  the  half-hour  period  advanced 
to  a  close,  looked  at  the  time,  and  then  from 
the  window,  anxiously.  If  Richard  had  ap- 
peared in  the  distance,  what  a  sense  of  relief  it 
would  have  produced.  But  there  was  no  sign 
of  the  returning  boy. 

''WUfully  disobedient  I  Defiant  r*  The  in- 
dignant man  said  this,  as  hot  blood  began  to 
burn  in  his  face.  **  Perverse,  unhappy,  wrongly 
governed  boy  I"  This  was  the  father  speaking 
in  reply,  and  stragglings  to  hold  anger  in  check. 

The  half  hour  expired.  Richard  was  still 
away.  Another  half  hour  elapsed,  and  yet  he 
was  absent 

"He  shall  be  punished  for  this  I"  said  Mr. 
Somers,  as  indignation  gained  the  mastery. 
'  Then  a  remembrance  of  the  wise  words  spoken 
by  his  neighbor  pressed  back  the  tide  of  indig- 
nation ;  and  he  let  pity  move  over  the  troubled 
ur&ce  of  his  feelings  and  calm  them  like  oil. 

A  whole  hour  beyond  the  limit  of  time  had 
passed.  Mr.  Somers  was  growing  uneasy.  It 
flashed  across  his  mind  that  Richard,  in  a  fit 
of  anger,  rebellion,  and  discouragement,  might 
have  been  tempted  to  run  off.  He  remembered 
Tery  distinctly  how,  once,  in  his  boyish  troubles 
at  home,  he  had  meditated  the  same  thing,  and 
actually  commenced  preparations  to  abandon 
father  and  mother,  and  try  his  fortunes  in  the 
world. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  hour,  Mr.  Somers 
was  in  a  very  anxious  state ;  and  he  was  about 
making  preparation  to  go  out  in  search  of 
Richard,  when,  on  glancing  from  the  window, 
he  saw  him  pass  in  a  hurried,  stealthy  way. 


He  stood,  listening  to  hear  him  enter.  The 
door  opened,  silently.  Tip-toe  steps  sounded 
faintly  along  the  passage.  Mr.  Somers  fol- 
lowed them  with  his  ears,  but  loei  them  on  the 
stairs. 

"  What  shall  I  do  V*  That  was  the  difficolt 
question  for  Mr.  8omer&  He  stood  for  sevetsl 
minutes,  trying  to  get  his  thoughta  clear  and 
his  feelings  cakn.  Thns  far,  his  harsh  methods 
had  proved  wholly  fruitless.  Threats  and  pun* 
ishments  wrought  no  salutary  reforms ;  (he  bojr 
grew  worse  initead  of  better.  Why  this  was 
so,  clearer  perception  now  told  him. 

*'  Poor  boy !"  he  said,  with  a  aigh :  «nd  this 
very  utterance  of  a  sentiment  of  pity  helped 
him  to  a  more  pitying  state  of  mind.  An  image 
of  fear  and  suflering,  instead  of  hard  defiance 
and  reckless  disobedience,  took  distinct  ibm 
in  his  thoughts. 

'*Now  is  the  time  to  reach  him  with  genUe- 
nesB  and  love.''  As  Mr.  Somers  thus  spoke 
with  himself,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out 
into  the  passage. 

"Did  you  see  Richard r  he  asked,  speakii^ 
to  a  domestic  who  happened  to  be  there  at  tiie 
moment. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied. 

''I  thought  he  came  in  just  now.'' 

"  I  did  not  notice  him,  sir." 

'Mr.  Somers  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stainrsf 
aad  called:  " Richard  1"  Not  harshly,  bat 
kindly. 

No  answer  came. 

<<  Richard  r  His  voice  went  up  loader 
through  the  stairways  and  passages.  Bat  oo 
sound,  save  echo,  was  returned. 

''  I  am  certain  he  came  in." 

**  It  might  have  been  some  one  else,"  m^- 
gested  the  domestic  ^  I  haven't  seen  anything 
of  him  for  two  or  three  hours." 

Mr.  Somers  went  up  stairs  to  the  lad's  room. 
The  door  was  shut  He  opened  it  and  went  in. 
Richard  was  lying  on  the  bed.  He  did  notetir, 
but  lay  crouching  and  motionless,  like  one  ex- 
hausted by  pain.  Hia  fiice  waa  of  an  asbcs 
hue.  Mr.  Somers  noticed  an  expression  of  fetf 
to  sweep  over  it,  aa  the  boy's  laige,  straogeiir 
bright  eyea  turned  upon  him  Aa  he  advasccd 
across  the  room,  the  fear  and  shrinking  cbaoged 
to  something  like  the  anguish  of  terror. 

"O  father  r  he  aaid,  imploringly,  "don*tl-- 
don't  do  it  now  I"  and  he  lifted  one  arm  S8  Uio 
protect  himself. 

Mr.  Somers  understood  him.  The  appeal  aimI 
movement  touched  his  feelings  deefJy. 

"What  ails  you,  my  sonT  The  fttbei'e 
voice  was  low,  pitying,  and  full  of  teoderte* 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


WORKING    AND    WAITING. 


107 


Instantly  the  lines  of  fear  died  out  of  the 
boy's  face.  His  lips  qni^ered-^tears  oame 
brimming  to  his  eyes. 

"My  arm*8  broke  I"  he  sobbed;  and  then 
the  tears  fell  raining  over  his  cheeks. 

*<  O  Richard  t"  ejaculated  Mr.  Somem,  as  he 
placed  hill  hKnd  softly  on  the  boy's  forehead. 
"Howdidthiahapptn?" 

^  I  couldn't  get  back  in  half  an  hour,  fether, 
nithout  ronning  all  the  way ;  and  I  felt  ugly 
here" — laying  his  hand  on  his  breast — "and 
didn't  try  to  go  quickly.  I  went  over  the 
riYer,  because  I  was  afraid  to  come  home ;  and 
M\  irom  a  pile  of  boards." 

"  Have  you  Feen  a  doctor?"  Mr.  Somers  in- 
quired, anxiously. 

"Yes,  sir.  They  took  me  to  the  doctor's 
and  he  set  my  arm.'' 

Mr.  Somers  bent  over  his  child,  with  his 
band  tenderly  pressed  on  his  forehead  for  some 
nomentfl,  in  silence;  then,  as  his  full  heart 
©▼erran  in  a  cn»*refnt  of  emotion,  he  stooped 
and  kissed  him,  murmuring:  "My  poor 
boyP' 

Richard  did  not  understand  all  his  father 
meant  by  the  exclamation;  but  he  felt  that 
pity,  forgiveness,  and  love  were  in  his  heart; 
and  these  were  more  to  him  than  his  suffer- 
ings, for,  in  their  warmth  and  consolation,  he 
foigot  his  pain. 

"O  father!"  he  said,  a  light  falling  on  his 
pale  countenance — "  love  rae  and  IMi  be  good  I" 

Oh,  the  power  of  lovel  Anger,  rebuke, 
remonstrance,  punishment— these  are  but  ele- 
ments of  weakness  in  comparison.  How  like 
a  tharp  thrust  from  the  sword  of  conviction 
^'as  tkis  cry  for  love,  sent  up  to  Mr.  Sonjers 
from  the  heart  of  his  wayward,  self-willed, 
itubborn,  resistant  and  defiant  son  ! 

"Richard."  It  was  a  month  from  the  day 
on  which  the  arm  had  been  broken.  "Rich- 
ard, 1  want  you  to  go  down  to  Mr.  Baird's  for 
ae  right  quickly." 

The  father  spoke  kindly,  yet  in  a  firm  voice. 
Richard,  who  was  reading,  shut  his  book  in- 
«*«nily,  and  coming  to  his  father's  side,  with  a 

tWrful-"YeB,  sir!"— stood  looking  at  him, 

awaiting  his  message. 
'*Take  this  note  to  Mr.  Baird  and  bring  me 

an  answer." 
"Yes,  sir."    And  Richard  took  the  note, 

wd  turning  from  his  father,  left  his  oflBce  with 

%ht  and  willing  fbotsteps. 
"  Love  hath  readier  will  than  fear  I" 
"Ah,  good    moraingt"    said  Mr.  Somers^ 

tomiiyg  at  the  sound  of  a  well-known  voice, 

*oA  tniiing  a  pleasant  welcome. 


"I  see  yon  have  found  the  better  way,"  re- 
marked the  neighbor. 

"  Yes,  tlianks  to  your  timdy  uttered  admo- 
nition," was  replied.  "The  better  and  the 
easier  way.  A  harsh  word  seems  to  make 
leaden  that  boy's  feet;  while  a  kind  word  givcto 
them  the  wind's  lightness." 

"  If  parents  would  only  take  this  to  heart," 
said  the  neighbor,  "what  a  change  would  pass 
over  thousands  and  thousands  of  troubled 
homes  in  our  land  I  How  easy  would  the  gov- 
ernment of  children  become!  Love  moves  by 
a  sweet  transfusion  of  itself,  electrically ;  but 
anger,  sternness,  and  appeals  to  fear,  rule  only 
by  the  law  governing  where  ibroe  is  opposed 
to  force.  The  stronger  subdues  the  weaker, 
and  there  follows  perpetual  reactions,  rebel- 
lions, and  discord." 


WORKING  AND  WAITING. 

BT   KAJA8A. 

WORKING  and  waiting, 
Through  dark  toilsome  days, 
"Wearily  treading 

In  life's  ragged  ways; 
Longing  and  hoping, 

For  some  distant  goal, 
WKero  rest  may  be  found. 
For  body  and  soal. 

Working  and  waiting, 

Im patience  then  spurn ; 
Working  and  waiting, 

Life's  lesson  thus  learn. 

Working  and  waiting 

Through  sad,  weary  yearSi 
Ard  ofttimes  oppressed 

With  doubting  and  fears ; 
Still  gazing  on  heights, 

Illumed  b>  hope's  beams, 
Ok  !  when  shall  we  reach 

The  meant  of  our  dreams? 

Working  and  waiting. 

Oh  !  naver  grow  faint. 
Though  often  tempted 

To  utter  oomplaiat; 
Preoious  seed  bearing. 

Soon  home  we  shall  bring. 
Sheaves  to  the  garner 

Of  Christ  our  groat  King. 

Working  and  waiting 

Through  Christ  we  are  strong; 
Working  and  waiting, 

The  way  is  not  long. 


Digitized  by 


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THE  MOTHER  OF  CROMWELL. 


BY  a 


THE  mother  of  Cromwell,  who  had  been 
brought  from  her  {retirement  to  share  in 
the  greatness  and  splendor  of  her  son,  shared 
abio  in  his  tronbles,  of  which  he  had  majiy, 
either  real  or  imaginary.  She  was  a  very  in- 
teresting person.  There  is  a  portrait  of  her, 
kept  with  great  care  by  her  descendants,  which 
if  it  were  possible,  would  increase  the  interest 
she  inspires.  The  mouth  is  small  and  sweet, 
yet  full  and  firm  as  the  mouth  of  a  hero ;  she 
has  large  and  melancholy  eyes,  with  light, 
pretty  hair,  and  an  expression  of  quiet  afieo- 
tion  and  goodness  is  sufiused  over  her  face. 
She  is  attired  with  Puritan  neatness ;  the  mod- 
est and  simple  beauty  of  the  satin  hood  and 
velvet  cardinal  that  she  wears,  and  the  rich- 
ness of  the  small  jewel  that  clasps  it,  seem  to 
present  her  living  and  breathing  character. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  was  a  woman  with  the  glori- 
ous faculty  of  self-help,  when  other  assistance 
failed  her ;  ready  for  the  demands  of  fortune  in 
the  most  extreme  adverse  time;  of  spirit  and 
energy  equal  to  her  mildness  and  patience, 
and  who,  with  the  labor  of  her  own  hands, 
gave  dowers  to  five  daughters,  sufliclent  to 
marry  them  into  families  as  honorable,  and 
more  wealthy  than  their  own.  Her  single 
pride  was  honesty,  and  her  ruling  passion  was 
love.  She  preserved  in  the  gorgeous  palace, 
at  Whitehall,  the  simple  tastes  that  distin- 
guished her  in  the  old  brewery,  at  Hunting- 
don. Her  only  care,  amid  all  her  splendor, 
was  for  the  safety  of  her  beloved  son  in  his 
dangerous  eminence ;  and  when  her  care  had 
outworn  her  strength,  in  accordance  with  her 
modesty  and  tender  history,  she  desired  a 
simple  burial  in  some  country  church-yard. 
Cromwiell  was  an  affectionate  and  dutiful  son, 
though  he  disobeyed  his  mother's  last  request, 
and  caused  her  to  be  interred  with  more  than 
royal  pomp. 

Cromwell's  wife  was  also  an  excellent  wo- 
man, and  brought  up  her  children  very  well. 
She  feared  a  change  of  fortune,  and  urged  her 
husband,  to  secure  himself  from  the  danger  he 
was  in  from  the  royalists,  to  ofier  his  youngest 
daughter  in  marriage  to  Charles,  and  it  was 
believed  that  prince  would  have  made  no  ob- 
jection to  the  alliance,  but  CromweU's  answer 
was,  "  I  tell  you  Charles  Stuart  will  never  for- 
give me  for  his  father's  death.'' 

One  of  Cromwell's  daughters,  who  first  mar- 
(108) 


ried  Qeneral  Ireton,  and  afterwaird  Qener 
Fleetwood,  was  a  republican,  in  favor  of  a  gtk 
em  men  t  conducted  by  representatives  of  tl 
people.  The  other  three,  Lady  Franconber 
Lady  Rich,  and  Mrs.  Claypole  were  royalist 
so  Cromwell  did  not  receive  much  sympatl 
or  support  from  his  (kmily. 

His  eldest  son,  Richard,  was  a  man  of  ii 
ferior  abilities,  and  of  no  ambition ;  and  soc 
after  his  father's  death,  he  quietly  resigned 
dignity  which  he  had  neither  the  power  o< 
the  inclination  to  keep — much  preferred  tl 
quiet  of  his  little  farm  to  all  the  splendors  < 
iqyaity.  The  youngest  son,  Henry,  was  a  mi 
of  great  talents  and  goodness.  Though  vei 
young,  he  was  governor  of  Ireland,  and  b 
prudent  conduct  gained  him  the  love  of  tl 
people,  whose  condition  he  did  all  in  his  povi 
to  improve,  but  he  resigned  his  commani 
though  he  was  very  popular,  and  might  hai 
retained  his  power,  but  he  preferred  the  tru 
quillity  of  a  private  station.  He  said,  **  I  woul 
rather  sufl*er  with  a  good  name,  than  be  tl 
greatest  man  on  earth  without  it."  These  soi 
of  Cromwell  carried  out  the  views  and  wi8h( 
of  their  mother  and  grandmother,  mnch  moi 
fully  than  they  did  the  purposes  and  aspin 
tions  of  their  father.  The  mother  of  Cromwe 
was  a  Puritan,  a  firm  believer  in  acting  i 
strict  conformity  to  the  law  of  God,  and  tbi 
public  and  private  prosperity  depended  on  tl 
nation  and  people  acting  from  a  general  rcct 
tude  of  purpose  and  singleness  of  aim.  Sli 
believed  that  the  success  of  her  son  would  se 
tie  the  religious  difficulties  then  so  destroctii 
of  happiness,  and  that  all  the  Christian  parti< 
would  be  recognised  as  having  equal  righ 
and  privileges.  But  the  advantages  that  1 
gained  for  Puritanism  were  of  short  duratk)! 
he  did  not  secure  a  broad  and  enduring  fotti 
dation  for  religious  troth  and  liberty,  wbic 
his  mother  so  firmly  believed  the  Divine  Prov 
dence  would  establish  through  him ;  thong 
something  was  gained,  that  was  never  aAei 
ward  entirely  lost.  Perhaps  if  his  motive 
had  been  as  pure  as  his  mother's,  the  caa 
might   have  been  dififerent. 

Cromwell  has  been  charged  with  dissimnU 
tion,  of  having  pursued  personal  endsnnde 
the  cover  of  religion  and  the  pliblic  interest 

After  he  had  obtained  theauprenM  power  h< 
was  never  happy,  he  was  in  constant  ku  o 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


BEAUTY.-^"ANNIE    LAUBIE"    IN   JERUSALEM. 


109 


unflBination,  and  hiB  mother  shared  hia  fears, 
she  was  never  quite  sure  of.hb  safety  unless 
he  was  with  her.  He  always  wore  armor 
noder  his  dotheSy  and  did  not  dare  to  sleep  in 
the  same  room  more  than  one  or  two  nights  at 
a  time.  After  the  death  of  his  favorite  dai^h- 
ter,  Mm.  Clajpole,  he  was  never  known  to 
smile.  He  had  made  himself  disliked  by  all 
parties,  and  owed  his  safety  to  their  mutual 
hatred  of  each  other.  By  means  of  his  spies, 
he  knew  that  hia  life  was  in  danger,  and  even 
many  of  the  heads  of  the  Presbyterians  had 
determined  to  destroy  him. 
DdafiM^  Wis. 


BEAUTY. 


BEilUTY  ifl  very  dangerous;  it  is  like  any 
other  great  prize  in  life,  but  more  appar- 
CDl)  universal,  and  graeipus.    A  woman  may 
be  bom  a  duchess  or  a  pincess,  but  what  does 
a  wise  man  care  about  that?    What  cares  a 
Frenchman^  a  Spaniard,  or  a  Greek,  to  whom 
sU  Engliflh  are  ''mUords"   and   ''miladisr 
Bat  beauty  will  command  respect  and  compel 
admiration  from  any  one  but  the  blind.    And 
the  womt  of  it  is,  that  while  it  attracts  the  in- 
vader it  weakens  the  garrison,     ^he  worst 
women  have  been  the  most  beautiful;   they 
please  the   eye,  but  they  plague   the  heart. 
Few  pretty  women  give  themselves  wholly  to 
God.    Look  in  the  ranks  of  the  Sisters  of 
Hercy  and  the  sisterhoods  of  the  Church  of  \ 
England,  and  you  will  find  liew  beauties.    We 
pour  creatures  too  often  sacrifice  to  God  what 
the  world  will  not  accept;  and  yet  we  call 
ourselves  pious  I    But  happy  are  we  in  the 
&therhood  of  God,  who  made  the  world,  and 
who  governs  it.    These  poor  women,  who,  in 
disappointment  and  brokenness  of  heart,  re- 
tire from  the  world,  and  give  themselves  to 
prayer  and  good  works,  beget  a  finer  and  more 
glorious   beauty  in   themselves.     They  hide 
^ttr  hair,  and  put  on  dark  garments;  they 
wear  thick  shoes,  and   hurry  from  street  to 
■^Ket^  carrying   burdens  for   the  poor;   and 
J^any  whom  they  visit  are  ready  to  cry  out, 
with  St.  Paul,  "How  beautiful  are  the  feet  of 
them  that  preach   the  gospel  of  peace,  and 
luring  glad  tidings  of  good  things !"    Charming 
u  the  face  that  carries  comfort  and  hope;  and 
^nily  peace  and  health,  industry  and  a  quiet 
consciences  are  great  beautifiers ;  and  from  these 
homely  £aoesof  the  sweet  and  good  we  have  seen 
>^in  forth  beauty  as  transcendent  as  any  tiling 
^hat  ever  sculptor  embodied,  or  poet  dreamed  of. 


"ANNIE  LAURIE"  IN  JERUSALEM. 

A  GENTLEMAN,  now  travelling  in  the 
Holy  Land,  relates  the  following  pleasant 
incident  in  a  letter  to  the  Chruiian  Union: 

"  While  we  thus  sat  in  busy  contemplation 
of  thought^  and  themes  so  all-absorbing,  sud- 
denly ou/ attention  was  arrested  by  the  strains 
of  music  which  the  distant  band  was  playing. 
We  could  hardly  believe  our  own  ears;  but 
over  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  over  the  walls 
of  the  garden,  came  the  familiar  measures  of 
the  old  Scotch  song,  'Annie  Laurie.'  Where 
they  could  have  learned  this  air,  no  one  im- 
agines; possibly  it  was  one  of  the  acquisitions 
of  the  Crimean  war.  It  would  be  natural  to 
suppose  this  made  one  unwelcome  interrup- 
tion to  us  th^e  in  Gethsemane.  But  when 
the  instruments  swelled  out  upon  that  last 
little  couplet  of  the  song:  'And  she's  a'  the 
world  to  me  I  And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie, 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee  I' — it  seemed  as  if 
instinctively  each  one  of  us  accepted  this 
poor,  earthly  love  for  a  Caledonian  maiden 
as  a  symbol  and  type  of  that  higher,  that 
divine  love,  which  was  more  than  all  the 
world  to  our  hearts.  Nobody  said  or  sung 
the  words  we  all  so  well  knew ;  but  when  the 
strain  ended  one  voice  was  heard  quoting 
those  better  words  still — *For  scarcely  for  a 
righteous  man  will  one  die ;  yet  peradventu?e 
for  a  good  man  some  would  even  dare  to  die ; 
but  God  commendeth  His  love  toward  us,  in 
that,  while  we  were  yet  sinners,  Christ  died 
for  us.' " 

Wai/tbr  Soott's  MiBQivmos.— The  excite- 
ment of  the  chase  drowns  consideration.  That 
the  misgivings  of  men  less  eager  for  sport  are 
not  the  consequences  of  a  morbid  sensitiveness 
is  clear,  when  the  manly  and  practical  mind  of 
Scott  rebelled  against  the  proceeding.  "  I  was 
never  quite  at  ease,"  he  said,  to  Basil  Hall, 
"  when  I  had  knocked  down  a  pheasant,  and, 
going  to  pick  him  up,  he  cast  back  his  dying 
eye  with  a  look  of  reproach.  I  don't  afifect  to 
be  more  squeamish  than  my  neighbors,  but  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  use  never  fully 
reconciled  me  fully  to  the  cruelty  of  the  affair. 
At  all  events,  now  that  I  can  do  what  I  like 
without  fear  of  ridicule,  I  take  more  pleasure 
in  seeing  the  birds  fly  past  me  unharmed." 


It  has  been  beautifully  said,  that  "the  veil 
which  covers  the  face  of  futurity  is  woven  by 
the  hand  of  mercy." 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


LUDWIG  VON  BEETHOVEN. 


LUDWIQ  VON  BEETHOVEN,  the  great 
masLcian  and  compofler,  was  bom  at  Bonn 
on  the  Rhine,  in  1770.  His  father  w^  a  tenor 
singer  in  the  chapel  of  the  Elector  in  that  town. 
When  Liidwig  waa  only  eleven  years  of  age,  his 
performances  on  the  piano  excited  much  ad- 
miration, and  in  his  thirteenth  year  he  already 
composed  music.  His  eminent  talents  led  the 
Elector  to  send  him  to  Vienna,  where  Haydn 
and  Elbreuhts-berger  exercised  great  influence 
over  hU  studies. 

One  day  Mozart  was  invited  to  come  and 
listen  to  a  young  man  who  was  said  to  possess 
a  great  talent  for  playing  ofTon  the  piano  music 
which  he  composed  at  the  moment 

The  young  man  played  before  the  celebrated 
composer,  who  listened  coldly,  though  all  the 
other  auditors  appeared  delighted;  he  told  him, 
when  he  had  finished,  that  the  piece  he  pro- 
fet'sed  to  have  componed  as  he  went  along,  had 
quite  the  air  of  a  lesson  learned  by  heart.  The 
young  man  then  begged  Mozart  to  give  him  an 
original  exercise.  Mozart,  thinking  to  em- 
barrass him,  wrote  a  piece  of  great  difficulty. 

For  half  an  hour  the  young  man  performed 
this  exercise,  and  variations  on  it,  with  such 
true  genius,  that  Mozart  exclaimed:  ''That 
young  man  will  become  great  and  celebrated/' 
This  young  man  waa  Ludwig  von  Beethoven ; 
he  was  eighteen  when  he  thus  played  before 
Mozart. 

Not  very  long  after,  he  became  organist  to 
ihe  court.  In  order  to  fix  him  at  Vienna, 
■everal  lovers  of  music,  Archduke  Rudolf  i 
among  them,  subacribed  to  pay  him  an  annual 
aaiary.  He  lived  very  much  in  retirement^ 
keeping  very  much  to  himself  and  his  art. 
Nature  had  not  treated  him  kindly,  his  health 
waa  bad,  and  he  waa  very  deaf.  He  died  tm- 
married. 

Beethoven's  published  works  are  very  nu- 
merous ;  they  embrace  every  olass,  and  are  in 
all  styles.  His  vocal  music  is  foil  of  beautiful 
melody  and  strong  feeling.  His  oratorio,  the 
"Mount  of  Olives,"  his  opera " Fidelio,"  aad 
his  two  masses,  bear  teetimooy  to  this.  Most 
of  his  piano-forte  music  is  admirable ;  but  the 
grandeur  of  Beethoven's  conceptions  are  most  i 
manifest  in  his  orchestral  works,  his  overtures, 
and  more  especially  in  his  symphonies. 

Beethoven  died  in  March,  1827.     In  1845  a 
statue  was  erected  to  his  memory  in  his  native 
town  of  Bonn.    Several  stories  are  told  con- 
(110) 


cerning  BeethoTen's  strange  ways.  His  roonii 
were  always  in  great  disorder.  The  floor  of  hi 
apartment,  which  was  never  swept  clean,  wa 
strewn  with  the  envelopes  of  letters,  on  thi 
chain  lay  his  valuable  melodies,  the  remain 
of  his  breakfast  often  were  left  till  evening  oi 
the  window-ledge,  and  empty  bottles  rolled  ou 
from  every  comer  and  cranny  when  the  mute 
of  the  house  was  searching  for  something.  H 
grumbled  and  scolded  terribly,  while  durinj 
the  search  he  threw  iiunga  into  a  still  greate 
state  of  confusion  than  they  were  before.  Th 
blame  of  this  daily  annoyance  he  laid  upon  hi 
cook  and  housekeeper,  who  was  called  Frai 
"Schnape."  He  maintained  that  he  was  him 
self  such  a  lover  of  order,  that  he  could  find 
needle  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  unless  som 
one  had  moved  it  from  the  place  where  he  ha 
deposited  it. 

One  great  cause  of  this  disorder  was  the  fr( 
quent  change  of  his  lodgings.  He  was  alwa; 
irritable  and  discontented  with  his  quarter! 
He  changed  them  almost  as  often  as  his  linei 
and  thus  his  possessions  fell  into  this  endless  an< 
increasing « confusion.  Once  the  score  of  hi 
most  beautiful  symphony,  which  he  had  writte 
out  afresh  quite  recently,  was  missing — a  moi 
precious  manuscript.  For  a  whole  fortnigl 
Beethoven  was  occupied  seeking  for  it  wit 
many  angry  words.  At  last  it  waa  found.  Bv 
where?  The  reader  will  find  it  hard  to  gues 
It  was  discovered  in  the  kitchen,  used  as 
wrapper  for  the  butter  and  bacon  !  MLad  wit 
fury,  he  threw  some  eggs  at  his  cook's  hea< 
and  dismissed  her  on  the  spot.  He  determine 
that  he  would  never  have  such  a  barbarian  i 
his  kitchen  or  in  his  lodging  again ;  her  cooli 
ing  for  some  time  had  not  been  to  bis  tastf 
Now  he  would  cook  himself.  "It  can't  h 
harder  to  cook  than  to  compose  a  symphony  I 
he  exclaimed,  and  hastened  himself  to  th 
market  to  purchase  the  most  costly  delicaciei 
In  the  joy  of  his  heart  at  his  new  arrangemen 
he  at  once  invited  a  few  friends  to  dinner,  am 
went  busily  to  work  to  prepare  all  the  dishes 
The  guests  arrived  at  the  appointed  hour,  bul 
to  their  great  amazement,  they  aaw  their  hoa 
standing  in  the  kitchen  handling  soups  ani 
stews.  He  wore  a  white  cap^  and  an  aproi 
that  was  no  longer  white.  The  fire  was  blazin| 
up,  the  pots  were  hissing  and  boiling  over,  tan 
nothing  appeared  as  if  it  would  be  ready  at  tb( 
time  appointed.    Beethoven  aiood  in  a  state  o 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


LVDWIG     VON   BEETHOVEN. 


Ill 


angry  despair  before  the  unrulj  saacepaos.  He 
stirred  them,  he  took  them  off,  he  pat  them  on. 
He  burned  hU  own  fingem,  and  the  roast  meat 
itiU  more.  The  guests  waited  very  patiently, 
with  hungry  stomachs,  for  the  results  of  all 
this  noise  and  wrath. 

At  last^  after  long  running  backwards  and 
forwards,  Beethoven  came  out  of  h&H  kitchen 
triumphing  like  a  warrior  from  the  field  of 
battle,  but,  to  the  regret  of  his  guests,  his  vic- 
tory was  a  very  pitiable  one.  The  soup  was 
too  Bait,  and  very  poor  and  thin,  not  fit  for  a 
beggar;  tlie  vegetables  swam  in  water;  and  the 
roast  meat  looked  as  if,  after  it  had  been  thor- 
oughly burned,  it  bad  been  given  over  to  the 
chimney-sweep  that  he  might  make  it  com- 
pletely sooty.  No  one  could  eat  it ;  Beethoven 
^ne  did  honor  to  his  cooking;  he  ate  of  and 
praised  everything.  The  guests  were  obliged, 
in  order  not  to  go  home  hungry,  to  eat  bread 
ud  butter,  and  drink  with  it  tlie  wine  which 
their  host  had  provided  as  for  a  r^ular  dinner 
party.  The  next  day  Fran  "Schnaps"  was 
igain  installed  in  Beethoven's  kitchen. 

When  the  musical  spirit  came  over  Bee- 
thoven, it  did  not  matter  where  he  was,  he  must 
lit  down  and  write  his  thoughts  in  notes. 
Nothing  then  disturbed  hiniy  for  Jie  neither 
taw  nor  heaj'd  what  was  going  on  around  him. 
Doe  day  a  musical  thought,  which  he  must 
irrite  down,  suddenly  struck  him  in  the  streets 
ikf  Vienna.  Fearing  lest  he  should  lose  it,  he 
Altered  the  nearest  house,  which  happened  to 
be  the  JSoinon  Emperor  hotel.  The  waiters 
ttared  at  the  man  in  the  gray  coat,  with  the 
lark,  somewhat  forbidding  face,  and  rough,  un- 
brushed  hair,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  observe 
them,  threw  his  hat  on  a  side  table,  and  sat 
lown  at  one  of  the  tables  which  were  laid  out 
for  dinner,  drew  a  roll  of  paper  and  a  little  ink- 
stand out  of  his  pockety  and  began  eagerly  to 
irrite  down  his  notes. 

**  Who  is  this  strange  man  ?"  one  waiter  asked 
of  another ;  but  no  one  knew,  for  none  of  them 
were  acquainted  with  the  great  composer.  His 
strange  appearance  began  to  amuse  the  young 
people. 

"  Go  ask  him  what  he  wants,''  said  one ;  but 
it  was  a  long  time  before  any  of  them  could 
Bommon  up  courage  to  address  the  bearisb- 
looking  stranger. 

At  last  one  asked  him  politely :  "  What  can 
I  get  you,  sir?" 

Beethoven,  as  if  awaking  from  a  dream, 
looked  up  at  the  waiter  with  a  composed  but 
vary  fierce  expression  at  being  thus  disturbed, 
and  said :  ''  Nothing  I    But  leave  me  alone  I" 


This  he  spoke  in  such  a  harsh,  angry  voice^ 
that  the  waiter  was  quite  frightened,  and  hast- 
ened back  to  his  companions,  who  could  not 
help  laughing  aloud.  This  did  not  disturb  the 
master ;  he  continued  busily  writing  his  notes, 
beating  time  with  his  foot,  too,  and  humming 
aloud  the  melodies  which  he  wrote  down  on  the 
paper.  This  amused  the  waiters  very  much, 
but  Beethoven  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed 
either  by  their  laughter  or  by  the  entrance  of 
the  guests,  who  gradually  filled  the  large  dining- 
room,  and  who  also  were  highly  entertained  at 
the  appearance  of  the  musician  writing,  hum- 
ming, and  beating  time.  He  did  not  remark 
that  it  was  dinner-time,  he  did  not  hear  the 
clatter  of  plates,  neither  did  the  smell  of  the 
dishes  reach  his  nose. 

It  was  a  good  thing  that  one  of  the  guests 
knew  him,  or  he  might  have  been  turned  out 
by  the  waiters,  as  he  much  disturbed  the  din- 
ner-table. Now  one  whispered  to  the  other: 
''It  is  Beethoven!  Leave  him  alone,  he  is 
composing  t" 

The  dinner  lasted  full  two  hours.  The  guests 
left  the  room.  There  was  more  rattling  of 
glasses  and  plates,  for  the  tables  were  being 
cleared,  but  Beethoven  went  on  industriously 
at  his  work. 

Now  the  waiter  went  up  to  him  again,  and 
said:  "Dinner  is  over,  sir;  will  you  not  take 
something  now  ?" 

In  the  greatest  state  of  anger  and  fury,  he 
exclaimed :  "  Can  you  not  leave  me  alone?  Be 
off  with  you !  and  let  me  be  quiet  I" 

The  waiter  again  retired,  and  Beethoven  con- 
tinued as  before,  just  as  if  he  were  at  home  at 
his  own  desk,  and  no  one  dared  to  address  any 
further  remarks  to  him. 

At  last  he  suddenly  rolled  up  bis  manuscript, 
put  the  cork  into  the  ink-bottle,  and  then  placed 
them  all  in  his  pockeL  He  looked  cheerfully 
up  into  the  empty  room,  and  beckoned  to  the 
waiter.  He  came  up  to  him,  and  Beethoven 
said:  "I  will  pay;  what  do  I  owe?" 

"Why,"  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  "you  have 
nothing  to  pay,  you  have  taken  nothing  at  all; 
shall  1  bring  something  now  ?" 

"Very  singular,"  said  Beethoven;  "I  feel 
quite  satisfied."  Then  he  saluted  the  waiter 
very  graciously,  put  his  hat  upon  his  rough 
hair,  and  went  away. 

When  the  waiter  told  the  landlord  how  Bee- 
thoven's appetite  was  satisfied  by  the  notes  he 
composed,  he  remarked:  "It  would  be  a  bad 
thing  for  us  if  we  had  such  guests  as  that  every 
day." 

A  touching  story  is  relate  of  Beethoyen 


i 


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112 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   KAGAZINE. 


which  has  formed  the  sobjeot  of  a  yery  pretty 
little  poenu  One  erening  when  the  great  com- 
poser was  wandering  through  the  deserted 
streets  of  Vienna  on  his  way  home,  he  was 
suddenly  aroused  from  his  usual  absent  state» 
by  hearing  the  sounds  of  a  piano  accompany- 
ing the  song  of  a  marvellously  beautiful  voice. 
The  melody  had  such  a  powerful  efiSMA  on  the 
listener,  that  he  was  attracted  to  the  house,  and 
could  not  help  entering  it.  He  went  up  staixa, 
and  reached  a  room  in  which  there  was  no 
other  light  but  the  pale  beams  of  the  moon 
which  fell  through  the  open  window.  No  one 
forbade  him  to  enter,  no  one  greeted  the  stran- 
ger, for  the  young  girl  who  was  sitting  there  at 
the  piano  could  never  see  him. 

Boused,  however,  by  the  sound  of  a  man's 
step,  she  got  up,  and  said,  timidly :  "  Father,  is 
it  you  come  back  at  last?'' 

*'  No,  it  is  not  your  fiuher  who  has  intruded 
into  your  room,  but  a  perfect  stranger  to  you, 
whose  name  is  Beethoven.  In  tiie  song  which 
you  have  just  sung  my  spirit  was  drawn  to 
youra.  There  was  such  a  depth  in  your 
tones,  which  seemed  to  come  from  a  full 
heart." 

The  pale  maiden  looked  up  and  greeted  him 
bashfully. 

"  Alas  1 1  am  blind,"  she  said ;  "  I  have  never 
seen  the  light  of  day." 

Tears  streamed  from  her  sightless  eyes,  and 
glittered  on  her  cheeks  in  the  mooniighu  The 
great  composer,  deeply  moved,  looked  sadly  in 
her  face,  till  at  last,  to  comfort  her,  he  broke 
his  long  silence. 

•*  What  the  Creator  has  denied  you,"  he  said, 
"  is  only  half  a  world ;  the  other  half  still  re- 
mains, and  it  contains  much  which  is  still 
beautiful.  You  have  music  for  your  inherit- 
ance ;  so  dry  up  your  tears,  for  the  happiness 
which  is  given  you  in  it  outweighs  many  thou" 
Band  eyes.  Notes,  and  melodies,  and  lovely 
tones,  are  to  you  what  the  splendor  of  form  and 
color  are  to  us." 

Then  BeethoTcn  sat  down  before  the  piano. 
Soon  the  sweetest  tones  streamed  from  the  in- 
strument, now  gentle  as  a  whipser,  and  full  of*  \ 
deep  and  melancholy  feeling ;  then  louder  and 
fuller  tones  swelling  increasingly,  till  a  wild 
storm  on  the  sea  was  represented  by  his  notes. 
Now  and  then  a  cry  of  anguish  seemed  piteously 
to  penetrate  the  raging  noise  of  the  storm, 
which  at  last  subsided,  and  was  succeeded  by 
a  chant  as  from  a  choir  of  angds.  The  poor 
girl  smiled  happily,  her  sad  face  brightened 
up,  and  the  blind  maiden  for  awhile  quite 
forgot  her  trouble. 


TH£B£  ABE  BETTEB  BEBTOBAT1YE8 
THAN  STIMULANTS. 

BY  HATTIX  UOPEFUI- 

PABENTS  and  guardians,  if  yoa  would  have 
those  under  your  care,  and  those  you  ought 
to  love,  grow  up  vigorously  in  body  and  mind, 
do  not  place  stimulants  before  them.  Give 
them  pure  water  to  drink — not  such  as  hss 
stood  over  night,  or  a  few  hours,  in  a  wooden 
pail,  but  fresh  water  from  the  well  or  spring: 
Pure,  fresh  water  contains  fresh  air,  while  that 
which  has  stood  in  the  room  some  timehu 
imbibed  the  gases  of  the  room,  and  become 
very  unpleasant. 

Do  not  give  them  liquors  of  any  kind,  not 
even  as  medicine.  All  Daedicines  that  ought  to 
be  taken,  can  as  well  be  prepared  without 
liquor ;  and  by  combining  liquor  with  them  s 
taste  for  it  is  formed  that  often  leads  them  to 
drunkenness. 

When  your  children  are  sick,  inquire  into 
the  nature  and  cause  of  their  disease,  and,  so 
far  as  able,  remove  the  cause.  Have  they  psr* 
taken  of  unhealthful  food  or  drinks^  or  breathed 
impure  air?  Let  them  have  fresh  air,  aod 
abstain  from  all  except  very  light  food.  Are 
the  pores  on  the  surface  of  the  body  closed— 
the  palms  of  the  hands  and  soles  of  the  ftet 
dry  ?  Then  a  warm  bath  for  the  feet,  with  sodt 
in  the  water  sufficient  to  make  it  very  soft,  m 
'  as  to  loosen  all  the  accumulated  matter  on  them, 
is  what  is  needed  for  health.  The  whole  sur&cs 
of  the  body  also  needs  washing  in  warm  soft 
water,  and  well  dried,  and  rubbed  with  a  cletn 
crash  towel;  then  rest  in  a  well-ventiltted 
room  is  often  more  beneficial  to  the  sick  tbin 
medicines  without  these  restorative  aocom- 
paniments. 

Many  people  become  sick  from  lack  of  pare 
air  sufficient  to  keep  them  well — eepeciaJly  in 
winter.  They  do  not  seem  to  know  what  a 
necessary  element  this  is  to  sustain  human  life 
and  health.  To  exclude  cold,  they  close  up  all 
the  avenues  for  ingress  of  pure  air,  and  for  egresB 
of  impure,  and  wonder  why  they,  and  tho« 
with  them,  feel  so  bad  almost  all  the  time. 

Many  also  permit  the  pores  on  the  surftce  of 
the  body  to  become  closed,  omitting  washing 
the  surface ;  when,  if  they  understood  natore'fl 
laws,  they  could  well  give  a  reason  for  the 
cause  of  their  bad  feelings. 


Tbmfsrakce  puts  ooal  on  the  fire^  flo"'  in 
the  barrel,  vigor  in  the  body,  inteiiigeooe  in 
the  brain,  and  spirit  in  the  whole  compoaitioD 
of  man. 


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BOYS'   A.Nr>   aiRLS'    TIIEA.8UIIY. 


^AN  HUNGEBED,  AND  YE  GAVE  ME 
MEAT." 

rTSBY  few  ehlldren  in  this  oonntrj  know  what 
V  it  ia  to  go  for  many  hoors  at  a  time  saffering 
rom  hvnger ;  to  get  nothing  to  eat  for  days,  often, 
»at  a  little  ooane,  dry  bread,  or  raw  vegetables  j 

0  straggle  for  a  little  food  almost  as  desperately 
M  one  struggles  for  his  life  in  drowning.  Bat  in 
iOiidon  many  hundreds  of  children  are  in  this  hard 
ondition.  We  give  oar  yonng  readers  this  month 
be  tonehing  story  of  one  of  these  poor  lads ;  and 
re  think  few  of  them,  after  reading  it,  will  foel 
aything  bat  thankfniness  for  their  own  more 
ivored  condition.    Here  it  is : 

Tim  had  been  standing  for  a  long  while  gai* 
Bg  in  at  the  confectioner's  window.  The  evening 
ras  drawing  in,  and  ever  since  morning  a  thicki 
nbroken  doad  had  covered  the  narrow  strips  of 
ky  lying  along  the  line  of  roofs  on  each  side  of 
tie  streets,  while  every  now  and  then  there  came 
own  driving  showers  of  rain,  wetting  him  to  the 
do.  Not  that  it  took  much  rain  to  wet  Tim  to 
le  skin.  The  three  pieces  of  clothing  which 
nmed  his  dress  were  all  in  tatters.  His  shirty 
hieh  looked  as  if  it  never  oould  have  been  whole 
sd  white,  had  more  than  half  the  sleeves  torn 
irsy,  and  fell  open  in  front  for  want  of  a  collar, 
»  say  nothing  of  a  batton  and  buttonhole.  The 
id  jacket  he  wore  over  it  had  never  had  any 
eeves  at  all,  but  consisted  of  a  front  of  calf-skin, 
ith  all  the  hair  worn  away,  and  a  back,  made 
itb  the  idea  that  it  would  be  hidden  from  right 
f  a  doat,  of  coarse,  yellow  linen,  now  fallen  into 
imentable  holes.  His  trousers  were  fHnged  by 
iBg  wear,  and  did  not  reach  to  his  ankles,  which 
•re  bine  with  cold,  and  bare,  like  his  feet  that 
ftd  been  splashing  along  the  muddy  streets  all 
ay,  luitil  they  were  pretty  nearly  the  same  color 

1  the  pavement  His  head  was  covered  only  by 
Is  thick  matted  hair,  whieh  preteeted  him,  far 
•tier  than  his  ragged  olothes,  from  the  rain  and 
Ind,  and  made  him  sometimes  dimly  envious  of 
le  dogs  that  were  so  far  better  oflf  in  point  of 
irering  than  himself.  His  hands  were  tacked 
n  warmth  in  the  h6les  where  his  pockets  shoald 
are  been ;  but  they  had  been  worn  out  long  ago, 
sd  now  he  had  not  even  accommodation  for  any 
ttla  bit  of  string,  or  morsel  of  coal,  he  might 
Mne  across  in  the  street. 

It  was  by  no  means  Tim's  habit  to  stand  and 
Are  in  at  the  windows  of  cake  shops.  Now  and 
len  he  glanced  at  them,  and  thought  how  very 
eh  and  happy  those  people  mnst  be  who  lived 
pen  mch  dafaity  food.  Bat  he  was,  generally, 
w  bnsy  in  earning  his  own  food — by  selling  bozefl 

VOL.  ZZXYin. — 8, 


of  fusses^— to  leare  him  mach  time  for  lingering 
about  such  tempting  places.  As  for  buying  his 
dinner/ When  be  had  one,  he  looked  out  for  the 
dried  flsh-stalls,  where  he  could  get  a  slice  of 
brown  fish  ready  cooked,  and  carry  it  off  to  some 
door- step,  where  heeooJd  dine  upon  it  heartily  a&d 
oontsntedly,  provided  no  polioemaa  interfered  with 
his  enjoyment. 

But  to- day  the  weather  had  been  altogether 
too  bad  for  any  person  to  come  out  of  doors»  ez> 
oept  those  who  were  bent  on  basiness,  and  they 
harried  along  the  muddy  streets^  too  anxloos  to 
get.  on  quickly  to  pay  any  heed  to  Tim,  trotting 
alongside  of  them.w^  some  damp  boxes  of  fusees 
to  sell.  The  rainy  day  was  hard  upon  him.  His 
last  meal  had  been  his  supper  the  night  before — 
a  crust  his  father  had  given  him»  about  half  as 
big  as  it  should  have  been  to  satisfy,  him.  When 
he  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  had  already  a  good 
appetite,  and*  oyer  since^  all  the  long  di^  through, 
fh»m  hour  to  hour,  his  hanger  had  been  growing 
keeher,  until  now  it  made  him  almost  sick  and 
faint  to  stand  and  stare  at  the  good  things  dis- 
played in  such  abundance  iniide  the  shop 
window. 

Tim  had .  no  idea  of  going  in  to  beg.  It  was 
far  too  grand  a  place  for  that;  and  the  castomers 
going  in  and  out  were  mostly  smart  young  maid- 
servants, who  were  far  too  fine  for  him  to  speak 
to.  Thare  were  bread-shops  nearer  home^  is 
Whiteohapel,  where  he  might  have  gone  in,  being 
himself  an  occasional  customer,  and  asked  if  they 
couldn't  find  such  a  thing  as  an  old  crust  to  give 
him;  but  this  shop  was  a  very  difEerent  place  ta 
those.  There  was  scarcely  a  thing  he  knew  the 
name  ofl  At  the  back  of  the  shop  there  were 
some  loaves,  but  even  those  looked  different  to 
what  he,  and  folks  like  him,  bought  His  hungry, 
eager  ey«s  gased  at  them,  and  his  teeth  and  mouth 
meved  now  and  then,  unki&own  to  himself,  as  if 
he  was  eating  something  ravenouslyi  but  he  did 
not  Tenture  to  go  in.  At  last,  Tim  gave  a  great 
start  A  customer,  whom  he  knew  very  well,  was 
staadfog  at  the  couiiter,  eating  one  of  the  dainty 
buns.  It  could  be  no  one  else  but  his  own  teacher,  < 
who  taught  him  and  seren  or  eight  other  ragged 
lads  like  himself,  in  a  night-school,  not  far  from 
Ms  home.  His  hunger  had  made  him  forgetful  of 
it»  but  this  was  one  of  the  evenings  when  the 
sefaoel  was  open,  and  he  had  promised  faith fuUy 
to  be  there  to-night  At  any  ratCy  it  would  be  a 
shelter  from  the  rain,  which  was  beginning  to  fall 
steadily  and  heavily  now  the  sun  was  set;  and  it 
was  of  no  use  thinking  of  going  home,  where  he 
and  his  father  had  only  a  «>»er  of  a  reom,  and 
were  not  welcome  to  that  if  they  turned  in  toa 


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114 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOMH   MAGAZINE. 


soon  of  an  evening.  His  teacher  bad  finished  the 
bun,  and  \ras  haying  another  wrapped  np  in  a 
neat  paper  bag,  which  he  pat  careftillj  into  his 
pockety  and  then  stepped  out  into  the  street,  and 
walked  along  under  the  shelter  of  a  good  ui 
brella,  quite  unaware  that  one  of  his  scholars  was 
pattering  along  noitelMsly  behind  him  with  baare 
feet. 

AH  Tim's  thoughts  were  llx«d  upon  the  bun  in 
his  teacher's  pocket  He  wondered  what  it  would 
taste  like,  and  whether  it  would  be  as  delicious  as 
that  one  he  had  once  eaten,  when  all  the  ragged 
school  had  a  treat  to  Epping  Forest— going  down 
in  Tans,  and  having  real  country  milk,  and  slices 
of  cake  to  eat,  finishing  up  with  a  bun,  which 
seemed  to  him  as  if  it  must  be  like  the  manna  he 
had  heard  of  at  school,  that  used  to  come  down 
from  Heaven  every  morning  before  the  sun  was 
up.  He  had  never  forgotten  that  lesson,  and 
scarcely  a  morning  came  th(:  he  did  not  wish  he 
had  lived  in  those  times. 

The  teacher  turned  down  a  dark,  narrow  street, 
where  the  rain  had  gathered  in  little  pools  on  the 
worn  pavement,  through  which  Tim  splashed 
carelessly.  They  soon  reached  the  school  door, 
and  Tim  watched  him  take  off  his  great-coat  and 
hang  it  upon  the  nails  set  apart  for  the  teaohers* 
coats.  Their  desk  was  at  a  little  distance^  and  he 
took  his  place  at  it  among  the  other  boys,  but  his 
head  ached,  and  his  eyes  felt  dim,  and  there  was 
a  hungry  gnawing  within  him,  which  made  it 
impossible  to  give  his  mind  to  learning  his  lessons 
as  he  usually  did.  He  felt  so  stupefied,  that  the 
easiest  words — ^words  he  knew  as  well  as  he  knew 
the  way  to  the  Mansion  House,  where  he  sold 
his  fusees— ewam  before  his  eyes,  and  he  called 
them  all  wrongly.  The  other  lads  laughed  and 
Jeered  at  him,  and  his  teacher  was  displeased; 
but  Tim  could  do  no  better.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  dainty  bun  in  the  teacher's 
pocket 

At  last  the  Scripture  lesson  came,  and  it  was 
one  that  came  home  to  Tim's  state.  The  teacher 
read  aloud  first,  before  hearing  them  read  the 
lesson,  these  verses :  "And  Jesus,  when  He  oame 
out,  saw  much  people,  and  was  moved  with  eom- 
passion  toward  them,  beeanse  they  were  as  sheep 
net  hanring  a  shepherd:  and  He  began  to  teaeh 
them  many  things.  And  when  the  day  was  now 
far  spent,  His  disciples  came  unto  Him,  and  ssid," 
etc,  ete.    Bead  Mark  vi.  84-U. 

Tim  listened  with  a  swelling  heart,  and  with  a 

•  feeling  of  choking  in  his  throat  He  could  tee  it 
.  all  plainly  in  his  mind.    It  was  like  their  treat  to 

Epping  Forest,  where  the  classes  had  set  down  in 
ranks  upon  the  green  grass ;  and,  oh,  how  green 
and  soft  the  grass  was  I  and  the  teaohers  had  oome 
round,  like  the  disciples,  giving  to  each  one  of 
them  a  can  of  milk  and  great  pieces  of  cake;  and 
they  had  sung  a  hymn  all  togetiter  before  they 

•  began  te  eat  and  dzink.    He  lianded  he  oould  see 


the  Lord  Jesus,  like  the  beautiftil  picture  when 
He  had  a  lot  of  children  all  about  Him,  and  Hii 
hands  outstretched  as  if  He  was  ready  to  givt 
them  anything  they  wanted,  or  to  take  them  every 
one  into  His  arms.  He  thought  he  saw  Him,  with 
His  loving,  gentle  face,  standing  in  the  midst  of 
the  great  crowd  of  people,  and  asking  His  diseiplii 
if  they  were  sure  they  had  all  had  enough.  Tha 
they  would  sing,  thought  Tim,  and  go  home  m 
happy  as  he  had  been  after  that  treat  on  Sppisg 
Forest  All  at  once,  his  hunger  became  more  thu 
he  could  bear.  <'0h,  I  wish  He  was  here!"  ht 
cried,  bursting  into  tears,  and  laying  his  rongk 
head  on  the  desk  before  him,  **  I  only  wish  He  wu 
heiel" 

The  other  lads  looked  astonished,  for  Tim  vu 
not  given  to  crying,  and  the  teacher  stopped  is 
his  reading,  and  touched  him  to  call  his  attentim. 

**  Who  do  you  wish  was  here,  Tim  ?"  he  asksi 

"Him I"  sobbed  the  hungry  boy,  "the  Lori 
Jesus.  He'd  know  how  bad  I  feeL  I'd  look  Hih 
in  the  face,  and  say:  '  Master,  what  are  I  to  do? 
I  can't  learn  nothink  when  I've  got  nothlnk  bati 
griping  inside  of  me.'  And  He'd  think  how  hon* 
gry  I  was,  having  nothink  to  eat  all  day.  He'd 
be  very  sorry.  He  would,  I  know." 

Tim  did  not  lift  up  his  head,  for  his  tean  sad 
sobs  were  coming  too  fast,  and  he  was  afraid  the 
other  lads  would  laugh  at  him.  But  they  looked 
serious  enough  as  the  meaning  of  bis  words  brohe 
upon  them.  They  were  sure  he  was  not  ohestbg 
them.  If  Tim  said  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat  til 
day  it  must  be  true,  for  he  never  grumbled,  asd 
he  always  spoke  the  truth.  One  boy  drew  a  osnet 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  another  pulled  out  a  good 
piece  of  bread,  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  newspsper, 
while  a  third  ran  off  to  fetch  a  cup  of  water,  hsv- 
ing  nothing  else  he  could  give  to  Tim.  Tke 
teacher  walked  away  to  where  his  ooat  was  haog* 
ing,  and  came  back  with  the  bun  which  he  kad 
bought  in  the  shop. 

"  Tim,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  kindly  on  the 
lad's  bowed-down  head,  "I  am  rwj  sorry  f^r  yoa; 
almost  as  sorry  as  the  Lord  Jeans  would  btve 
been.  But  none  of  us  knew  yon  were  stsrviag, 
^J  boy,  or  I  should  not  have  scolded  yoo,  sad 
the  lada  would  not  have  laughed  at  yon.  Look 
up,  and  see  what  a  supper  we  have  found  ftr 
you." 

It  looked  like  a  flsast  to  Tim.  One  of  the  boji 
lent  him  a  pocket-knifb  to  cut  the  bread  sad 
carrot  into  slices,  with  which  he  took  offthekeea 
edge  of  his  hunger,  and  then  he  ate  the  daisty 
bun,  which  seemed  to  him  more  delicious  thaa 
anything  he  had  ever  tasted  belbre.  The  rait 
of  the  class  looked  on  with  delight  at  his  eri- 
dent  enjoyment,  until  the  last  orumb  had  dif- 
appeased. 

"I  oould  leam  anything  now,"  s^d  Tin,  with 
a  bright  face,  "  but  I  oouldn't  understand  aothiak 
before.    Then  you  began  teUing  about  the  poor 


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115 


folks  being  lamiahed  with  hanger,  and  bow  He 
gare  them  bread  and  fishes,  jast  as  if  He'd  been 
bungry  Himself  sometime,  and  Iinew  all  about  it 
ft  \b  bad,  it  is.  And  it  seemed  such  a  pity  He 
ireren't  here  in  London,  and  1  couldn't  go  to  Him. 
But,  I  dessay,  He  knows  how  you've  all  treated 
Be,  and  I  thank  you  all  kindly,  and  I'll  do  the 
wme  by  you,  some  day,  when  you've  had  the 
bad  lack  as  me." 


''Yes,"  s^d  the  teacher,  "  He  knew  how  hungry 
you  were,  and  He  knew  how  to  send  you  the  food 
you  wanted.  Tim,  and  you  other  lads,  I  want  you 
to  learn  this  verse,  and  think  of  it  often  when  you 
are  grown  up  men.  'Whosoever  shall  give  to 
one  of  these  little  ones  a  cup  of  cold  water  only  in 
the  name  of  a  disciple,  verily  I  say  unto  you,  he 
shall  in  no  wise  lose  his  reward.' " 


THE   HOME   OIROLE. 


EDITED  BT  ▲  ULDY. 


MY  NEW  SILK  SAOQUE. 

DEAB  EDITOR :  I  have  been  very  much  in- 
terested in  "Other  People's  Windows,"  by 
Pipsiasiway  Potts.  I  am  very  glad  she  has  been 
lefl  an  old  maid,  because  having,  I  suppose,  no 
t>nsine8B  of  her  own  to  attend  to,  she  gives  her 
thonghts  to  other  people's  so  nicely.  That  story 
the  teUs  about  Lois's  sacque  espeoially  pleased 
ne — for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  I  hare  Just 
(ot  a  new  sacque  myself— a  new  silk  sacque — 
:hat  is  quite  as  stylish  as  any  I  have  seen  in  the 
itreets  or  stores,  and  that  cost  me  even  less  than 
U>is's  did  her — only  twenty-five  cents  for  lining, 
ind  eight  cents  for  sewing-silk.  I  really  must 
;ell  you  about  it,  for  I  am  quite  proud  of  my 
lehierement. 

First,  it  IB  made  out  of  two  breadths  of  a  silk 
Iress  which  has  been  in  wear  for  the  last  nine- 
teen years.  Mother  sponged  the  silk,  and  ironed 
It  on  the  wrong  side  so  nicely  that  it  looked  just 
as  good  as  new.  Mother  can  do  up  things  beau- 
tifully. The  silk  costing  me  nothing,  I  thought  I 
•rould  venture  on  a  little  extravagance,  and  buy 
some  guipure  lace,  and  some  satin  for  piping,  to 
trim  it  with.  Money  is  not  at  all  plenty  at  our 
house,  and  we  all  have  to  try  to  lay  out  every 
penny  to  the  best  advantage.  So  I  really  did  feel 
as  if  this  sacque  trimming  was  almost  an  unjus- 
tifiable extravagance.  But  then  I  didn't  have  a 
new  silk  sacque  every  day. 

The  morning  that  I  was  working  on  it  mother 
said  to  me :  "  How  would  you  like  fringe  instead 
of  laee?" 

I  replied  that  I  knew  fHnge  was  more  fashion- 
able, but  I  really  liked  laee  best. 

«  But  if  the  fringe  costs  you  nothing  ?" 

I  didn't  exactly  see  where  the  fringe  was  to 
eome  flrom,  bat  I  waf  ready  to  receive  any  sugges- 
tions. So  mother  brought  out  an  old  parasol,  di- 
lapidated, faded  and  lame,  that  had  seen  iU  best 
days  at  least  five  years  before,  and  was  now 
handed  over  as  a  plaything  to  the  ohildien.    It 


was  bordered  with  a  heavy  fringe,  sadly  tangled 
and  fitded.  This  she  proposed  to  dye;  and  I,  rery 
doubtftd  of  her  success,  agreed  to  wait  the  trial, 
at  the  same  time  remarking  that  it  was  a  pity  there 
wasn't  some  old  satin  about  the  house  that  would 
do  to  make  the  piping  with,  so  to  have  the  entire 
thing  seoond-hand;  but  I  could  think  of  noth- 
ing but  an  old  satin  rest  that  had  been  out  of 
wear  for  a  number  of  years.  "  Just  the  thing," 
mother  said;  and  oif  she  posted  and  brought  it. 
The  rest  was  fifteen  years  old,  but  was  made  of 
the  thickest  and  finest  of  vest  satin ;  and  though 
it  had  seen  much  wear,  it  was  as  black  and  glossy 
as  ever,  except  at  the  folds  and  seams.  I  made  a 
oalcnlation  about  the  quantity  of  piping  I  re- 
quired, and  found  the  vest,  out  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, would  ftimish  just  enough.  It  made  beau- 
tiftil  piping— no  fhkying  about  the  edges — ^round 
and  full,  needing  nothing  to  stiffen  It. 

I  out  and  made  my  sacque  myself!  Mother 
brought  the  fHnge  In  due  season,  dyed  a  beautifhl 
black,  and  combed  smooth.  And  here  Is  the  sacque 
all  finished,  just  as  nice  as  though  erery  part  of  it 
was  bran  new;  and  the  cost,  as  I  have  already 
said,  was  only  thirty-three  cents. 

Can  Pipsey,  or  any  of  your  other  writers  or 
readers  tell  a  story  of  economy  that  will  surpass 
tills?"  Liszn. 

THE  TWO  WEDDINGS. 

IN  "Swihtur^  for  June,  two  weddings  are  de- 
scribed, one  the  grand,  fashionable  affair,  in 
which  the  tenderest  and  most  sacred  of  all  eon- 
tracts  is  made  a  thing  of  public  exhibition;  the 
other  a  simple  ceremonial.  In  which  think  you, 
reader,  lies  the  fklrer  promise  t  Here  aire  the  two 
plotora: 

"A  littie  finsh  of  pride  passed  orer  our  souls 
when  the  big,  square  envelope  came  to  hand,  with 
its  elegant  indosures,  showing  that  our  old  and 
prosperous  acquaintance  had  weighed  ns  in  the 
social  balanoe^  and  not  found  as  wanting.  '  Let  nt 


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ARTHUR* 8   LADT8   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


haste  to  the  wedding!'  we  said  to  Theodosia on  the 
eventfal  day;  and  heing  dirided  like  sheep  flrom 
the  vulgar  goats  who  swarmed  and  stared  npon 
the  sidewalk,  we  passed  up  stately,  hetween  star- 
hlazoned  policemen,  under  the  bright  canopy,  into 
the  great,  packed,  rustling,  whispering,  gaudy 
churoh — a  very  seventh  heaven  of  fashion,  with 
sweet-scented  welcoming  cherubs  in  kid  gloves 
and  swallow-tails. 

''0  deary!  we  can't  begin  to  tell  how  fine  it 
was ;  how  beautiful  the  bride  looked  in  her  pearls 
and  diamonds  and  long  train,  and  veil  reaching  to 
the  ground,  and  the  three  blushing  bride'smaids ! 
We  can't  begin  to  describe  the  gorgeous  floral 
hangings,  the  wealth  of  bouquets,  wreaths,  em- 
blems, sprigs,  sprays,  and  what  not;  and  the  cere- 
mony, so  impressive ;  with  everything,  indeed,  so 
conltur  d9  ro99,  and  appropriate  and  touching — 
everybody  itanding,  all  of  a  tremor,  on  tip-toe,  to 
eatoh  a  glimpse  of  the  happy  couple  as  they  step 
briskly  down  the  aisle— the  organ  roaring  and 
raging,  and  squawking  and  squealing,  and  whist- 
ling and  cooing,  like  a  well- assorted,  unhappy 
family  of  wild  beasts. 

**  And  if  the  Seene  at  the  sanctuary  is  indesorib- 
able,  what  can  be  said  of  the  Reception  at  the 
house !  For  were  there  not  nineteen  hundred  in- 
vitations out,  and  were  there  not  present  the  Piok- 
anninies  and  the  Gamllys,  yes,  and  the  Grand 
Panjandrum  himself,  with  the  IHtle  round  button 
at  the  top  ?  And  was  not  Mrs.  A.'s  elegant  'point' 
actually  torn  from  her  back  by  the  crowd?  and 
was  not  the  table  a  marvel  of  costliness  and  deli- 
cacy, and  all  mysterious  daintiness  ?  Then  to  see 
us  all  march  around  in  procession,  to  view  the 
cor —  we  mean,  to  congratulate  the  bride,  and 
the  man  who  had  won  her;  then  to  behold  us 
pushed  and  jerked  and  squeesed  out  into  the  hall, 
and  up  the  wide  stairway,  and  into  the  room  where 
the  presents  were  arrayed  on  green  shelves,  and 
two  detectives  stood  on  guard!  And  such  pres- 
ents— snoh  beautiful,  dazsling,  unheard-of  things! 
it  was  enough  to  make  one  dissy. 

"  And  what  if  the  bride  did  look  dolefully  fagged 
as  she  stood  there,  In  her  glory,  under  the  bridal 
bell;  and  what  if  Miss  B.  went  away  sour  and 
severe,  because  Miss  C'^the  vain  thing — had 
worn  great  deal  more  expensive  lace  than  that 
Miss  B.  had  ordered  months  ago  for  this  very 
affair;  and  what  if  the  flowers  had  wir*  stems; 
and  what  if  there  wer^  more  ice  pitchers  and 
cuckoo  clocks  on  the  green  shelves  than  any 
young  oouple  could  find  use  for;  and  what  if  a 
great  many  people  were  very  mad  because  they 
were  not  invited,  and  a  great  many  other  people, 
who  were  invited,  spent  a  great  deal  more  mon«7  ' 
than  they  could  afford  in  new  dresses  and  super- 
erogatory presents;  what  if  the  bride's  father 
tamed  pale,  next  day,  when  he  footed  up  the  cost 
of  the  happy  oeoasion ;  and  what  if  (although  the 
^e^p^  oeaain^  and  the  human  gn^  could  not 


be  altogether  fhrbelowed  fh)m  sight)  it  did  seen 
so  much  like  a  hollow  show  and  a  mournful  mock 
ery  of  sacred  things — was  it  not  a  grand  affair— ( 
nine-days'  wonder — and  did  not  the  Town  Titil 
lator  (which,  if  you  were  at  the  wedding,  yoi 
bought  on  the  sly  to  see  if  your  name  was  men 
tioned)  pronounce  it,  with  conscientious  discrimi 
nation,  *  Me  event  of  the  season,  McFIimsey  Plac 
having  seldom  beheld  its  equal  in  all  that  goes  ti 
make  up  a  brilliant  and  imposing  effect?' 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  grand  wedding.  We  have  at 
tended  another  one  since — a  small  affair— not  to  b 
mentioned  on  the  same  day  with  the  McFlimee; 
Place  sensation,  except  to  show  by  comparisoi 
what  a  surpassing  success  was  the  former.  A  lit 
tie  way  out  in  the  country — rather  a  rural  ar 
rangemeat  altogether;  no  style  at  all;  very  fei 
there  beside  the  family.  Bless  you!  the  bride  an( 
groom  to  be  were  both  down  at  the  front  door  t^ 
welcome  us  when  we  got  in  from  the  train;  sdi 
we  had  lots  of  fun  before  her  brother  Bob  cami 
to  the  door — with  a  strained,  moist  brightness  ii 
his  eye — and  beckoned  to  her  to  go  up  stairs  an( 
put  on  her  bonnet — no,  it  wasn't  a  bonnet,  either 
just  a  pretty  little  travelling  hat,  trimmed  with- 
something  or  other,  to  match  the  sweetest,  neatest 
most  common-sense  Quaker-colored  suit  that  erei 
you  saw. 

"  The  little  church  was  quite  crowded  with  th( 
villagers,  even  the  tiny,  odd  choir-loft  was  fnll  tc 
overflowing,  and  somebody  had  built  a  flower) 
arbor,  odorous  of  apple-blossoms,  just  in  front  oi 
the  altar.  There  they  were  married ;  and,  as  tbej 
turned  to  go,  a  little  girl,  all  dressed  in  white  and 
carrying  a  basket,  sprang  up  like  a  fairy,  no  one 
knew  whence,  and  flitted  along  the  aisle,  and  dowi 
the  stone  steps  in  front  of  them,  sprinklmg  flowen 
in  their  path. 

**  Then  there  was  another  jolly  time  at  the  house 
and  after  much  kissing  and  a  few  tears,  a  oarriag< 
drove  away  from  the  door,  followed  in  mid-air  bj 
an  old  shoe,  flung  with  a  wilL  And  so— out  undei 
the  showery,  sunshiny  April  sky — 

"'Across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old.'" 


HOW  BRIDGET  MENDED  THE  STOCK- 
INGS. 

We  were  amused  the  other  day  at  a  lady  fHend'i 
account  of  the  manner  in  which  her  Irish  servant 
girl  mended  her  stoekings.  When  a  hole  appeared 
in  the  toe,  Bridget  tied  a  string  around  the  stock- 
ing below  the  aperture,  and  out  off'  the  projeeting 
portion.  This  Operation '  was  repeited  as  often  as 
necessary,  each  time  pulling  the  stocking  down  a 
little,  until  at  last  it  was  nearly  all  cut  away,  when 
Bridget  sewed  on  new  legs,  and  thus  kept  her 
stockings  always  in  repair  1 


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EVENINGS  "WITH   THE   POETS. 


0 


DON'T  RUN  IN  DEBT. 

BY  FBAirOKS  D.  flAOB. 

|ON'T  run  in  debt ! — nerer  niind,  never  mind, 
If  the  old  clothes  are  faded  and  torn ; 
it  them  up,  make  them  do,  it  is  better  by  far. 
Than  to  have  the  heart  weary  and  worn, 
rholl  love  you  more  for  the  eet  of  the  hat, 
Or  your  raff,  or  the  tie  of  the  shoe, 
he  shape  of  your  vest,  or  your  boots  or  cravat, 
If  they  know  you're  in  debt  for  the  new. 

on't  ran  in  debt   If  canary's  the  go, 

Wear  bine  if  yon  have  not  the  cash, 

r— no  matter  what — so  yon  let  the  world  know 

Ton  wont  ran  in  debt  for  a  dash. 

here's  no  comfort,  I  tell  yon,  in  walking  the  street 

In  fine  clothes  if  you  know  you're  in  debt, 

ad  feel  that  perchance  you  some  tradesman  may 

meet 
Who  will  sneer— "They're  not  paid  for  yet" 

ood  friends,  let  me  beg  you  don't  run  in  debt. 
If  the  chairs  and  the  sofas  are  old — 
hey  will  fit  your  back  better  than  any  new  set, 
Unless  they  are  paid  for  in  gold ; 
I  the  house  \s  small  draw  it  closer  together, 
Keep  it  warm  with  a  hearty  good  will ; 
big  one  unpaid  for,  in  all  kinds  of  weather 
Will  send  to  your  warm  heart  a  chill. 

^n't run  in  debt—now  dear  girls  take  a  hint; 
(If  the  fashions  have  changed  since  last  season,) 
'Id  nature  is  out  in  the  very  same  tint, 
And  Old  Nature  we  think,  has  some  reason. 
Qit  say  to  your  friends  you  cannot  afford 
To  spend  time  to  keep  up  with  the  fashion ; 
W  your  purse  is  too  light  and  your  honor  too 

bright 
To  be  tarnished  with  such  silly  passion. 

^ts,  don't  run  in  debt— let  your  friends,  if  they 
can, 

Have  fine  houses,  feathers,  and  flowers, 
'nt  unless  they  are  paid  fur,  be  more  of  a  man 

Than  envy  their  sunshiny  hours, 
f  yon  have  money  to  spare,  I  have  nothing  to  say; 

Spend  your  dimes  and  your  dollars  as  you  please, 
tat  mbd  you  the  man  that  has  his  note  Co  pay 

Is  the  man  that  is  never  at  ease. 

^d  husbands,  don't  run  in  debt  any  more; 

Twill  fill  your  wife's  cup  full  of  sorrow, 
^0  know  that  a  neighbor  may  call  at  your  door. 

With  a  bill  you  can't  settle  to-morrow, 
^h !  take  my  advice— it  is  good,  it  is  true, 

(But  least  you  may  some  of  you  doubt  it,) 
^  whisper  a  secret,  now  seeing  'tis  you — 

I  have  tried  it  and  know  all  about  it 

Rie  ehain  of  a  debtor  is  heavy  and  cold. 
Its  links  all  corrosion  and  rust, 

Qild it  o'er  as  yon  will— it  is  never  of  gold- 
Then  spam  it  BBide  with  disgust 


The  man  who's  in  debt  Is  too  often  a  slave, 
Though  his  heart  may  be  honest  and  true ; 

Can  he  hold  up  his  head  and  look  saucy  and  brave 
When  a  note  he  oan't  pay  becomes  due  ? 

— oo>»:oc 

THE  BOOTBLACK. 

HERE  y'are—  ?    Black  your  boots,  boss  ? 
Do  it  for  just  five  cents; 
Shine  'em  up  in  a  minute — 
That  is  'f  notbin'  prevents. 

8et  your  foot  right  on  there,  sir ; 

The  momin's  kinder  cold — 
Sorter  rough  on  a  feller 

When  his  coat's  a  gettin'  old. 

Well,  yes— call  it  coat,  sir, 
Though  'taint  much  more'n  a  tear ; 

Can't  get  myself  another — 
Aint  got  the  stamps  to  spare. 

Make  as  much  as  most  on  'em— 

That's  8o;  but  then,  yer  see. 
They've  only  got  one  to  do  for; 

There's  two  on  nS|  Jack  and  me. 

Him  ?    Why— that  little  fellow, 

With  a  double  up  corter  back/ 
Sittin'  there  on  the  gratin' 

Sunnin'  hisself— that's  Jack. 

Used  to  be  round  sellin'  papers. 

The  oars  there  was  his  Uy, 
But  he  got  shoved  off  the  platform. 

Under  the  wheels,  one  day ; 

Yes,  the  condnetor  did  it — 

Gave  him  a  reg'lar  throw — 
He  didn't  care  if  he  killed  him ; 

Some  on  'em  is  just  so. 

He's  never  been  all  right  since,  sir. 

Sorter  quiet  and  queer — 
Him  and  me  go  together, 

He's  what  they  call  cashier. 

Trouble — I  guess  not  much,  sir. 

Sometimes  when  bis  gets  slack, 
I  don't  know  how  I'd  stand  it 

If  'twasn't  for  UtUe  Jack. 

Why,  boss,  you  ought  to  hoar  him, 

He  says  we  needn't  care 
How  rough  luck  is  down  here,  sir. 

If  some  day  we  git  up  there. 

All  done  now — how's  that,  sir  ? 

Shine  like  a  pair  of  lamps. 

Momin' ! — give  it  to  Jack,  sir. 

He  looks  after  the  stamps. 

JVeto  York  Evening  Math 
(117) 

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118 


ABTEUB'8   LADT8   EOME    MAGAZINE. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  VILLAGE  OF  YULE. 

BT  HKXKKIAH  BDTTERWORTH. 

MT  fpring  time  of  life  hat  departed ; 
Its  romance  hat  ended  at  laat; 
My  dreamingt  were  onoe  of  the  future. 

But  DOW  they  are  all  of  the  past. 
And  memory  oft  in  my  trials 

Goes  hack  to  my  pastimes  at  sehool, 
And  pictures  the  boys  who  once  loved  me 
In  the  beautiAil  vUlage  of  Tnle. 

The  school-house  still  stands  by  the  meadow, 

And  green  is  the  spot  where  I  played, 
And  flecked  with  the  sun  is  the  shadow 

Of  the  eyergreen  woods  where  I  strayed. 
The  thrush  in  the  meadowy  places 

Still  sings  in  the  evergreens  cool. 
But  changed  are  the  fbn-loring  facet 

Of  the  children  who  met  me  at  Tule. 

I  remember  the  day  when,  a  teacher, 

I  met  those  dear  faces  anew, 
The  warm-hearted  greetings  that  told  me 

The  friendships  of  childhood  are  true. 
I  remember  the  winters  I  struggled. 

When  careworn  and  sick,  in  my  school, 
I  remember  the  boys  who  then  lored  me 

In  the  beautiful  village  of  Tule. 

So  true  in  the  days  of  my  sadness 

Did  the  hearts  of  the  little  ones  prove. 
My  sorrow  grew  light  in  the  gladness 

Of  having  so  many  to  love. 
I  gave  my  own  heart  to  the  children. 

And  banished  severity's  rule, 
And  happiness  dwelt  in  my  school-room 

In  the  beautiful  village  of  Tule. 

I  taught  them  the  goodness  of  loving 

The  beauty  of  nature  and  art ; 
They  taught  me  the  goodness  of  loving 

The  beauty  that  lies  in  the  heart. 
And  I  prize  more  than  lessons  of  knowledge 

The  lessons  I  learned  in  my  school ; 
The  gentle  embrtces  at  morning. 

The  kisses  at  evening,  in  Tnle. 

More  tender  than  now  were  my  feelings. 
My  face  was  more  gentle  and  mild, 

I  was  nearer  the  heavenly  kingdom 
The  Saviour  compared  to  a  child. 

0  then  when  the  little  ones  tried  me 
By  heedlessly  breaking  a  rule, 

1  could  pray  irith  them  kneeling  beside  me, 
In  the  beautiful  village  of  Tule. 

I  remember  the  hour  that  we  parted — 

I  told  them,  while  moistened  my  eye, 
That  the  bell  of  the  school-room  of  glory 

Would  ring  for  us  each  in  the  sky. 
Their  faces  were  turned  to  the  sunset, 

As  they  stood  'neath  the  evergreens  cool ; 
I  shall  see  them  no  more  as  I  saw  them 

In  the  beautiful  vHlage  of  Tule. 


The  bellf  of  the  school-room  of  glory 

Their  summons  have  rung  in  the  rky, 
The  moss  and  the  fern  of  the  valley 

On  some  of  the  little  ones  lie ; 
Some  have  gone  fh>m  the  wearisome  studies 

Of  earth  to  the  happier  school; 
Some  faces  are  bright  with  the  angels 

Who  stood  in  the  sunset  at  Tule. 

I  love  the  instructions  of  knowledge. 

The  teachings  of  nature  and  art, 
But  more  than  all  others  the  lessons 

That  come  from  an  innocent  heart. 
And  still  to  be  patient,  and  loving, 

And  tmstftil,  I  hold  as  a  rule, 
For  so  I  was  taught  by  the  children 

Of  the  beautiful  viUage  of  Tnle. 

My  spring  time  of  life  has  departed ; 

Its  romance  has  ended  at  last; 
My  dreaming^  were  once  of  the  fhture. 

But  now  they  are  all  of  the  past 
Methinks  when  I  stand  in  life's  sunset, 

As  I  stood  when  we  parted  at  school, 
I  shall  see  the  bright  faces  of  children 

I  loved  in  the  village  of  Yule. 

Youths"  Compamon. 

WORK. 

BY  ALICE  CART. 

DOWN  and  up,  and  up  and  down. 
Over  and  over  and  over; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown; 

Turn  out  the  bright  red  clover. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share. 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall ; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere. 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 
With  hand  on  the  spade  and  heart  in  the  skj 

Dress  the  ground  and  till  it; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  brown  and  dry ; 

Turn  out  the  golden  millet 
Work,  and  your  house  shall  be  duly  fed ; 

Work,  and  rest  shall  be  won ; 
I  hold  that  a  man  had  better  be  dead, 

Than  alive,  when  his  work  is  done ! 

Down  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 

On  the  hill-top, low  in  the  valley; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown. 

Turn  out  the  rose  and  lily. 
Work  with  a  plan,  dr  without  a  plan, 

And  your  ends  they  shall  be  shaped  true; 
Work,  and  learn  at  first-hand,  like  a  man— 

The  best  way  to  knoto  is  to  do  I 

Down  and  up,  till  life  shall  close, 

Ceasing  not  your  praises ; 
Turn  in  the  wild  white  winter  snows. 

Turn  out  the  sweet  spring  daisies. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share, 

And  the  rain  in  iU  time  will  fall; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  graee  of  God  through  all. 


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F-nUIT   CULTURE   FOR   Lj^DIES. 

BY  THE  AX7TH0B  OT  ''  6ABD1SNINO  FOB  LADIES." 


THE  APRICOT. 


CURRANT  CUTTINGS. 


rllS  is  a  fruit  which,  generally  eqnal  to  the 
peach  in  lasoiouaness,  and  ripening  from  two 
;o  three  weeks  earlier,  ought  to  receive  more  at- 
«ntion  than  has  hitherto  heen  given  to  it.  It  is, 
^haps,  a  little  more  difficult  to  manage  than  the 
lesch,  and  more  liable  to  casualties  from  ir- 
regularities  of  the  weather.  It  flourishes  in  a 
light,  warm,  sandy  or  gravelly  loam,  but  requires 
i  sunny  situation  and  protection  iRrom  severe 
bleak  winds.  As  with  the  peach,  it  does  best 
vhen  the  ^onnd  is  constantly  cultivated,  without 
Dther  crops.  It  is  also  managed  as  a  wall  tree, 
being  planted  to  face  the  west  and  east  rather  than 
the  south.  The  scientific  gardeners,  in  cultivat- 
ing the  apricot,  go  through  an  endless  round  of 
training,  pruning,  etc.  But,  after  all,  for  general 
lAe,  the  samo  management  that  is  given  the  peach, 
vill  answer.  If  undisturbed  by  insects,  the  fruit 
Df  the  apricot  sets  very  abundantly,  often  forming 
crowded  clusters.  In  this  case  thinning  is  neces- 
■ary.  The  green  apricots  thus  taken  from  the 
tree  are  very  fine  for  tarts.  The  large  darly,  or 
St  John's  apricot,  the  Moorpark,  and  the  peach 
apricot,  are  choice  and  productive  varieties. 


CRYSTAL  BASKETS. 

THESE  pretty  ornaments  are  not  difficult  to 
make.  The  basket  or  any  other  ornament  is 
fint  fashioned  with  copper  wire,  as  a  skeleton  of 
the  pattern  desired.  For  blue  crystals,  take  a  sat- 
urated solution  of  sulphate  of  copper  in  hot  water; 
place  the  pattern  or  skeleton  in  this  liquor,  and 
B^  it  in  a  quiet  place ;  as  the  solution  cools,  orys- 
^  of  the  solution  will  be  deposited  on  the  wire, 
^e  first  crystals  will  be  small,  but  to  increase 
their  size  it  is  only  necessary  to  place  the  oma- 
nents  in  a  fresh  and  perfectly  saturated  solution 
of  the  copper  salt 


0^ 


ROSE  CUTTINGS. 

|KE  of  the  best  methods  of  securing  the  success 
of  these,  is  to  stick  the  cutting  about  an  inch 
^p  into  clean  river  sand — with  properly  prepared 
■on  about  an  inch  below  to  receive  the  roots  as 
"oon  as  they  strike.  The  clean  sand  prevents  the 
*^t»  from  rotting.  A  correspondent  of  the  Hor- 
**««ft««rw<  succeeded  with  this  when  every  other 
mode  failed — and  says  he  does  not  lose  one  in 


MB.  QUINN  gives  the  following  directions  for 
managing  currant  cuttings.  Currant  wood 
can  be  turned  into  a  plant  the  year  it  is  grown  by 
setting  any  time  from  August  to  November.  I 
would  make  a  square^  clean  out,  have  the  ground 
mellor  that  the  young  rootlets  may  meet  with  no 
obstructions,  and  then  push  the  dirt  closely  around 
the  bottom  of  the  cutting.  The  fall  is  decidedly 
the  best  time  to  commence  operations,  because  in 
so  doing,  one  gets  a  two  years'  growth  in  one.  If 
it  is  very  dry,  some  mulching  will  be  required, 
but  generally,  at  this  season,  the  ground  is  warmer 
than  the  atmosphere,  and  ninety-eight  per  cent, 
should  live. 

CRITERION  OF  A  GOOD  PEAR. 

DBS6ERT  pears,  says  Bridgman,  are  charac- 
terised by  a  sugary,  aromatic  juice,  with  the 
pulp  soft  and  sub-liquid,  or  melting,  as  in  the 
Beurrw,  or  Butter  pears,  or  of  a  firm  and  crisp 
consistence,  or  breaking,  as  in  the  winter  Berga- 
mots.  Kitchen  pears  should  be  of  a  large  size, 
with  the  fiesh  firm,  neither  breaking  nor  melting, 
and  rather  austere  than  sweet. 

FIGS  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR. 

IT  does  not  seem  to  be  generally  known  that  even 
as  far  north  as  Pennsylvania  a  little  care  and 
attention,  judiciously  applied,  will  succeed  in  rais- 
ing figs  in  any  well-sheltered  garden.  A  good 
loamy  soil  is  necessary,  and  the  trees  may  be 
trained  to  close  fences,  or  trellises,  in  protected 
situations  with  a  sunny  outlook. 

The  fig  is  propagated  best  by  cuttings.  These 
come  into  bearing  sometimes  the  first  season.  The 
trees  are  thrifty  growers  and  abundant  bearers. 

As  cold  weather  approaches,  the  fig  requires 
protection.  If  trained  to  a  close  fence,  it  may  be 
secured  through  the  winter  by  a  covering  of  mat- 
ting. Those  in  open  situations,  should  be  taken 
from  the  trellis,  and  laid  down  close  to  the  ground, 
and  covered  three  or  four  inches  with  earth.  The 
branches  should  be  held  in  place  with  crooked 
pegs,  and  must  not  be  cramped.  The  strong  cen- 
tral branches,  or  such  as  will  not  bend  readily, 
may  be  wrapped  in  straw,  or  cornstalks,  or  other 
similar  litter.  The  time  for  laying  them  down  is 
in  November,  just  previous  to  which  they  should 
be  pruned.  April  will  be  early  enough  to  uncover 
and  set  them  up  again. 


i^  t 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


120 


ARTHURS   LADT8   EOIiE    MAGAZINE, 


The  largest  and  belt  hardy  variety  for  gardeo 
onltnre  is  the  Bmnswiok.  The  blue  or  purple  is 
another  hardy  yariety,  the  fruit  of  which  is  hand- 
some, riehly  flavoreA,  and  produced  ia  great  abun- 
dance. The  Bourdeaux  and  the  chestnut  are  also 
desirable  varieties,  generally  producing  two  erops 
in  favorable  seasons. 

HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

Prfntho. — The  summer  pruning  of  all  trained 
fruit  trees  and  vines  should  be  finished  this  month, 
if  there  is  any  yet  left  to  be  done.  Deatroy  all 
irregular  and  unnecessary  after  sheets.  Pear  and 
apple  trees  that  grow  well,  but  produee  no  fruit, 
will  be  benefited  by  having  about  half  of  the 
young  growth  out  back. 

BuDDiKO. — Examine  the  fruit  trees  that  w6re 
budded  last  month,  and  wherever  a  bud  has  fkiled, 
insert  another  upon  the  smooth  part  of  the  bark. 
Budding  generally  succeeds  well  if  done  by  the 
middle  of  this  month.  Indeed  it  is  often  suooesi- 
ftil  even  as  late  as  the  first  week  of  September. 
Nevertheless,  it  will  not  be  wise  to  defer  the  opera* 
tion  so  long. 

THiinfnre  oxrt  F rxtit.— If  y^u  have  not  folUwed 
out  our  hint  on  this  point  of  last  month,  act  upon 
it  at  once,  as  it  is  not  yet  too  late,  for  the  Inter 
varieties.  Go  over  your  dwarf  trees,  especially, 
taking  off  every  knotty,  ill-shaped,  or  stunted 
specimen.  If  you  are  raising  fruit  to  sell,  it  will 
undoubtedly  be  to  your  advantage  to  do  this.  And 
if  you  are  raising  fruit  for  your  own  use,  your 
trees  will  gladden  your  eyes  with  their  goodly 
array  of  large,  well-shaped  pears  or  apples. 

IivsBCTB. — Wage  continual  war  against  the  in- 
sect tribes.  As  soon  as  the  nests  of  the  fall  web- 
worm  appear,  destroy  them.  The  red  spider  is 
also  very  troublesome  on  some  fruit  and  ornamen* 
tal  trees  this  month.  Wherever  it  is  at  work  the 
leaves  assume  a  brownish  hue,  and  a  close  exami- 
nation will  discover  the  little  red  part,  like  a 
minute  speck.  Frequent  ehowerings,  by  syringe 
or  any  other  convenient  way,  with  a  moderately 
strong  suds  of  whale-oil  soap  will  be  of  service. 
A  general  search  every  morning  and  evening  for 
insects  will  tend  in  a  great  measure  to  keep  their 
ravages  at  least  within  endurable  bounds,  if  it 
does  not  result  in  the  total  eradication  of  many 
species. 

Strawbebries. — Keep  the  beds  clean,  and  cut 
the  runners  off  from  vines  grown  in  hill  culture. 
If  the  weather  is  suitable,  new  beds  may  now  be 
formed,  though  I  have  found  beds  set  out  iu  No- 
vember to  do  better  than  those  made  in  August, 
especially  when  the  season  turned  out  dry.  If 
potted  runners,  as  described  last  month  are  used, 
you  will  be  in  a  great  measure  independent  of  the 
weather,  and  such  an  August-planted  bed  will 
certainly  repay  you  next  spring  for  the  compara- 
tively little  trouble  and  expense.    Whatever  you 


may  do,  let  your  beds  be  dug  deep,  and  not 
too  strongly  manured.  If  possible,  roll  the  bed, 
before  planting,  with  a  garden  roller.  In  plant- 
ing, make  holes  with  a  dibble,  fill  the  holes  with 
water,  and  when  it  has  soaked  away  set  in  your 
plant,  pressing  tbeeaith  firmly  around  the  roots. 
Plant  no  deeper  than  is  necessary  to  set  the  roots 
well  in  the  ground,  especially  if  your  soil  is  in- 
clined to  be  heavy.  In  light  sandy  soils,  yon 
need  not  be  particular  on  this  point  An  occa- 
sional slight  sprinkling  of  ashes  or  guano,  Jait 
before  a  rain,  will  do  good  service  to  your^  beds. 

Blackberries  and  Raspberries. — When  the 
new  growth  has  reached  the  height  of  four  or  fire 
feet,  the  tender  points  of  the  canes  should  be 
pinched  off,  thus  causing  side  shoots  to  push  oat, 
and  these,  in  their  turn  are  to  be  pinched  off  when 
they  are  eighteen  inches  long.  Keep  your  red 
raspberry  rows  clear  of  all  straggling  suckers,  and 
tie  up  such  shoots  as  are  intended  for  beariog 
next  year.  If  you  wish  to  increase  your  stock  of 
black  caps,  the  pinching  process  must  be  omitted 
in  their  case,  as  they  are  propagated  by  letting 
the  tips  grow  so  as  to  beod  over  and  take  root  in 
the  ground.  In  the  fall  or  spring,  these  tips  are 
cut  a  few  inches  from  the  ground^  and  the  new 
plant  taken  up  carefully  and  set  out  in  the  place 
prepared  for  it  If  this  is  done  late  in  the  fall,  let 
the  new  plants  be  protected  by  a  not  very  heary 
covering  of  leaves  and  pine- boughs.  With  regard 
to  the  removing  of  the  old  wood  from  the  black- 
berry and  raspberry  rows  at  this  eeason,  there 
seems  to  be  a  difference  of  opinion :  Mr.  Meehan,  of 
the  Oardener'a  i/oftfA(y,  regards  the  practice  as  one 
of  doubtful  good,  if  not  ef  positive  injury.  Foi 
my  own  part,  I  usually  do  this  part  of  my  work 
in  the  spring,  and  I  do  not  see  but  that  my  canei 
grow  as  well  and  bear  as  well  as  those  of  my  neigh- 
bors who  do  it  at  this  season.  Mr.  Meehan  thlnki 
that  the  partial  shade  made  by  the  old  stems  seemi 
rather  beneficial  than  otherwise  under  our  hot  suna 
However,  I  am  disposed  to  legard  the  matter  ai 
one  of  eonvenience  rather  than  anything  else, 
Should  your  work  happen  to  push  you  in  the 
spring,,  you  may  regret  that  you  did  not  remove 
your  old  canes  the  previous  season,  if  you  have 
not  don^  ao. 

GRAPKS.^Lpok  well  to  the  leaves  of  your  vinei 
at  this  season.  Endeavor  to  keep  them  in  peiM 
health.  If  ravaged  by  insects,  let  them  be  heavilj 
syringed  tvery  few  days  with  a  light  suds  of  whato* 
oil  soap,  or  with  common  soap  suds,  or  even  with 
pure  water.  Should  mildew  make  its  appearance, 
it  must  be  forthwith  met  by  the  application  ol 
sulphur.  Should  you  notice  grayish  patches  on 
the  fruit  stems  or  upon  the  leaves,  an  immediate 
and  thorough  dusting  with  sulphur  will  be  neces- 
sary. I  have  found  it  very  beneficial  to  sprinkle 
the  ground  around  and  under  my  vines  literally 
with  sulphur,  afterward  working  it  into  the  soil 
with  a  pronged  hoe. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


NETV^   I>UBLIO^TIOISrS. 


Maiuid  for  Bots  Worlds.  By  Mrs.  A.  E.  Porter,  aa- 
thor  of  **  Captain  John,"  etc.  Boston :  Lee  dt  SkeparxL 

We  like  this  story  for  its  pare  sentiment,  its 
rigbt  views  of  marriage,  and  its  Christian  feeling. 
It  is  written  in  a  calm,  easy  style,  and  has  passages 
of  great  power.  We  give  some  extracts,  which 
show  the  purpose  and  spirit  of  the  book  : 

"'I  do  not  judge  others,'  said  Mrs.  William 
(Esther);  'for  myself,  I  need  none  to  assure  that 
my  loved  ones  are  waiting— no,  not  waiting,  bat, 
amid  the  activity  and  raptnre  of  Heaven,  are  think- 
ing of  me,  and  will  welcome  me  with  such  joy  as 
perfected  love  only  knows !  What  a  strange  idea 
to  suppose  that  the  rapture  of  a  blood-vessel,  the 
twin  flight  of  a  ballet  through  the  heart,  the 
deadly  touch  of  pestilence,  could  destroy  the  soul's 
power  of  loving,  or  erase  from  memory  the  dearest 
records  on  its  scroll !  No,  doctor,  the  Gospel  of 
St  John  teaches  a  diffarent  lesson.  The  human 
love,  which  is  purified  by  the  love  of  God,  will 
never  die.  The  sanctified  friendships  of  this  world 
sn  bonds  which  death  cannot  sever.  *  *  And 
carriages  that  are  not  of  the  earth,  earthy-— a 
marriage  that  is  the  true  union  of  two  souls  who 
an  redeemed  and  purified  by  that  love  which  is  a 
sonsuming  fire,  casting  out  the  dross  of  selfishness 
■nd  imparity,  is  a  marriage  for  both  worlds,  a 
uion  as  immortal  as  the  spirits  that  Iotsw'  " 

'"Tes,  my  husband,  our  work  is  still  the  same. 
Your  aotive  spirit  is  not  mUng  now.  You  did  not 
want  rest.  No ;  you  are  working  still,  with  an  im- 
mortal spirit's  power  and  strength.  Perhaps  you 
an  with  us  here.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure— your 
love  for  me  is  the  same.  Have  I  not  kept  my  heart 
pore  in  its  love  for  you  ?  Has  it  not  grown  stronger 
■i&ee  you  have  been  in  Heaven  ?  Blessed  be  God 
that  human  love  may  be  so  purified  and  made 
strong  by  love  to  God,  that  it  will  never  die  1  That 
the  death  of  one  will  only  strengthen  the  tie,  and 
the  release  of  the  other  left  on  earth  be  only  like 
Mtting  free  a  bird  who  has  been  kept  from  its  mate. 
How  it  shakes  its  wing  and  mounts  up,  all  quiver- 
uig  with  impatience,  as,  with  unerring  instinct,  it 
goes  direct  to  its  loved  ones  1  There  will  oome  a 
dv  when  I  shall  thus  soar  away.' " 

®***'»«  A  Romance  of  Germany  and  Italy.  By  Mrs. 
E.  D.  Wallace,  author  of  *»Flo,"  "A  Woman's  Ex- 
^rlence  in  Europe,"  etc.  Philadelphia:  JST.  G 
^m  di  Cb. .  Ooarfcm,  RemMx  db  Haffeljinger, 

^his  is  in  some  degree  an  odd  sort  of  a  book— a 
*ad  story  in  many  respects,  yet  told  with  a  quaint 
viraoity  that  at  times  runs  into  humor.  It  is  the 
Itory  of  a  young  woman— herself  the  narrator  of 
it^whose  «  own  wilful  imagination  made  links  of 
ttyiterious  association  where  none  existed  in-  re- 
^^  and,  by  constant  apprehensions  of  evil,  in- 


sensibly aided  in  working  out  its  own  forebodings." 
Her  "strife"  consisted  in  her  "warring  against 
the  limited  knowledge  that  a  wise  Providence 
ordains  for  finite  beings;"  and  in  her  "unhallowed 
gratification"  of  her  speculative  propensities,  thus 
permitting  her  imagination  "  to  revel  in  soarings 
beyond  the  bounds  of  right  and  reason."  In  brief, 
her  strife  was  "  warring  with  necessity."  And  it 
is  against  such  persons — those  who  safier  their  im- 
aginations to  be  influeneed  by  a  sort  of  supersti- 
tious belief  in  omens,  presentiments,  dreams,  and 
the  like— that  the  moral  of  the  story  seems  to  be 
directed.  As  was,  perhaps,  to  be  expected  in  a 
romance  of  this  eharaoter,  there  runs  through  the 
story  a  vein  of  transeendentalism,  which,  however 
curious  in  itself,  is  rather  a  detraetion  from  the 
otherwise  lively  interest  that  one  would  take  in  it. 
Regarded  as  a  whole,  "  Strife"  is  a  novel  of  more 
than  ordinary  merit,  written—just  a  little,  per- 
haps— in  appearances,  to  air  its  author's  erudition, 
but  not  so  markedly  so  as  in  the  case  of  at  least 
one  other  of  our  American  lady  novelists. 

Basil  ;  or,  The  Crossed  Path.  A  Story  of  Modern  Life. 
By  Wilkie  Collins.  Philadelphia:  T  B.  Petenun  <£ 
Brothersy  806  Chestnut  Btreel 

This  is  the  tenth  volume — though  the  first  that 
we  have  received — of  the  Messrs.  Petersons'  new 
and  oheap  edition  of  the  works  of  a  novelist  who 
now  stands  almost  at  the  head  of  living  English 
writers  of  fietion.    Prioe  75  cents. 

Trk  Touxo  Housxwivs^s  CouNSKLLoa  AND  FaiEXD:  Con- 
taining Directions  in  every  Department  of  House- 
keeping ;  Including  the  Duties  of  Wife  and  Mother. 
By  Mrs.  Mary  Maeon.  Philadelphia:  J,  B.  Lippin- 
toUitCo. 

OoMnoif  Skmsb  uc  Tin  Household  :  A  Manual  of  Practical 
Housewifery.  By  Marion  Harland.  New  York: 
Charka  Scribner  dk  Oo. 

Truly  excellent,  sensible  books  are  both  of  these, 
and  Car  in  advance  of  any  works  of  a  kindred 
character  that  we  can  now  call  to  mind.  The  firsty 
from  the  pen  of  a  lady  of  North  Carolina,  is,  in 
some  respects,  adapted  rather  to  the  needs  and  re- 
quirements of  Southern  housewives;  though,  as 
regards  its  cooking  receipts,  it  will  be  found  avail- 
able in  any  section.  Marion  Harland's  book  is 
written  in  an  easy,  familiar,  and  taking  style,  and, 
equally  with  Mrs.  Mason's,  afibrds  positive  evi- 
dence that,  in  writing  a  cook-book,  one  may  use 
correct  English  and  employ  judiciously  the  graces 
of  rhetoric,  and  yet  give  a  receipt  that  will  be  in- 
telligible to  the  slowest  comprehension.  One,  at 
least,  and,  if  possible,  both,  of  these  admirable 
books,  should  be  in  the  possession  of  every  house- 
wife. To  be  obtained  in  Philadelphia  of  J.  B. 
Lippincott  A  Co. 


Digitized  by  C?6^^gle 


122 


ABTHUE'8    LADY'8   SOME    MAGAZINE. 


Papkes  for  Hoxx  RiADXiro.  By  Rer.  John  Hall,  D.  D^ 
Pastor  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Presbyterian  Church, 
New  York.   New  York :  Dodd  <i  Meady  762  Broadway. 

A  collection  of  pleasing,  if  not  remarkably  bril- 
liant papers,  designed  to  be  read  alond  in  a  family, 
or  by  an  individual,  in  those  brief  intervals  where 
a  continuous  work  could  not  be  entered  upon.  The 
means  of  home- happiness,  the  perils  of  intemper- 
ance, mammon-worship,  the  facts  of  true  religious 
experience,  and  other  kindred  topics  of  a  practical 
religious  and  moral  bearing,  form  the  subjects  of 
these  very  readable  essays.  For  sale  in  Phila- 
delphia by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co. 

Tbb  Akbioam  Cabdwal.  A  Novel.  New  York :  Dodd  <£ 

JiMd,  762  Broadway. 

However  gifted  he  may  otherwise  be,  the  "tal- 
ented divine"  to  whom  the  authorship  of  thia  rathar 
weakly  sensational  sectarian  romance  has  been 
attributed,  does  not  seem  to  us  to  be  a  remarkably 
brilliant  novelist.  At  least  his  "  American  Cardi- 
nal "  affords  very  slight  evidence  of  extraordinary 
capability  in  that  direction.  For  side  in  Philadel- 
phia by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 

Ths  McAlustkrs.     By  Mrs.  E.  J.  Richmond.    New 
York:  National  Temperance  Society  and  Publieation 
Bomcy  58  Reade  Street 
This  is  a  well-written  and  attractive  little  st6ry 

for  the  young,  and  will  be  found  suitable  either  for 

Sunday-school  libraries  or  for  circulation  as  a 

tenperance  tract. 

WoifDXRS  OF  ExjROPBAW  Am.  By  Louis  Viardot.  Illus- 
trated with  eleven  Wood  Bngravings.  New  York : 
Charles  Seribner  <«  Cb. 

This  volume  belongs  to  the  "  Illustrated  Library 
of  Wonders,"  a  series  of  books  of  entertainment 
and  instruction  which  has  rarely  been  surpassed 
in  their  uniform  excellence.  It  is  a  translation  of 
the  second  series  of  the  "  Wonders  of  Painting," 
by  M.  Viardot,  the  first  part  of  which  we  noticed 
some  months  since  under  the  title  of ''  Wonders  of 
Italian  Art."  It  embraces  notices— critical,  bio- 
graphic, and  historical — of  the  Spanish,  German, 
Flemish,  Dutch,  and  French  schools  of  painting. 
The  engravings  by  which  it  is  illustrated  are 
marvels  of  delicacy  and  spirit  For  sale  by  J.  B. 
Lippincott  A  Co.,  Philadelphia. 

Thi  Blockade  of  Phalbbuko.    An  Episode  of  the  End 
of  the  First  French  of  Empire.  Translated  from  the 
French  of  MM.  Erckman-Chatrain,  authors  of  "  The 
Conscript,"  etc.    New  York :  Charlee  Seribner  tH  Cb. 
This  is,  perhaps,  the  best  of  the  many  charming 
stories  written  by  these  joint  authors.    The  scene 
is  laid  in  Pbalsburg,  a  French  stronghold,  which 
recent  stirring  events  have  once  more  brought  into 
prominence.   It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  our  trans- 
lators have  found  it  profitable  to  render  into  Eng- 
lish the  works  of  at  least  one — or,  rather,  two  in 
one — out  of  the    many  excellent    French  story 
writers,  whose  productions,  while  lacking  nothing 
of  interest,  are  such  as  may  be  placed  unreservedly' 


in  the  hands  of  the  young  and  innocent    For  sale 
in  Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 

Thougbts  rem  tbb  Yoaifo  Mkn  of  Axesica  ;  or,  A  Few 
Practical  Words  of  Advice  to  those  liom  in  Poverty 
and  Destined  to  be  Beared  in  Orphanage.  By  L.  U. 
Reavifi,  of  St.  Louis,  Mo.  New  York :  Samuel  B, 
WelU,  389  Broadway. 

Though  somewhat  inflated  in  his  style,  Mr. 
Reavis  says  not  a  few  good  things  in  the  forty- 
eight  pages  which  he  has  devoted  to  his  thoughts 
for  young  men.  If  the  young  men  could  only  be 
induced  to  read  his  book,  it  might  be  of  profit  to 
them.^  Within  the  same  cover,  we  find  some  thirty 
pages  devoted  to  "  Thoughts  for  the  Young  Wo- 
men of  America,  bom,"  etc.,  etc.  Also  Horace 
Greeley's  "  Ideal  Man"  and  ''Ideal  Woman,"  and 
a  couple  of  letters  of  advice,  one  ''to  a  young 
lawyer,"  by  Horace  Mann,  and  the  other  "  to  his 
daughters,"  by  the  assassin  Orsini,  whom  Mr. 
Reavis  euphemistically  entitles  "the  Italian  pa- 
triot" For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippin- 
cott A  Co. 

ViasAnUmt.    By  R.  H.  Newell  ("Orpheus  C.  Kerr.") 

Boston:  LeedShepard, 

This  is  the  punning  title  of  a  oollection  of  pieesi 
in  verse,  which,  grouped  under  the  several  heads 
of  "Poems,"  "Satires  and  Bnrleaqaea,"  and"Il- 
literariay"  certainly  exhibit  considerable  versatility 
in  verse.  Of  these,  the  first  occupies  rather  mors 
than  one-half  the  volume,  and  embraces  the  au- 
thor's serious  and  imaginative  pieces — those,  in 
fact,  upon  which,  we  may  assume,  he  bases  some 
slight  claim  to  be  called  a  poet.  Among  thesf 
poems  we  find  many  beantifnl  and  noble  theugbti 
woven  into  melodious  verse ;  yet,  with  bat  few  ex- 
ceptions, they  seem  to  lack  that  to  us  undefinablc 
something  which  elevates  finished  rhyme  and 
musically  modulated  metre  to  the  dignity  ol 
poetry.  As  a  fair  specimen  of  the  exceptions  w( 
have  made,  we  make  room  for  a  little  ballad^ 
which,  though  not  without  traces  of  its  author'i 
verbal  affectations  and  wordy  obscurity,  conoludei 
with  a  simple  pathos  that  will  touch  every  heart: 

ALONE. 
"Three  stalwart  sons  old  Sweyn,  the  Saxon,  had, 
Brave,  hardy  lads  for  battle  or  the  chase; 
And  though,  like  peaaant,  barbarously  clad. 
Each  wore  the  nameless  noble  in  his  face. 
One  o*er  another  rose  their  heads  in  tiers. 
Steps  for  their  father's  honorable  years. 

"  One  night  in  autumn  sat  they  round  the  fire, 
In  the  rude  cabin  bountiful  of  home; 
Mild  by  the  rev'rence  due  from  child  to  sire. 

Bold  in  the  manhood  unto  mast'ry  come ; 
Working  their  tasks  o*er  hnn  9man*s  forest  gear, 
Looa'nlng  the  bow  and  sharpening  the  spear. 

"Lost  in  his  thoughts,  old  Sweyn,  the  Saxon,  ptood. 

Leaning  in  silence  Against  the  chimney  stone. 
Staring  unconscious  at  the  biasing  wood, 

Steep*d  in  the  mood  of  mind  he  oft  liad  known; 
As  an  old  tree  whose  stoutest  branches  shake. 
Scarce  from  their  vigor  sign  of  life  will  take. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


NEW   PUBLICATIONS, 


123 


"Athol,  the  bearded,  with  his  bow  had  done; 
Alfred,  the  nimble,  laid  his  spear  aside; 
Edric,  the  fairest,  tiring  of  bis  Aid, 

Left  the  old  hoand  to  slumber  on  his  hide ; 
Yet  was  their  sire  like  one  whose  features  seem 
Shaded  by  sleep,  and  all  their  light  a  dream. 

"Bold  in  the  favor  of  the  eldest  bom, 

Athol,  for  both  his  younger  brothers  spoke : 
*  Father,  the  fox  is  prowling  in  the  com, 

And  hear  the  night-owl  hooting  from  the  oak ; 
Let  us  to  couch.*    But  Sweyn  had  raised  his  head, 
And  thus,  unwitting  what  had  passed,  he  said : 

''•See,  from  my  breast  I  draw  this  chain  of  gold'— 
Fair  in  the  firelight  royally  it  shone— 
'This  for  his  honor  that  shall  best  unfold 
Who,  of  all  creatures,  is  the  most  alone, 
Take  him  from  palace,  monast'ry,  or  cot, 
LoTing,  unloved,  forgetting,  or  forgot.* 

"Then  Athol  spoke,  with  thoughtful  tone  and  look: 
*He  is  the  loneliest— most  alone  of  all— 

Who,  in  a  skiff  to  the  mid-seas  forsook. 
Finds  not  an  echo,  even,  to  his  call 

If  echo  lired,  not  all  alone  were  he ; 

But  there's  no  echo  on  the  solemn  seal* 

"And  Aliped  next:  'But  lonelier, brother,  far. 
The  wretch  that  flies  a  just  avenging  rod ; 

To  him  all  scenes  are  wastes,  a  foe  the  star. 
All  eaHh.  he's  lost,  yet  knows  no  fleav*n,  no  God; 

Most  lonel  y  he  who,  making  man  his  foe, 

Unto  man's  Maker  dareth  not  to  go  I* 

"Thus  spok-e  the  lads,  with  wit  beyond  their  years; 

And  yet  the  old  man  held  his  beard  and  sigh'd. 
As  one  who  gains  the  form  his  wishing  wears, 

But  misses  still  a  something  most  denied ; 
Upon  his  youngest,  eager  looks  he  tum'd. 
And  £dric*s  cheek  with  grace  ingenuous  bum'd. 

"•I  think,  my  lather*— and  his  tones  were  low— 
*Tbat  lonelier  yet,  and  most  alone,  is  he. 

Scarce  taught,  tho'  crowds  are  leading,  where  to  go. 
And,  one  face  missing,  can  no  other  see ; 

Though  all  the  Norman's  court  around  him  moves. 

He  is  alone  apart  from  her  he  loves.' 

"  A  hush  fell  on  them.    Then,  with  loving  air. 

And  all  the  touching  romance  of  the  old, 

The  hoary  father  kiss'd  young  Bdrics  hair. 

And  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  the  chain  of  gold; 
Then  fell  upon  his  darling's  neck  and  cried : 
'I  have  been  lonely  since  thy  mother  diedP** 

The  rest  of  the  volaiiie  is  made  up  of  hamorouB 
pieces,  in  Mr.  Newell's  characteristic  vein  of  amia- 
We  satire  and  good-natured  burlesque.  For  sale 
>&  Philadelphia  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 

Tn  WoNBiBa  ot  ths  Hxavzks.  By  Camille  Flam- 
marion.  From  the  French,  by  Mrs.  Norman  Lock- 
yer.  With  forty-eight  Illustrations.  New  York- 
(^arUt  Scribner  d  Co. 

Of  the  namerous  attractive  volumes  forming  the 
"ninstrated  Library  of  Wonders,"  which  have 
PiBsed  under  our  notice,  the  present  is  by  far  the 
nott  finished,  whether  as  regards  the  text  or  the 
uluitraUons.  lU  language  and  style  are  admirably 
•dapted  to  the  sublime  and  baaatiful  theme  of 
vhich  it  treats,  and  the  iUnstraUons  are  among 
we  Anett  specimens  of  wood  engraTing.    We  are 


inclined  to  think,  however,  that  the  popular 
character  of  the  book — and,  we  believe  the  aim 
has  been  to  make  the  entire  series  popular — would 
have  been  better  secured  had  the  numerous  quota- 
tions from  the  French  poets  been  translated  liter- 
ally, at  least.  That  they  were  not,  seems  to  us  a 
great  oversight.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J. 
B.  Lippincott  &  Co. 

TBI  Etb  in  Hxaltr  Aim  Diseasb.  Being  a  Series  of 
Articles  on  the  Anatomy  and  Physiology  of  the  Hu- 
man Eye,  and  its  Surgical  and  Medical  Treatment. 
By  B.  Joy  Jeffries,  A.  M.,  M.  D.  Boston :  Alexander 
Moore.  Lee  i£  Shepard. 

A  valuable  treatise  for  the  people,  as  well  aa  for 
the  profession.  It  is  written  in  an  easy,  intelligi- 
ble style,  and  gives  just  the  information  needed  by 
all  who  have  defective  sight,  or  are  beginning  to 
feel  that  weakness  of  vision  which  always  accom^- 
panies  advancing  years.  Dr.  Jefi'ries  is  Lecturer 
on  Optical  Phenomena  and  the  Eye  at  Harvard 
University,  and  surgeon  at  several  opthalmic  hos- 
pitals, his  experience  in  which  has  furnished  him 
not  only  the  knowledge  requisite  to  write  his  book, 
but  also  the  experience  to  write  it  in  language  that 
everybody  can  understand.  For  sale  by  J.  B. 
Lippincott  A  Co. 

Thx  Best  Fellow  ts  the  Wobld.  His  Haps  and  Mis- 
haps. By  Mrs.  Julia  McNair  Wright,  author  of 
♦'John  and  Demijohn,'*  " Jug-or-Not,"  etc.,  etc. 
New  York :  J.  N.  Steamt. 

A  new  temperance  story,  by  a  popular  writer, 
just  issued  by  the  National  Temperance  Society. 
In  an  introduction  to  the  volume,  the  Rev.  Theo. 
L.  Cuyler  says :  **  It  is  not  needful  that  I  write  a 
single  word  to  introduce  Mrs.  J.  McNaib  Wright 
to  the  American  people.  Her  ready  and  graceful 
pen  has  been  a  <  door-key'  to  unlock  ten  thousand 
hearts;  and  she  has  been  a  giver  of  good  gifts  to 
our  Sunday-schools  and  firesides.  Nor  does  this 
volume  need  my  commendation.  It  tells  its  own 
story.  Like  her  previous  writings,  it  is  destined 
to  a  wide  circulation  and  a  happy  influence." 

This  is  just  the  book  to  place  in  the  hands  of 
young  men. 


SivcE  it  is  more  important  how  we  live  than 
how  we  die,  and  since  death  is  merely  the  arrival 
at  the  end  of  a  journey — the  beginning,  progress 
and  history  of  the  journey  determining  what  the 
arrival  is  to  be — we  shall  do  well  to  dismiss  our 
borrowed  trouble  with  regard  to  the  manner  of  our 
departure  out  of  the  world,  and  be  solicitous  only 
with  regard  to  the  right  discharge  of  present 
duty. 

The  Ckildren't  Hour  always  brings  joy  and  sun- 
shine with  it  It  is  so  pretty,  and  pure,  and  bright, 
and  joyful,  that  our  little  ones  wait  for  its  coming 
as  they  would  fbr  that  of  a  near  and  dear  friend.^ 
Morning  Watch, 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


EDITORS'   DEPA.IITMENT. 


IVOSIBN  AS  DOCTORS. 

Remarking  on  the  present  stAtas  of  the  qneitiony 
whether  women  shall  be  recognised  bj  the  mascu- 
line Medical  Profession  or  not,  the  Ntw  York  Ind^^ 
pendent  sajs : 

''  Steadily  the  women  win  one  stronghold  after 
another.  At  the  session  of  the  American  Medical 
Association  at  San  Francisco,  the  battle  was  fought 
on  the  admission  of  Dr.  Thomas  as  a  representa- 
tive of  Pennsylvania  Medical  College  fur  Women. 
Though  the  Association  refused  to  amend  its  con- 
stitution, and  though  a  majority  were  evidently 
opposed  to  the  admission  of  Dr.  Thomas,  the  mem- 
bers were  evidently  unwilling  to  bring  the  question 
to  a  square  vote.  For  the  eminent  members  of  the 
Association  who  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  women 
o«rried  too  many  gun?,  and  fired  too  sharply,  for 
the  defenders  of  an  illogical  prejudice.  And  so 
Dr.  Thomas  kept  his  seat  to  the  close,  and  partici- 
pated in  all  the  proceedings.  In  the  course  of  the 
debate,  Dr.  Atlee  said  that,  *by  the  rules  of  their 
Medical  Association,  he  dare  not  consult  with  the 
most  highly  educated  female  physician,  and  yet  he 
may  consult  with  the  most  ignorant  masculine  ass 
in  the  medical  profession.'  The  victory  of  the  wo- 
men physicians  in  San  Francisco  has  been  quickly 
followed  by  a  more  signal  one  in  the  Pennsylvania 
State  Medical  Society,  which  voted  last  week  by  a 
migority  of  ten  to  admit  women  doctors.  It  has 
been  twenty-two  years  since  the  Pennsylvania 
Medical  College  for  Women  was  founded,  and  it 
has  taken  this  long  time  to  bring  the  battle  to  its 
conclusion.  And  even  yet  the  Philadelphia  County 
Society  will  allow  its  members  to  consult  with  the 
most  veritable  dunces,  while  refusing  them  per- 
mission to  extend  the  same  courtesy  to  women  so 
distinguished  as  Dr.  Ann  Preston  and  Dr.  Eme- 
line  H.  Cleveland.  Cannot  these  stupid  doctors 
see  that  they  prevail  nothing?  The  people  none 
the  leds  confide  in  skilful  women  physicians,  and 
despise  their  narrow- headed  persecutors." 

OUR  MAGAZINB  OUT  1VB8T. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  received 
from  Wisconsin,  which  shows  how  the  Ladt's 
HoMB  Maqazihb  is  appreciated  by  at  leai t  one 
lady  in  that  section  : 

**  This  year  I  have  made  my  first  acquaintance 
with  Arthur's  Magazine,  and  I  am  surprised  and 
delighted.  What  a  swest  story  was  that  of '  Annie's 
Angels,'  in  the  February  number;  and  how  I  love 
'  Pipsey  Potts's '  papers  I  I  always  snatch  the  new 
magazine,  and  settle  myself  for  a  sweet,  cosey  time 
with  dear  Pipsey— laugh,  cry,  and  behave  myself 
Uke  a  maniac— a  quiet  one.  I  came  very  near 
having  the  hysterics  over  *  The  Robin's  Nest  in  the 
Elm/  such  a  subtle,  quaint,  delightAil  homor  per- 
vaded the  whole  article.  And  the  poetry— that, 
too,  is  of  such  a  superior  class  1" 
(124) 


<«UP  THB   AISLB.'* 

Scribner^a  Monthly  for  July   contains  a  keen 
satire  on  *Hhe  girl  of  the  period,"  in  a  poem  en- 
titled "  Up  the  Aisle— Nell  Latine's  Wedding :" 
*'  Take  my  cloak— and  now  fix  my  veil,  Jenny. 
How  silly  to  cover  one*s  face  I 
I  might  as  well  be  an  old  woman ; 

But  then  there's  one  comfort— it's  lace. 
Well,  what  h<u  become  of  those  ushers? 

0  pa  I  have  you  got  my  bouquet  ? 
Ill  freese  standing  here  in  the  lobby  I 

Why  doesn't  the  organist  play  T 
Th«»y>e  started  at  last— what  a  bustle! 

Stop,  pa!  they're  not  far  enough— wait ! 
One  minute  more- now  I    Do  keep  step,  pa  I 

There,  drop  mj  trail,  Jane  I    Is  it  straight? 
1  hope  I  look  timid  and  shrinking ; 

The  church  must  be  perfectly  full- 
Good  gracious!  now  donH  walk  so  fast,  pa! 

He  don't  seem  to  think  tliat  trains  pull. 
The  chancel  at  last— mind  the  stop,  pa ! 

1  don't  feel  embarrassed  at  ail- 
But,  my!  what's  the  minister  saying? 

Oh,  I  know;  that  part  'bout  Saint  Paul. 
I  hope  my  position  is  graceful ; 

How  awkwardly  Nelly  Dane  stood! 
♦Not  lawfully  be  Joined  together— 

Now  speak'— as  if  any  one  would  I 

0  dear  I  now  it's  my  turn  to  answer— 
I  do  wish  that  pa  would  stand  still ! 

•Serve  him,  love,  honor,  and  keep  him'— 

Howsweetly  hesays  it!    I  will. 
Where's  pa?    There,  I  knew  he'd  forget  it, 

When  the  time  came  to  give  me  away. 

"*I,  Helena,  take  thee— love— cherish— 

And'— well,  1  can't  help  it— *  obey.' 
Here,  Maud,  take  my  bouquet— don't  drop  it! 

I  hope  Charley's  not  lost  the  ring! 
Just  like  him !    No— goodness,  how  heavy  I 

It's  really  an  elegant  thing. 
It's  a  shame  to  kneel  down  in  white  satin— 

And  the  flounce  real  old  lace- but  I  must; 

1  hope  that  they've  got  a  clean  cushion— 
Thy're  usually  covered  with  dus>t. 

All  over— ah,  thanks !    Now,  don't  fuss,  pa  I 

Just  throw  back  my  veil,  Charley— there ! 
Oh,  bother !  why  couldn't  he  kiss  me 

Without  mussing  up  all  my  hair ! 
Your  arm,  Charley,  there  goes  the  organ— 

Who'd  think  there  would  be  such  a  crowd? 
Oh,  I  mustn't  look  round ;  I'd  forgotten. 

See,  Charley,  who  was  it  that  bowed  ? 
Why,  It's  Nelly  Allaire,  with  her  husband— 
'    She's  awfully  jealous.  1  know ; 
♦Most  all  of  my  things  were  imported. 

And  she  had  a  homemade  trousseau. 
And  there's  Annie  Wheelftr— Kate  Hermon— 

I  didn't  expect  her  at  all— 
If  she's  not  in  that  same  old  blue  satin 

She  wore  at  the  Charity  Ball  I 
Is  that  Fanny  Wade,  Edith  Peorton, 

And  Emma  and  Jo— all  the  girls? 
I  knew  that  tliey'd  not  miss  my  wedding— 

I  hope  they'll  all  notice  my  pearls. 
Is  the  carlage  there  ?    Give  me  my  cloak,  Jane. 

Don't  get  It  all  over  my  veil. 
No,  you  take  the  oiher  leai,  Charley, 

I  need  all  of  thia  for  my  traU. 
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EDITORS'  Department. 


A   STATUS  TO  A1.ICB  CART. 

Soro»i«,  the  Woman's  Club  of  New  York,  has 
aUrted  a  moyement  for  the  ereetion  of  a  statae  to 
Alice  Gary  in  Central  Park,  New  York.  The 
Philadelphia  Inquinr,  in  mentioniog  the  ftwjt, 
states  that  "Mi«g  Gary  was  as  far  as  possible  re- 
morcd,  both  in  her  writings  and  pare  womanly 
nature,  from  the  nnfeminine  sisters  of  the  disoon- 
tentwi  woman's  moTement"  We  beg  leave  to 
oorr«5t  the  InqMtrer  by  stating  that  Miss  Cary  was 
Identified  among  the  first  and  foremost  of  the  "  un- 
fominine  sisters."  She  was  a  member  of  Sorosis 
froni  its  earliest  organisation.  She  was  the  real 
working  editor  of  the  Revolution,  the  nltra  wo- 
mwi'i  rights  organ  of  New  York  City,  untU  her 
health  oompeUed  her  to  cease  her  labors.  She  left 
Ml  unfinished  story  in  that  paper,  entiUed  "The 
Bom  Thrall,"  taking  the  most  radical  grounds. 
Nevertheless,  we  unite  with  the  Inquirer  in  saying 
that  "she  deserres— not  from  the  champions  of 
woman's  rights,  [alone,]  but  from  all  lovers  of  the 
good,  and  true,  and  beautiful  in  woman's  nature, 
from  all  who  have  faith  in  what  is  best  and  purest 
In  both  men  and  women— a  memorial  in  bronse  or 
marble." 

ROMOEOPATHT. 

Therecent  Homooopathic  Convention  held  in  this 
city,  was  largely  attended  by  members  of  that 
peculiar  medical  school  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  Sta-tes.  It  numbered  many  men  of  emi- 
Mnt  scientific  attainments  and  high  culture. 

The  strong  pr^udice  and  bitter  opposition  of  the 
Allopathic  school  is  not  shared  by  the  people,  and 
every  year  Homoeopathy  goes  on  steadily  enlarg- 
ing its  sphere  of  action,  and  winning  over  to  its 
•ide  the  most  thoughtful  and  intelligent  men  and 
women  in  the  country.  As  a  science,  its  claims 
wo  being  reoognued  by  the  Government  and  in 
tte  States.  Kecently,  a  Pension  Surgeon,  who  was 
wmoved  from  the  Board  simply  because  he  was  a 
J^oopath,  has  beei)  restored  to  his  position. 
«ie  Legislature  of  Pennsylvania  has  made  an  ap.. 
propriaUon  of  five  or  sU  thousand  dollars  to  the 
PhUadelphia  Homoeopathic  Hospital ;  and  the  New 
York  Legislature  has  promised  a  much  larger  sum 
^  »  projected  Homoeopathic  Hospital  on  the  ae- 
Mptanoe  by  that  iastitaUon  of  oertain  conditions. 

AN  ORBGON  PAPBR. 

We  have  received  the  first  number  of  "  The  New 
^hu>eet,''  a  paper  published  at  Portland,  Oregon, 
•"«J«  by  Mrs.  A.  J.  Duniway,  a  lady  who,  judging 
^7  the  initial  number  of  her  paper,  seems  eminenUy 
<ltt^Iified  to  fiU  the  editorial  chair.  The  New  North- 
•^8  liTcly  and  spiey,  giving  room  to  news, 
^^f  literature,  and  remarks  on  the  topics  of  the 
J^'  It  is  conducted  with  marked  abUity,  and 
^orves  success.  Mrs.  Duniwa/  is  undoubtedly 
^  ouergetic  working  woman.  This  is  what  she 
■•7»  in  her  introductory  editorial  : 

We  have  served  a  regular  apprenticeship  at  \ 


working— washing,  scrubbing,  patching,  darning, 
ironing,  plain  sewing,  raising  babies,  milking, 
churning,  and  poultry  raising.  We  have  kept 
boarders,  taught  school,  Uught  music,  written  for 
the  newspapers,  made  speeches,  and  carried  on  an 
extensive  millinery  and  dressmakiog  business. 
We  can  prove  by  the  public  that  this  work  has 
been  well  done.  Now,  having  reached  the  age  of 
thirty-six,  and  having  brought  up  a  family  of  boys 
to  set  type,  and  a  daughter  to  run  the  millinery 
store,  we  propose  to  edit  and  publish  a  newspaper  : 
and  we  intend  to  esUblish  it  as  one  of  the  per- 
manent institutions  of  the  country." 

l^ORD  BROUGHAM'S  TRIBCTTB  TO  HIS 
GRANDMOTHUR. 

Lord  Brougham,  in  his  Autobiography,  just 
issued  from  the  press  of  the  Messrs.  Harper  A 
Brothers,  pays  the  following  tribute  to  one  of  his 
grandmothers.    He  says : 

"  So  much  for  my  paternal  grandmother.  But 
I  should  be  most  ungrateful  if  I  said  nothing  of 
my  other  grandmother.  Dr.  Robertson's  sister,  for 
to  her  I  owe  all  my  success  in  life.  Prom  my 
eariiest  infancy  tUl  I  left  college,  with  the  excep- 
tiou  of  the  time  we  passed  at  Brougham  with  my 
tutor,  Mr.  Mitchell,  I  was  her  companion.  Re- 
markable for  beauty,  but  far  more  for  a  masculine 
intellect  and  clear  understanding,  she  instaied  into 
me  from  my  cradle  the  strongest  desire  for  infer- 
maUon,  and  the  first  principles  of  that  persevering 
energy  in  the  pursuit  of  every  kind  of  knowledge, 
which,  more  than  any  natural  talents  I  may  pos- 
sess, has  enabled  me  to  stick  to,  and  to  accom- 
plish—how far  successfully  it  is  not  for  me  to  say— 
every  task  I  ever  undertook." 

GHARI.B8  RBADB'S  NBW  STORT. 

The  Boston  Watchman  and  Reflector  says  : 
"If  publishers  would  or  could  always  read 
through  to  the  end  what  they  propose  to  print,  the 
public  would  be  the  gainer.  We  now  have  in  mind 
Charles  Reade's  story,  which  appears  weekly  in 
Bvery  Saturday  and  Barper't  Weekly." 

We  think  all  the  former  admirers  of  Charles 
Reads  must  be  astonished,  not  to  say  astounded, 
at  the  turn  which  his  story  is  taking.  If  any  other 
name  were  appended  to  it,  it  would,  before  this, 
have  been  denounced  as  unfit  to  be  carried  into 
any  household.  If  "Griffith  Gauntt"  needed  ex- 
enses  and  palliation,  "A  Terrible  Temptation"  de- 
serves open  denunciation. 

Tra  Hahkbhanii  Life  Insurawcb  Company 
will  make  contracts  with  reliable  and  competent 
agents,  male  or  female,  for  Eastern  Pennsylva- 
nia or  New  Jersey.  This  company  we  believe  to 
be  organised  on  a  sound  and  substantial  basis 
with  rates  considerable  lower  than  those  of  other 
companies.  Branch  office,  706  Walnut  Street. 
PhiUdelphia.    J.  A*  Cloud,  M.D.,  Manager. 

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126 


ARTEUR'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


TWO  NBl^  AMSRIGAN  POBT8. 

There  \m,  perhaps,  no  better  eyidenee  of  the 
want  of  diflcrimmation  in  the  American  pab- 
lic  than  the  sudden  popularity  accorded  to  John 
Hay,  on  the  publication  of  "  Little  Breeches"  and 
"  Jim  Bludsoe."  Mr.  Hay  has  attempted  an  imi- 
tation of  Bret  Harte's  style,  with  a  certain  success, 
though  his  poems  (pardon  us  a  misuse  of  the  word) 
are  no  more  like  those  of  the  latter  gentleman,  in 
spirit,  than  colored  water  is  like  wine.  Each  use 
the  slangy  patois  of  the  miner,  the  gambler,  and 
the  bar-room  loafer ;  but  while  Mr.  Harte  deals  in 
pungent  satire ;  while  he  is  clear  in  his  delinea- 
tion of  character ;  while  he  tries  to  show  that  the 
most  ignorant  and  degraded  of  men  may  have  je- 
deeming  traits ;  while  with  his  audacity  of  idea, 
and  quaint  drollery  of  expression,  he  never  writes 
a  line  unbecoming  a  gentleman — John  Hay,  in  his 
writings,  never  rises  above  vulgarity  and  profan- 
ity. There  are,  occasionally,  touches  of  tender- 
ness and  pathos  in  Harte's  writings,  and  he  han- 
dles the  blackest  characters  with  clean  fingers;  but 
when  Hay  even  attempts  morality,  it  is  false  and 
pernicious.  In  Jim  Blndsoe  the  gravest  errors  are 
passed  over  as  mere  peccadilloes,  and  a  stolid 
brute  courage,  or  rather  a  reckless  daring,  bom 
probably  of  whisky,  and  which  has  not  a  touch  of 
real  bravery  or  true  manliness  about  it,  is  extolled 
literally  to  the  skies,  and  we  are  told,  with  a  touch 
of  blasphemy  which  makes  one  shudder  when  it 
is  contemplated,  that 

**  Christ  aiQ*t  a  going  to  be  too  hard 
On  a  man  that  died  for  men.** 
Yet,  Evtry  Saturday^  the  pictorial  paper  of  Amer- 
ica, and  a  publication  of  which  we  have  every 
reason  to  be  proud  as  doing  us  credit,  can  find 
nothing  better  with  which  to  fill  its  pages  than  illus- 
trations of  "Jim  Bludsoe"  and  **  Little  Breeches." 
Cannot  Evtry  Saturday  sufficiently  appreciate  the 
real  poet,  that  it  must  help  make  the  reputation 
of  his  imitator  ?  Where  it  owns  the  genuine  coin, 
it  is  singular  that  it  cannot  detect  the  false  ring  of 
the  spurious.  But  Mr.  Hay's  crowning  act  of  folly 
is  his  poem  at  the  recent  Reunion  in  Boston.  It 
is  not  poetry  at  all.  There  is  not  one  poetical 
idea,  one  elevating  sentiment,  not  even  one  bit  of 
humor  in  it  It  is  the  lowest  of  bar-room  dog- 
gerely  without  even  one  redeeming  feature.  We 
hope  we  shall  not  find  it  illustrated  at  length  in 
Evtry  Saturday, 

■  01 

JUSTIN  MoOARTHT  and  TIHHUB  RBAM 

Justin  McCarthy,  that  vastly  overrated  man» 
who  patronizes  America  and  Americans  in  a  way 
that  would  be  amusing  if  it  were  not  so  aggra- 
ting,  takes  occasion,  in  the  July  number  of  the  OtU- 
axy,  to  sneer  at  Miss  Vinnie  Ream.  He  says,  in  an 
article  entitled  ''Republicanism  in  En glsAd,"  de- 
scribing Trafalgar  Square,  that  it  is  adorned  with 
''statues  which  suggest  perpetual  contracts  with 
Vinnie  Ream  paid  in  advance."  We  wonder  if 
Mr.  McCarthy  has  ever  seen  any  of  yinnle  Beam's 


work.  We  have  notteed  that  a  minority  who  hav( 
been  ready  to  discourage  this  young  soulptresi 
are  those  who  have  not  seen  her  work,  and  htv 
oondemned  both  her  and  it  upon  principle—a  b«< 
one,  though,  it  must  be  admitted.  It  may  be  ths 
Congress  gave  her  the  contract  for  a  statue  o 
Abraham  Lincoln  because  she  had  bright  eyei 
dark  curling  hair,  and  winning  ways.  If  this  b 
really  true,  let  the  blame  fall  upon  Congress,  wher 
it  belongs.  In  speaking  of  her  productions  let  u 
have  fair  and  candid  criticism,  such  as  would  b 
impartially  bestowed  upon  an  artist  of  the  oths 
■ex.  If  this  criticism  were  tempered  by  a  spiri 
of  kindness,  in  consideration  of  the  sex,  the  youtl 
the  perseverance,  the  energy,  and  the  undoubte 
genius  of  the  lady  artist,  it  would  do  no  ham 
and  would  bear  testimony  to  the  oourteoui^  gen 
tlemanly  character  of  the  critic.  But  sneers  ani 
misrepresentations  are  the  weapons  of  those  wh 
have  nothing  better  at  their  command. 

THB  UNSUSPBCTING  ARTIST. 

Our  engraving  represents  an  artist  sportsman  ii 
unconscious  and  rather  dangerous  proximity  to  i 
well-grown  "gristly."  Enjoying  the  scenery  o 
some  of  the  California  wilds,  our  artist  is  so  en 
grossed  with  his  work  of  sketching  a  magnificen 
mountain  scene,  that  he  is  oblivious  to  the  moun 
tain  scene  taking  place  behind  him.  The  bear  i 
not  hungry.  The  artist,  in  his  unconsciousness  o 
danger,  remains  quietly  sketching,  which  he  pro 
bably  would  not  do,  were  he  to  take  a  glance  back 
ward,  over  his  shoulder.  The  unsocial  animal  i 
only  on  a  tour  of  observation.  He  has  peaoefollj 
wandered  from  his  eave  dwelling,  and  having 
satisfied  his  curiosity,  as  peacefully  retires. 

■Ot 

SCHOOIj  rbform. 

We  learn  fh>m  an  exchange  that  "an  over- 
whelming popular  vote  was  cast  the  other  day  k 
Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  favor  of  a  single  dailj 
session  of  the  public  schools,  and  that  of  three 
hours  only — f^om  nine  o'clock  in  the  momisj 
until  twelve."  This  is  a  move  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. The  magaiine  from  which  we  quote  addi 
that  "  instead  of  a  single  three-hour  session  a  daj 
in  each  school-room,  there  ought  rather  to  be  twc 
or  three,  each  with  an  independent  set  of  pupils 
Tkis  would  at  ooce  double  or  treble  the  working 
capacity  of  the  schools  without  any  additional  ez- 


I  have  owned  and  used  a  Grover  A  Bakei 
Sewing  Machine  for  eight  years,  during  which 
time  there  have  been  no  repairs  needed  on  it 
which  I  could  not  do  myself.  I  can  stitch,  hem, 
frill,  braid,  puff,  cord,  tuck,  bind,  hem-stitch,  and 
embroider  on  it,  with  great  ease  and  facility.  I 
have  used  the  Wheeler  A  Wilson,  and  other  ma- 
chines. I  can  do  a  greater  variety  of  work  on 
the  Orover  A  Bakto  than  on  either  of  the  others, 
and  the  machine  is  much  more  simple  and  easily 
managed.  Misa  C.  H.  Youjrc^  RarMiaai  0. 


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SUMMER   EVENING. 


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I  ■•" 


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■¥ 


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NORINA  OVERSKIRT. 
lifl  design,  althoagh  rery  sitylish  for  silk,  jgreniidiiie,  and  other  dressy  materials,  recommendB  itse\f 
ally  for  linen*  the  trimminff  ill  aatrated,' mohair  tiraid,  bt^ing  designed  inr  that  material,    if  preferred, 
of  cambric  may  be  substituted  for  the  braid  with  fine  efKct.    It  may  be  looped  in  theliaok  rxohr  the 
if  desired,  but  the  latest  designs  are  worn  without  looping. 


A 
econ< 
titite* 
ordif 


No.  1.— AURELIA  SLEEVE.  No.  2.— NERI8SA  SLEEVE. 

>.  l.—Made  in  cambric,  lawn,  percale,  linen,  in  fact  sny  of  the  thin  washing  materials  f(^  summer,  thi.<* 

18  Tery  stylish  and  becoming.    It  is  not  Inappropriate  either  for  grenadine  or  summer  silk,  if  fringe  or 

added  to  the  bows.  •.  - .  . . 

^•.?— An  "^usually  becoming  sleeve  for  slender  fifrare.  It  Is  suitable  for  any  of  the  summer  materilln. 
•»ly  for  grejiadine  or  organdie,  the  trimming  illustrated— lace  and  narrow  puffings  bsJng  the  moMt 
>riate  for  organdie,  and  frmge  with  the  same  heading  for  grenadine. 


N 
made 
white 
Thee 
•hori 
make 


No.  3.-INFANrS  QUILTED  BIB. 


No.  4.— INFANTS  SACK  SHIRT. 


S-  ^-"A  oonTenient  style  of  bib  for  infants,  especially  serviceable  for  those  who  are  teetliing.    ft  msy  '•« 
N  in  fine,  soft  muslin,  wadded  slightly  and  quilted,  or  in  Marseilles,  in  either  case  the  edges  to  be  6niahe(f 
▼W  tnall  embroidered  scallops.  *  —  *"  .""- 

•""®i.  4.— This  differs  ijom  the  ordinary  style  of  shirt  nsed  for  infants,  in  being  cut  in  a  sack  shafer*"" 
•r  nn^ieeTes,  and  withdut  shoulder  sef^ms.    It  should  be  made  in  fine  linen,  or  linen  cambric,  delicatelf  c"^' 
jred  or  trimmed  with  Valenciennes  lace.    The  style  is  not  inapproprhite  for  older  children. 

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REDELIA  BASQUE. 
Another  style  of  the  favorite  pontillioti  baaqae.  The  centre  of  the  back  is  dispose^)  in  two  box  plait«,  the 
fid*  forme  being  continued  in  a  square  ahape,  the  fronts  are  deep  and  square,  and  the  waist  is  ornamented 
with  pointed  revors,  set  on,  which  extend  nearly  to  the  waist.  The  sieoTe  is  especially  pretty.  Althoush  par- 
ticalarty  deslKiied  for  dressv  materials,  the  ^  tyle  can  be  used  with  propriety  for  pique,  wlthobt  the  subdfeitatioQ 
«f  a  ptadner  sleeve,  as  the  plates  in  the  baclc  oan  be  easily  unfastened  for  ironinn. 

DISTINGUE  HOUSE  TOILETS. 
(Sec  double-page  Engraving,) 

The  dresses  illustrated  are  intended  for  elegant  home  toilets  or  stylish  morning  wear,  and  are  both  cut  in 
4bs  same  style,  differing  only  in  the  material  and  the  trimming.  Although  elaborate  in  appearance,  the  cnt  is 
Teiy  simple.  The  fronts  are  in  plain  sacque  shape,  with  the  baclr  in  the  f^olonaise  style,  falhng  deep  and  Ml 
•oyer  the  back  of  the  underskirt,  which  is  attached  to  a  belt  The  design  of  the  Polonaise  is  very  unique,  as 
there  is  no  fulness  on  the  side-forms,  all  the  fulness  of  tlie  skirt  bein^  imparted  by  deep  plaits  in  the  middle, 
sod  the  insertion  of  a  breadth.  The  Polonaise  skirt  extends  only  to  the  sides,  where  it  Is  gathered  into  the 
tide-seams,  the  Joining  being  ornamented  by  a  broad  sash,  trimmed  to  match  the  dress.  Similar  sashes,  only 
smaller,  ornament  the  backs  of  the  wide  flowing-sleeyes,  wliich  are  left  open  to  the  elbow.  A  belt  is  attached 
to  ttie  side- seams,  and  confines  the  fronts. 

No.  L— Made  in  delicate  green  jackonet  lawn,  trimmed  with  fine  white  Hambnrgh  embroidery,  headed  with 
Tluted  ruchings  of  the  material,  disposed  in  the  back,  as  seen  in  the  illustration,  and  continued  up  the  front 
in  robe-shape  to  the  waist,  the  ruohing  only  being  continued  up  the  fronts  of  the  waist,  and  over  the  shoulders. 

No.  2.— Made  in  white  Victoria  lawn,  the  skirt  bordered  with  a  deep  flounce,  surmounted  by  double  plait- 
iogs  of  the  material,  edged  with  Valenciennes  lace,  the  same  Ftyle  of  garniture  repeated  on  the  rest  of  the 
dress,  simulating  a  rounded  apron  on  the  front.  A  l>ecoming  little  cap  of  Valenciennes  lace,  ornamented  with 
ablne  gros-grain  bow. 

CHILDREN'S  FASHIONS. 
(See  Illustration  on  next  Page.) 
Fro.  1.— A  simple  dreA  in  white  pique,  trimmed  with  rows  of  narrow  black  and  white  Marseilles  braid.    It 
Is  Made  with  a  simple  plain  waist  and  skirt— no  orerskirt— and  three  little  basques,  one  in  the  back  and  two 
in  the  front,  are  attached  to  the  belt    The  dispouition  of  the  trimming  can  be  easily  copied  from  the  illus- 
tration. 

Fro.  2.— Sailor  Snit,  made  in  blue  flannel,  trimmed  with  narrow  white  linen  braid.  The  pants  are  made 
without  fulness,  trimmed  on  the  bottom  with  braid,  and  ornamented  on  the  outside  with  braid  and  buttons. 
Belted  blouse  with  broad  sailor  collar.  Glazed  sailor  hat,  trimmed  with  a  blue  ribbon  band  with  anchors  em- 
broidered on  the  ends. 

Fro.  3. — Dress  of  blue  pique,  made  with  a  plain  gored  skirt  scalloped  on  the  bottom,  and  trimmed  with 
white  linen  braid  and  pearl  buttons,  and  a  plain  square-necked  waist  without  sleeves,. worn  over  a  guimpe  of 
white  nainsook,  finished  at  the  neck  and  wrists  with  Valenciennes  lace.  Apron  oversklri  of  white  nainsook, 
"CAlloped  and  trimmed  with  Valenciennes  lace ;  this  forms  long  sashes  in  the  back,  which  are  carelessly  tied. 
Fro.  4.— School  Suit  in  striped  green  and  white  percale,  consisting  of  a  Gabrielle  dress,  trimmed  on  the 
')>ottom  with  two  narrow  bias  flounces,  headed  with  bias  bands ;  a  plain,  full  overskirt  trimmed  to  match  and 
looped  high  on  the  sides,  and  a  half  tight  Jacket  slashed  in  front  on  the  sides,  and  three  times  in  the  back. 
Broad-brimmed  hat  of  white  pique,  trimmed  with  ruchings  of  Victoria  lawn,  and  green  ribbon. 

Fio.  5.— Costume  of  bright  bine  silk,  the  skirt  ornamented  with  sections  of  box-plaits,  surrounded  by 
pinked  niching  set  within  a  fold  of  white  silk->the  sections  connected  by  strips  composed  of  ruching  and  a 
"White  fold.  A  lovely  little  casaque,  trimmed  with  ruching  and  folds.  White  chip  hat,  trimmed  with  bine  crepe 
*nd  clatters  of  fine  white  flowers. 

VOL.  xxxviil.  9.  ^(136) 

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ARTHUR'S  LADY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


SEPTEMBER,    1871. 


TSAVBLLING  WITH  A  BABY. 


BT  MARTHA  D.  HARDIE. 


"  "PM  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  are  to  do, 
1  May." 

May  Derwent  laughed  at  her  mother's  trou- 
bled tones ;  a  long,  light  ripple  of  merriment 
that  told  half  the  story  of  her  careless,  shallow 
character.  Her  elder  sister,  rooking  May's 
iMiby  in  the  low  chair  by  the  window,  looked 
up  to  sa/ :  "  What  is  the  trouble  now,  mother  ?" 

"  I  was  wondering  how  May  is  ever  to  get 
settled  in  Shellbridge.  She  has  never  kept 
house,  she  has  never  even  taken  as  much  care 
of  the  baby  as  you,  Allie,  and  what  with  set- 
tling her  house  and  taking  charge  of  him,  I 
think  ahe  will  have  a  hard  time  of  it" 

May  laughed  again.  Bride  of  little  more 
than  a  year,  and  having  always  lived  at  home, 
she  knew,  as  her  mother  had  said,  almost  noth- 
ing of  household  .matters,  and  in  her  happy 
caxelescneas  was  disposed  only  to  laugh  at  her 
mother's  anxiety  over  her  ignorance.  "As 
for  the  house,"  she  said,  lightly,  "  of  course, 
Fred  will  get  me  a  girl  to  help  settle ;  and  as 
for  behy,  I  thought  Allie  was  going  with 
me." 

"  But  now  that  my  rheumatism  is  so  much 
worse,  I  can't  spare  her,  and  that's  the  trouble. 
She  could  take  care  of  both  of  you  if  she  could 
go ;  but  she  cannot,  and  you  will  have  your 
hands  full  without  being  troubled  with  Master 
Fred,  By  the  way,  you  are  not  going  to  call 
baby  that,  I  hope." 

'^  If  s  bietter  than  either  of  his  grandfather's 
names,"  May  said,  her  energy  more  roused  for 
a  name  than  a  more  practical  trouble.  "  Be- 
cause they  both  happen  to  have  dreadful  ones 
is  no  reason  he  should  be  doomed  to  perpetuate 
the  affliction. 

**  Why  not  leave  baby  here  ?"  Alice  aaked, 
liastening  to  avert  the  discussion  she  saw  was 
imminent.    "He  can  do  without  his  mother,  \ 


and  his  mother  might  spare  him  for  a  f^W 
days.  When  you  are  settled  I  can  bring  him 
to  you." 

Mrs.  Dean  considered  a  moment.  "  Thaf  s 
not  so  bad  an  idea,  Alice.  May  could  get 
ready  for  him  with  her  girl's  help,  and  I  could 
spare  you  long  enough  to  take  him  to  her. 
Bless  his  little  heart!  Bring  him  to  me,  Alice. 
You  never  will  get  him  to  sleep  in  that  way. 
It's  a  mystery  to  me,  May  Derwent,"  as  she 
fondled  the  child,  "why  the  Lord  sent  you 
this  baby.  You  are  about  as  well  fitted  to  take 
care  of  it  as  a  butterfly.  If  Alice  were  in  your 
place  now — " 

"And  if  Alice  were,"  May  cried,  seeing  her 
sister  turn  away  her  head  suddenly,  "you 
would  not  have  your  grave  little  housekeeper, 
and  I  should  not  know  what  to  do  with  my- 
self. It's  a  merciful  providence,  in  families 
the  size  of  ours,  that  one  daughter  should  stay 
single  to  help  the  others.  We  never  thought 
it  would  be  Allie;  but  as  she  and  I  were  the 
only  ones  left,  she  has  accepted  her  mission 
philosophically." 

"  It  may  not  yet  be  too  late  to  repent,"  her 
quiet  sister  said ;  and  if  the  smile  covered  a 
secret  pain,  no  one  guessed  it.  "  I'm  not  yet 
twenty-five,  thank  you."  And  thereupon 
rising  and  sweeping  her  sister  a  courtesy,  she 
gathered  up  her  work  from  the  table  and  went 
out. 

But  once  in  her  own  little  room  she  dropped 
the  long,  white  seam  to  the  floor,  and  clasping 
close  her  hands,  looked  out  over  the  brown 
autumn  fields  with  great  tears  in  her  dark  eyes. 
Only  for  a  moment ;  then  exclaiming  at  her 
folly,  she  gathered  up  her  (tewingand  tried  to 
forget  her  trouble  in  her  work.  But  the  song 
that  she  begjiu  to  help  restore  her  cheerfulness, 
came  to  an  end  at  the  first  yqtaq,  as  she  re- 


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ARTHUR'S    LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


membered  that  it  was  the  one  they  sang  so 
often  at  school  in  her  happy  long  ago. 

It  was  not  so  very  long;  only  five  years 
since  she  had  come  home  from  school,  bring- 
ing with  her  a  long  diploma,  a  complimentary 
letter  from  the  principal,  and— a  broken  hope ; 
of  which  last  only  she  knew.  Elton  College 
was  "  open  to  both  sexes/'  and  if  the  bright, 
beaatiful  girl  flirted  in  the  pauses  of  study,  and 
won  for  herself  in  a  half  year  the  name  of  being 
first  in  class,  first  in  fan,  and  first  in  the  hearts 
of  her  school-fellows,  it  was  no  wonder.  Be- 
cause she  never  neglected  study  for  amusementi 
her  teachers  pardoned  her  innocent  coquetries, 
especially  as  they  so  soon  came  to  an  end. 
For  Alice  Dean  fell  in  love,  as  hopelessly  and 
helplessly  as  any  victim  of  her  wiles,  with 
Frank  Pennington,  the  head  scholar  of  her 
class.  She  was  living  with  an  aunt  in  the 
pretty  village  where  the  college  was  situated  ; 
a  position  that  gave  her  more  chances  for  soci- 
ety than  the  contracted  round  of  a  boarding- 
scholar.  Frank,  being  likewise  in  the  house 
of  an  old  friend,  no  rules  prohibited  frequent 
meeting.  In  age,  position,  and  appearance, 
the  two  were  just  on  a  level,  and  the  prospec- 
tive union  of  hearts  and  hands  was  regarded 
with  favor  by  observant  friends.  One  person, 
however,  dissented — Carl  Fredrich  Eeichman, 
professor  of  music,  as  the  catalogue  proclaimed 
him,  a  bachelor  of  thirty,  far  from  prepossessing 
in  personal  appearance,  a  lover  of  Alice  Dean. 
He  had  fSeuicied  the  girl  from  the  moment  when 
she  took  her  place  on  the  piano  stool  for  her 
first  lesson  from  him,  and  the  fancy  had  grown 
with  every  week.  Discovering  how  clear  and 
sweet  was  her  voice,  he  had  persuaded  her  to 
add  vocal  lessons  to  piano  studies,  and  no  little 
pleasure  did  he  take  in  her  training.  Too  < 
much  pleasure ;  for  the  sweet  voice,  the  lovely 
face,  were  snares  to  him,  and  he  forgot,  seeing 
and  hearing  her,  his  oft-repeated  vows  of  cell-  i 
bacy.  Unfortunately  it  was  his  duty  also  to 
train  Frank  Pennington's  voice,  ind,  one  being  ; 
soprano,  the  other  tenor,  it  followed,  as  a  mat-  ' 
ter  of  course,  that  Alice  and  he  should  sing  . 
together  often  in  school  performances.  So  : 
Carl  Beichman,  against  his  will,  helped  the  \ 
slow  growth,  between  these  two,  of  an  attach-  , 
ment  that  was  the  ruin  of  all  his  hopes. 

And  so  the  course  of  true  love  ran  smooth  ^ 
till  a  week  before  commencement,  when  both  { 
these  two  were  to  leave  school.  Alice  was  ^ 
overwhelmed  with  work,  andwhat  with  essay  ( 
writing  and  copying,  music  rehearsals,  reviews,  ^ 
and  examination  of  studies,  class  ^plans,  and  J 
the  unfailing  dressmaking  that  forever  rounds  ; 


the  sphere  of  womanly  endeavor,  hardly  knew 
what  she  was  about  She  was  worn  out  and 
nervous,  and  petulant  with  every  one,  not  ex- 
cepting her  lover.  And  the  end  of  it  was  that 
one  day  they  quarrelled.  They  would  have 
made  up  the  next  hour  probaby,  bad  not  that 
been  the  time  of  Alice's  last  music  lesson. 
And  her  teacher  finding  her  silent  and  a  little 
tearful,  drew  his  own  conclusions  and  told  his 
own  story.  How  it  came  about,  Alice  hardlj 
knew;  but  what  with  pride  and  pique  and 
shame,  she  did  a  very  foolish  thing — let  him 
believe  that  sometime  she  might  leam  to  like 
him  well  enough  to  marry  him.  When,  that 
evening,  having  spent  the  hoars  between  u 
alternate  tears  at  her  trouble  and  anger  at  her 
folly,  Alice,  her  pride  compelling  her  to  it,  ap- 
peared at  the  last  rehearsal  of  the  mupic- 
class,  the  professor's  attentions  were  too  marked 
not  to  be  noticed.  And  Frank,  seeing  them, 
took  back  all  the  penitent  speeches  he  had 
been  ready  to  make  her,  and  was  so  stiff  and 
cold,  that  in  desperation  the  girl  went  on  io 
her  folly.  It  was  all  over  in  a  week  and  she 
was  home,  sobbing  out  her  trouble  in  her  own 
little  room,  and,  with  the  family,  doing  her 
best  to  be  the  careless  little  girl  they  had  sent 
away  to  school.  Her  common  sense,  hoirever, 
returned  after  a  few  weeks.  She  was  not  readj 
to  make  herself  miserable  for  life  for  her  pride, 
and  her  engagement  with  Professor  Btichman 
was  broken. 

Thereafter  life  went  on  for  Alice  very  mo- 
notonously. Of  Frank  Pennington  she  knew 
only  that  he  had  gone  to  California.  "Hi* 
uncle  is  there,"  her  aunt  wrote,  "  and  is  anx- 
ious to  have  him  with  him." 

The  Deans  were  a  large  family.    Three  or 
four  married  ones,  a  sister  and  brother  younger 
than  herself  at  home;  an  invalid  mother:  ^ 
plenty  of  friends,  and  company,  and  work- 
small  time  had  she  to  mourn.    There  was  pick- 
ling and  preserving  of  which  to  relieve  her 
mother ;  Sister  Jane's  children  to  help  through 
measles  and   mumps;   company  to  be  enter- 
tained  and  visits  paid ;   fluting  and  frilllfig 
for  May,  her   beautiful  younger  siBtcr:  her 
brother's  morals  and  manners  to  be  seen  to ; 
church  sociables,  and  Sunday-school  and  choir 
rehearsals ;  and  with  all,  Alice  had  little  time 
to  think.    She  had  hoped  to  outgrow  it  as  a 
girlish  passion,  but  no  new  one  came  to  take  its 
place.    May  grew  up,  and  after  a  season  of  co- 
quetry was  married  to  one  of  Alice's  old  school- 
mates.   Professor  Beichman  found  consolation 
in  another  pupil ;  the  whole  world  went  on, 
while  she  stood  still  and  was  glad  that  it  could 


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TRAVELLING    WITH   A    BABY. 


139 


be  so  bappjr,  though  light  and  hope  were  gone 
for  her.  Sometimes,  when  some  carelees  speech 
had  opened  the  old  wound,  she  went  apart,  as 
she  had  done  to-day,  and  cried  out  her  trouble 
over  again,  returning,  after  a  little,  with  no 
trace  of  the  battle  in  her  l^ce.  Her  mother's 
light  band,  her  sister's  helper,  not  to  be  spared 
firom  home  at  all;  and  the  family  were  not 
sorry  that  she  had  no  mind  to  marry.  No  one 
knew  her  secret.  Aunt  Mary  had  been  good 
enoagh  to  keep  it  to  herself,  and  every  one 
thought  her  as  content  as  she  seemed. 

A  month  before.  May's  husband  had  left 
Payneton  to  make  a  home  for  her  in  a  village 
l^irty  miles  beyond.    The  house  was  ready 


now,  and  the  wife  was  wanted ;  but  ignorant  as 
she  was,  and  far  from  strong,  she  could  not, 
her  mother  thought,  settle  her  house  and  care 
for  baby  too.  As  for  the  baby,  being  brought 
up  by  hand,  being  quite  as  much  used  to  Alice 
as  to  his  mother,  it  was  quite  possible  to  leave 
him  with  her ;  and  this  it  was  finally  decided 
to  do.  May  departed  in  a  moist  atmosphere  of 
kisses  and  tears ;  and,  two  days  after.  Hector, 
the  younger  brother,  saw  Alice  and  baby  to  the 
train  for  the  forty  minutes'  ride  that  would 
bring  them  to  May's  new  home.  With  a  boy's 
usual  foresight,  he  insisted  on  waiting  as  late 
as  possible,  and,  as  a  consequence,  when  they 
arrived  they  found  no  seat  in  the  crowded  cars. 
Stambling  through  the  last  before  his  sister. 
Hector  espied  one  gentleman  alone,  and  in- 
stantly secured  the  vacant  place. 

"Hnrry  up,  sisF'  he  shouted  to  Alice,  who, 

iMien  with  baby  and  his  numberless  wraps, 

▼as  slower  in  her  progress.    "Here's  a  seat. 

I  There  I"  dumping  the  large  travelling-basket 

I  down.    -"Take  care  of  yourself.     Qood-by," 

ud  he  was  off 

Just  then  the  cars  started,  and  the  baby 
^;an  crying,  and  between  the  two  Alice  did 
Dot  look  up  at  her  seatmate  for  some  minutes. 
When  she  did,  she  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
Me  his  hand  ontstreti^ed,  and  to  hear  him 
"y:  "We  used  to  know  one  another,  did  we 
notP' 

It  was  Frank  Pennington,  of  course,  but  so 
brown  and  bearded,  so  different  from  the  col- 
lege youth  of  her  acquaintance,  that  she  hardly 
knew  him.  She  was,  of  course,  more  easily 
*«<»gm2ed.  Frank  had  known  her  instantly, 
&nd  been  not  sorry  at  the  meeting.  It  was  five 
years  since  they  had  parted,  and,  tumbling 
wand  the  world,  Frank  had  got  over  his  heart 
*«»ble,  and  was  prepared  to  meet  Mrs.  Beich- 
«Mi  with  perfect  composure.  "  Married  and 
^th  a  baby,"  he  had  said  to  himself  at  first 


glance,  and  he  recalled  the  news  of  the  pro- 
fessor's wedding  as  he  had  heard  it  at  the  time : 
"  one  of  his  old  scholars ;  forgotten  the  name ; 
pretty  and  musical,  I  think,  which  is  conreni- 
ent  for  the  professor."  The  vague  description 
meant  Alice  to  him,  and  the  unofiending  Miss 
Mary  Jones,  who  had  solaced  Carl  Beichman's 
disappointment,  had  been  more  than  otkce 
anathematized  as  his  lost  love.  "I  never 
thought  she  would  carry  it  that  far,"  he  had 
said  to  himself,  as  he  filed  away  Fred  Derwent's 
unfortunate  letter  in  his  uncle's  office  in  San 
Francisco ;  "  I  thought  she  liked  me  too  well 
for  that.  Perhaps  it's  best  for  her.  Men  can 
get  along  some  way,  but  women  need  a  home. 
If  she  had  waited — ^but  I  dare  say  she  got  over 
her  liking  for  me  before  she  married  him.  It 
hasn't  been  so  long,  either,  though  time  has 
gone  so  awful  slow  since  then  that  it  seems  an 
age.  Well !"  and  with  a  long,  low  whisde  that 
meant  volumes,  Frank  went  back  to  his  work. 
He  tried  harder  than  ever  to  forget ;  he  suc- 
ceeded, he  thought;  he  met  her  now  quietly 
enough ;  but  he  could  not,  somehow^  pronounce 
her  name  just  then.  So  he  confined  himself  i  n 
his  first  brief  remarks  to  the  indefinite  pro- 
noun "you." 

They  met  as  two  casual  acquaintances  might 
have  done.  They  talked  the  usual  common- 
places. He  explained,  to  her  surprised  in- 
quiries, that  he  was  home  from  California  on 
a  visit ;  expected  to  return  in  a  month.  Then 
he  asked :  "Are  you  trayelling  far?" 

"  Only  to  Sfaellbridge ;  not  quite  thirty  miles, 
I  think." 

She  was  not  quite  as  composed  as  he.  She 
had  not  heard  of  his  marriage,  you  know. 
Hope,  long  sleeping,  had  wakened  into  life  at 
this  chance  meeting. 

"  Ah  I    I  go  to  the  end  of  the  line." 

A  pause.  "You  are  in  your  own  home 
now?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  have  been  away  this  summer, 
though." 

She  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  add  that 
she  had  been  to  some  &mous  springs  with  her 
invalid  mother.  She  did  not  think  of  her  sen- 
tence being  twisted  into,  "Hoibe  for  vacation. 
On  her  way  back  now."  She  was  wondering 
how  she  was  to  explain  her  situation  to  him, 
and  trying  with  each  hesitating  sentence  to 
acquaint  him  with  the  facts  in  the  case. 

"  I  have  a  sister  at  SheUbridge,"  she  said, 
after  another  pause.  "She  has  just  begun 
housekeeping,  and  I  am  carrying  her  baby  to 
her." 

But  for  the  last  half  of  this  sentence  the  cam 

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ABTMUM'a   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


were  whutling,  and  the  conductor  shouting  the 
name  of  the  station  to  which  thej  had  come, 
and  with  all  the  din  and  roar  Frank  did  not 
hear  her  explanation.  He  said :  **  Indeed !'' 
with  the  proper  accent';  and,  snpposing  him  to 
have  heard,  Alice  went  on : 

"My  eister  is  married  to  a  friend  of  jonis,  I 
think— Fred  Derwent." 

''Ah?  YcSylosedtoknowFredqaiteweU 
before  I  went  awaj.  I  had  not  heard  of  his 
marriage.  He  used  to  write  to  me;  hut  he  has 
dropped  that,  with  other  youthfol  follies,  of 
late." 

"  You  like  it  in  California  ?" 

**  Yerj  much.  It's  a  somewhat  different  life 
frvm  that  here ;  bat  when  one  is  used  to  it,  that 
counts  for  nothing.'' 

And,  growing  more  composed  now  that  baby 
had,  as  she  thought,  been  accounted  for,  Alice 
went  on  talking,  brightening,  gradually  into  a 
foint  likeness  of  her  old  seif^-oniy  a  faint  one. 
She  was  too  anxious  at  this  chance  meeting  to 
be  quite  natural ;  but  her  embarrassment  was 
explained  by  Frank  by  a  difierent  set  of  rea- 
sons. Stepping  out  on  the  platform  at  one  of 
the  stations,  he  noticed,  coming  back,  that  the 
girl's  face,  in  outline,  was  thinner  and  sharper 
than  when  he  had  known  her.  She  was  bend- 
ing over  the  baby,  and  he  fancied  that  the  eyes, 
as  she  lifted  them  from  his  foce,  were  misty 
with  tears. 

"She  may  be  regretting ;  her  marriage  may 
not  be  happy.  I  nerer  thought  Beiohman 
would  make  her  so,"  were  his  confused  thoughts. 
And  a  pang  of  pity — how  near  to  the  long- 
buried  love  he  could  not  tell — sprang  to  his 
heart  as  he  sat  down  again  beside  her.  He  had 
half  a  mind  to  say  something  of  the  old  days ; 
but  a  sense  of  honor  kept  back  the  words.  So 
instead,  he  began  telling  her  of  his  new  home, 
ef  its  wonders  of  vegetation,  its  beantifol  scen- 
ery, its  rotgh  and  yet  curiously  refined  society. 
And  Alice,  guided  by  a  like  sense  of  honor, 
gave  up  her  rague  intentions  of  leading  the 
talk  back  to  the  school-days  at  Elton ;  and  they 
might  have  parted  as  they  had  met  but  for  the 
baby.  Had  his  lordship  known  the  whole 
story,  he  could  not  have  behaved  better.  He 
slept  like  an  angel  for  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
journey ;  he  woke  just  in  time  to  bring  about 
the  proper  ending  of  the  meeting.  The  first 
whistle  for  Shellbridge  had  sounded,  and 
Frank  had  collected  baby's  wraps,  handed 
down  Alice's  veil  and  fur,  and  placed  the 
basket  in  reach.  She  had  put  lAzBi/st  Fred 
down  to  tie  closer  the  little  scarlet  hood,  and 
^as  she  fostened  it  she  said,  chiefly  because  she 


oould  think  of  nothing  else :  ''£yery  one  sajs 
baby  looks  like  his  fother.  Do  you  see  the  re- 
semblance?" 

Frank  Pennington  studied  the  round  little 
face  with  interest. 

*^  I  never  could  see  resemUances,"  he  ssid, 
smiling, ''  especially  in  babies.  Possibly,  how- 
ever, he  has  the  professor's  forehead— end- 
yes,  chin,  too,  I  should  say." 

"The professor!"  in  utter amasement  ''Who 
— what  do  you  mean  ?"  Then,  a  sudden  to^ 
rent  of  crimson  deluging  neck  and  brow:  '^I 
told  you — this  is  my  sister's  baby,  Fred  Der- 
wont's.    I  am — am  not  married." 

*'SheUbridge!"  shouted  the  condnotor; 
''  change  can  fear  the  Eastland  route." 

There  was  a  genend  rising  of  passengei%> 
noise  of  cabmen  shouting,  bells  ringing^  a 
babel  of  tongues.  Frank  Pennington  bend 
absolutely  nothing  as  be  stood  looking  at  her. 

"Not  married  1  I  thought—surely  Fitd 
wrote  to  me,  *  Professor  Reichman  is  married;' 
and  I  thought-^' 

"  That  it  was  to  me,"  trying  hard  to  regain 
her  oomposuie.    "  You  were  wrong." 

She  lifted  baby  and  basket  as  shespoke^ud 
tried  to  pass  into  the  aisle,  but  Frank  caogbt 
one  hand,  and  said,  bending  low,  while  by  lui 
face  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  he  had  sot  at 
all  "got  over"  his  old  trouble :  "Is  it  poinUe, 
Alice,  that  you've  been  waiting  for  me  these 
five  years?" 

Fortunately,  the  cars  were  by  thie  time 
emptied.  No  one  saw  the  tightly  clssped 
hands,  the  bright  feces;  but  Fred  Dervttt, 
rushing  in  a  moment  later,  sttumbled  on  sodk- 
thing  that  looked  rather  lover-like. 

"Hillowl"  he  shouted,  bringing^  the  two 
rudely  to  their  senses.  "Is  this  you,  Alice? 
Who  on  earth— well,  Frank  Pennington,  where 
did  you  come  from — and  what  are  yon  dobg 
here  ?    And  whereas  the  baby  ?" 

G6nfosed  attempts  at  explanation  were  msde. 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  understand,"  Fred  w^^ 
cheerfoUy.  "  But  I  know  the  train  will  ittft 
in  a  minute.  Come  along.  Ally,  and  you  too, 
Frank,  and  we  will  have  things  explained  op 
at  home.  May  is  distracted  with  household 
difficulties,  but  she  will  be  delighted  to  fee 
you,  I'm  sure.  Give  me  the  baby,  Alice.  '^^ 
place  for  lovers'  dialogues  here ;"  and  there- 
with he  got  them  ofl*  the  train  just 
started. 

And  so,  two  months  later,  Alice  Dean  wse  » 
bride. 

"It  all  came  of  the  baby,"  Frank  galJtntly 
says. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


it 


CHINA    AND    ITS    B BID  G Eh.-'-WIL L, 


141 


And  in  proof  that  May  and  Alice  agree 
with  him,  the  new-comer  has  been  named  for 
him. 

''Such  a  relief!"  May  Rays,  delighting  in 
(he  fact.  ''  Bat  for  that,  I  fihonld  have  had 
to  call  him  for  one  of  his  grandfathers,  and 
Joeiafa  and  Beuben  are  both  snch  dreadfol 
Dames  f 


CHINA  AND  ITS  BRIDGES. 

BY  C. 

WHETHEB  the  Chinese  are  right  in  as- 
signing to  their  portion  of  the  world  a 
much  greater  antiquity  than  many  are  willing 
to  allow,  may  be  fairly  questioned  \  but  certain 
it  is  that  in  China  many  of  the  arts  and  sci- 
ences haye  been  known  at  a  period  when  the 
European  nations  were  sunk  in  barbarity  and 
ignorance.  The  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  China.  Of  that  vast 
coontiy,  the  southern  part  of  which  was  known 
imperfectly  to  the  people  of  India,  they  gave 
tiie  name  of  l^ina,  sometime  before  the  Chris- 
tian era,  and  this  is  the  name  by  which  the 
whole  empire  is  called  by  the  Russians  even  at 
tiie  present  time. 

The  names  both  of  China  and  Tsina  are  nn- 
bown  to  the  Chinese.  The  early  history  of 
this  nation  remains  shrouded  in  ftible,  but  it  is 
certain  that  dvilization  was  considerably  ad" 
▼anoed  among  them  when  it  was  only  dawning 
on  other  nations.  They  haye  records  now  in 
existence,  consisting  of  the  writings  of  Con- 
^ciuK,  which  date  as  far  back  as  five  hundred 
tod  fifty  years  before  the  coming  of  Christ, 
from  which  period  they  descend  in  an  un- 
broken series  to  the  present  day.  The  em- 
peror of  this  immense  region  is  styled  "  Hea- 
Ten'sSon,''  and  is  accountable  only  to  Heaven. 
He  unites  in  his  person  the  attributes  of  sover- 
eign pontiff  and  supreme  magistrate,  and  his 
government  is  an  unlimited  despotism. 

The  first  intercourse  was  attempted  by  the 
Gnglish  with  China  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  bat  the  vessel  sent  did  not  reach  its 
destination.  No  satisfactory  results,  with  re- 
gard to  intercourse  with  China,  were  obtained 
till  about  thirty  years  ago,  since  which  time  all 
nations  are  at  lil>erty  to  visit  the  country,  under 
certain  restrictions. 

Some  of  the  bridges  in  China  are  of  extra- 
ordinary beauty,  and  even  magnificence.  There 
i*  one  near  Pekin,  built  entirely  of  white  mar- 
Ue,  elaborately  ornamented.  Others  are  found 
over  the  canals,  of  still  greater  magnificence, 
Md  with  a  grand  triumphal  arch  at  each  end ; 


and  some,  instead  of  being  built  with  arches, 
are  flat  from  one  side  of  the  canal  to  the  other, 
marble  flags  of  great  length  being  laid  on  piers 
so  narrow  and  airy  that  the  bridge  looks  as  if 
it  were  suspended  in  th£  air.  From  the  amaz- 
ing facilities  afibrded  by  the  numerous  canals 
for  transportation  of  goods  by  water,  these 
bridges  do  not  require  to  be  built  of  great 
strength,  for  only  foot-passengers  use  the 
bridges,  which  is  the  reason  they  are  of  such 
an  elegant  and  fanciftii  oonstractipn.  These  * 
bridges  are  built  with  a  number  of  arches,  ihe 
central  arch  being  about  forty  feet  wide,  and 
high  enough  for  vessels  to  pass  without  strik- 
ing their  masts.  The  great  elevation  of  these 
bridges  renders  steps  necessary.  They  resem- 
ble, in  this  respeet,  the  old  bridges  of  Venice, 
on  which  you  ascend  by  steps  on  one  tide  and 
descend  on  the  other  in  the  same  way.  Chain 
bridges  were  not  made  in  this  country  for  more 
than  eighteen  centuries  after  they  were  known 
in  China. 
Delaftbld,  Wis. 


BT  K.  B.  TVRNBR. 

DEAR  Will,  when  fortone't  myatio  wheel 
Its  revolution  made. 
It  gave  to  yon  the  sunahine  bright, 

To  we  the  dreary  shade. 
And  though  oar  paths  lie  side  by  side, 

The  skies  above  yonr  head 
Are  smiling  with  the  fairest  dyes, 
The  violet  and  red. 

And  like  the  flame  that  nightly  burned 

Above  the  Hebrew  camp — 
To  the  Egyptians  dread  and  gloom^ 

But  to  the  Jews  a  lamp — 
So  does  each  elond  that  passes  o'er 

For  yon  gleam  bright  and  warm,. 
Bnt  brings  to  me  the  thnnderbelt, 

The  darkness  and  the  storm. 

But  I  am  glad  that  round  your  way 

The  laurel  bends  with  dew, 
And  that  the  sparkling  wine  of  life 

Is  freely  poured  for  yon ; 
And  though  I  falter  in  thedark^ 

And  shiver  in  the  blast, 
I  thank  Qod  for  the  light  and  joy 

In  which  yonr  days  are  passed. 

And  when  the  wheel  again  shall  tarn, 

As  turn  it  quickly  mayi 
I  pray  that  Heaven  will  grant  yea  still 

The  glory  of  the  day ; 
And  that  relenting  fate  may  see 

How  my  weak  heart  is  tried. 
And  take  me  from  this  darkness/ Will^ 

And  place  me  by  your  side. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 


BY  B06ELUL  BICB. 


No.  VII. 


MY !  how  I  do  get  things  mixed  up.  Bat 
that  is  just  the  waj  with  one's  everyday 
life^  the  practical  comes  rushing  up  quite  out 
of  hreath  and  jostles  against  the  romantic ;  the 
ragged  real  stands  face  to  face  with  the  heau- 
tiful  ideal;  the  fragrant  lilies  spring  from  filthy 
black  mud ;  the  baby,  with  eyes  blank  as  the 
blue  depths  of  the.wUdwood  spring,  plays  with 
''Edward's  on  the  Will;"  the  morning-glory 
vine  in  one  short  summer  night  stealthily 
creeps  with  a  noiseless  wind  up  the  mop  han- 
dle, and  goes  to  work  to  make  of  its  little  buds 
dewy  beljs  to  hang  therefrom,  and  render  the 
unsightly  utensil  a  "  thing  of  beauty ;"  so-so. 

But  I  do  want  to  tell  of  the  pleasing  little 
adyenturous  school-ma'am,  who  dropped  in 
suddenly  upon  us  one  day  in  the  midsummer 
agone. 

She  was  a  neighbor's  daughter  many  years 
ago,  a  jolly  little  black-eyed  girl,  of  whom  we 
had  all '  lost  sight,  until,  one  day  when  I  was 
sitting  all  bundled  up  in  flannels  for  my  rheu- 
matism, reading,  and  soothed  by  the  pleasant 
hum  of  the  sewing-machine,  some  one  slipped 
in  slyly  and  put  two  warm,  soft  hands  oyer  my 
eyes  with :  "  Oh,  guess  who  I" 

I  guessed,  and  guessed,  and.  coaxed  for  free- 
dom and  the  blessing  of  sight,  but  the  hands 
remained  inexorable,  until,  with  a  little  of  her 
own  assistance,  I  did  guess  who. 

Oh,  she  was  so  sprightly  and  pleasing,  and 
as  quick  as  a  bird  on  the  wing  I  She  had  not 
been  to  see  her. mother  yet,  and  could  only  stay 
until  evening ;  so  we  hurried  and  all  talked  at 
once,  though  tending  to  the  same  focus.  She 
had  been  teaching  in  Hannibal,  Mo.,  for  years, 
and  had  flown  home  on  a  brief  visit.  She  told 
us  stories  of  travel,  and  sights  she  had  seen, 
and  of  people  she  had  met,  and  of  trials  she 
had  undergone,  of  failures  and  successes,  of 
hard  work,  and  difficulties,  and  r^oicings,  and 
she  ended  with  a  cunning  little  elocutionary 
entertainment  in  Deacon  Potts's  sitting-room, 
that  made  me,  Pipeey,  laugh  heartily,  and 
then — cry  just  as  heartily. 

But  one  thing  she  told  us  that  will  please 
and  profit  every  woman  and  girl  who  may 
read  this,  and  that  is,  how  to  make  beads, 
beautifpl  long  strings  of  black  beads  out  of 
rose  leaves;  and  the  charm  of  it  all  is,  that  the 
(142 


beads,  as  long  as  they  live,  will  imprison  tk 
delightful  fragrance  of  the  rose.  I  will  gin 
it  just  precisely  as  she  told  me,  and  if  any  ooe 
wants  to  vary  the  siie  of  the  beads  they  en 
do  so. 

Take  of  rose  leaves — ^the  more  the  better— ia4 
with  an  iron  mortar  and  pestle  pound  or  nni 
them  until  they  are  of  the  consistency  of  don^ 
or  putty.  Then  measure  your  thimble  preaMJ 
full,  for  a  bead ;  Uke  it  out  of  the  thimble,  uj 
roll  it  between  your  palms  until  it  is  firm  lod 
as  round  as  a  marble,  then  give  it  a  little  r»ll 
one  way  that  may  make  it  a  little  bit  lo^g. 
Have  a  paper  of  new  pins  beside  too,  tod 
stick  one  through  the  bead  lengthwise,  cue- 
fully,  BO  that  enough  of  the  pin  will  oobk 
through  that  you  can  stick  it  in  a  cushion,  or 
along  the  edge  of  the  table  in  the  spread.  If 
you  want  a  single  string  of  beads,  make  siztj; 
if  double,  make  one  hundred,  just  as  this  one 
was  made.  When  they  begin  to  settle  and  di; 
a  little,  take  them,  one  at  a  time,  careful!/  in 
your  fingers^  and  with  a  pin  press  into  6ie 
side  of  the  bead,  longwise,  in  about  five  plsoo. 
It  will  make  them  look  ridged  and  prettj,  and 
as  grandma  says,  more  like  boughten  er  store 
beads. 

Sarah's  were  measured  in  a  thimble,  and 
when  dry  and  finished  they  were  aboot  the 
size  of  the  red  berries  of  the  dogwood  tree. 
They  were  a  dark  brown  or  rusty  black,  bot 
''  the  scent  of  the  roses  clung  to  them  itilL' 

She  said  they  could  be  made  easily  of  diy 
leaves,  if  they  were  soaked  in  water  niitil 
thoroughly  dampened ;  but  the  fresh  ones  ve 
preferable. 

I  wonder  if  other  flower  leaves  could  notke 
made  into  beads  or  pretty  things.  Eveo  a  drr 
mass  of  this,  with  the  concentrated  fngranoei 
would  be  nice  to  lay  in  bureau  drawers,  oru 
trunks  with  one's  clothing.  I  will  lend  car 
iron  mortar  to  any  girl  to  make  rose  betds  la, 
until  it  has  lost  the  smell  of  asafcedita,  and 
garlic,  and  drugs,  and  roots,  and  such  thingi!> 
I  am  tired  of  such  odors,  and  would  be  glad  ^ 
make  the  exchange. 

"Things  are  always  clean  about  your pantrf 
floor— no  drops  of  grease,  or  tracks,  or  alop*®* 
dishwater  or  dirty  places,"  said  Mrs.  Barlof 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTSEB    PEOPLE^ 8    WINDOWS. 


uz 


to  me  the  other  moTning,  as  sii^  followed  ibe 
into  the  pantiy  to  borrow  a  teacopfal  of  roasted 
co^;  ''but  then  I  eappose  the  reason  is,  70a 
have  no  children  aboat  to  put  things  in  disorder/' 

"  Not  unnsnally  clean/'  I  said,  '^  because  I 
did  not  mop  this  morning.  I  am  a  little  afi^id 
of  getting  too  nice,  and  allowing  myself  to  fret 
over  a  drop  of  grease,  or  a  little  slopping  of  | 
dishvater.  It  is  so  easy  to  fall  into  that  way 
of  worrying  and  fretting  over  such  trifleif,  acid 
making  one's  self  as  though  tethered  down  by 
»  ?ery  short  bit  of  rope." 

'^Well,  I  like  your  way  of  keeping  roasted 
oofl^  anyhow/'  said  she,  laughing,  a0  I  took 
op  a  knife  to  pry  loose  the  lid  of  a  close  tin 
ean  in  whidi  I  always  kept  it.'  ^'  It  keeps  hs 
strength  better  shut  up  tightly,**  said  I ;  ''  and 
the  fine  aroma  so  necessary  to  make  good  coffee 
ii  not  lost,  then,  or  wasted." 

*Well,  ril  keep  mine  that  way  hereafter," 
said  she,  brightly,  as  she  hurried  out  of  the 
iiicic  door  and  turned  around  to  bid  good-night. 
Jost  then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  mop,  and  «he 
reached  out  in  a  cordial  way,  laying  her  hand 
on  it,  saying :  "  Well,  now,  there's  some  of  ; 
yoor  forethought.  If  I  had  been  filling  a  new 
mop,  I  never  would  haye  thought  of  using  the 
men's  old  knit  drawers  for  that  purpose.  I 
thought  they  were '  really  good  for  nothing 
after  they  had  been  worn  out,  and  weve  ragged 
and  used  up.  I  should  have  taken  =  an  old 
flannel  skirt,  or  the  worn  breadths  of  a  dress." 

"*  Bat  they  would  be  the  vety  things  of  which 
to  make  rag  carpet,"  said  I ;  *'  and  yon  know 
old  drawers  wont  make  carpet  rags,  or  any- 
thmg  else,  while  they  are  just  right  for  a  mop. 
They  are  of  the  right  si«e,  and  if  gray,  the^ 
are  the  right  color,  and  then  you  can  wring 
them  out  so  dry,  and  they  will  soak  up  water 
jost  like  a  sponge.  I  very  mudi  like  this  new 
patented  mb|>  handle  with  a  screw.  The  dea- 
con presented  it  to  me  on  my  last  birthday, 
with  a  new  clasp  hymn  book  and  a  pair  of  \ 
Bflver-rimmed  spectacles." 

I  saw  a  smile  dimple  over  her  fttce,  and 
make  twinkles  aboot  her  eyes,  just  as  though 
die  thought  something  funnjr.  I  knew  what 
it  was.  She  was  thinking  that  the  deacon  was 
A  very  practical  sort  of  a  man,  mixing  mop 
Wdles  and  hymn  books  together,  on  birth- 
days, but  I  thought  it  was  sensible  and- a  well- 
timed  present^  worth  more  than  all  the  vases, 
uid  china  pitchers,  and  g|fded  nonsense  that 
coald  be  heaped  in  my  lap. 

I  don't  like  the  kind  of  women  who  spirit- 
iMliae  every  common  thing,  so  that  common 
people  can't  come  a-near,  any  more  than  I  like 

VOL.  xxxvm.— 10. 


thoee  who  see  something  to  lau^h  at  and  makef 
fiin  of  all  the  time— 4hose  who  behold  everything 
in  a  ludicrous  light,  and  canter  off  in  a  laugh. 

I  was  vexed  at  Lily  the  other  day  when  we 
were  going  over  to  the  fountain  for  moss. 

We  met'  old  MraJ  Weather  wax  on  the  steep 
hillside'  beyond  Pottsville,  and  I  was  plenty 
glad  enocigli,  to  see  her,  to  kisb  her  right 
heartily.  She  used  to  do  all  onr  knitting  and 
dy<fing  of  bitie,'and  washing  wool,  and  she  it 
was  who iurst  taught  me  to  wear  a  thimble;  so, 
of  c6nm«,  I  felt  grateful  to  the  old  lady, 
and'  glad  to  sahtte  her  Warmly.  She  is  veiy 
lat^ge — why  k  ponderous  old  woman  abnost) 
and  her  UX  cheeks  hang  red  and  shaky,  like 
those  of  an  overgrown,  bunchy  norseling. 

Aftei^  we  had  passed  on,  Jjily  gave  a  thrust 
in  the  side,'  and  whispered :  ^'How  oonld  you 
bear  to  salntethat  mammoth  of  k  woman  with 
a  kiss,  when  hers  are  so  very  human,  and  so 

I  Was  well  enough  yesterday  morning  to  go 
out' calling.  A  little  cold  had  settled  In  my 
head  and  made-'  nsy  catarrh  worsey  but  I. 
bundled  up  and  thought  the  oold  air  would  do 
me  good. '  I  scorched  some  tow  until  it  was 
quite  brown,  and  greased  my  face  and  neck 
and  temi^es  with  the  marrow  out  kA  a  hog'a^ 
jaw,  iind  put  the  tow  on  siszing  hot.  Then  I 
tied  a  red  flannel  over  it,  and  then  a  clean 
white  handkerchief,  over  which  I  pinned ^ 
closely  ray  little  yellow  plaid  shoulder  shawl. 
I  wasnt  afraid  of  taking  cold  then.  My  green, 
eilk  calaah  bonnet  fitted  over  all  as  snugly-  as 
a  glove.  • 

I  wore  the  deacon's  camlet  dbak,  because  L 
cohldnl't  walk  faift  enough  to  keep  warm.  The 
cloak  is  made  with  a  k\\\  behind,  but  it  waa 
none  the  less  comfortable  fbr  all  that.  I  pat  my. 
knitting  needles  and. a  skein  of  black  yam  in 
my  reticul^  in  case. I  stopped  long  enough 
anywhere  lO'  set  up-  a  new  piece  of  knitting 
work.  I  can't  knit  mock,-  but  then  enough  to 
keep  me  from  being  idle.  I  told  fiuher  if  I 
didn't  stand  the  walk  very  well  this^  time,  I 
would  ride  Humbug  the  next  place-  L  had 
to  go. 

Just  as  I  went  ftp  the  lane  near  Mr.  Wabon^ch 
houses  and  paused  beside  an  old  mapie  to  rest 
a  minute,  J  was  hailed  by  a  familiar  voice, 
with:  ""Ho^  Miss  PotU!  ho,  there  I  Land 
</  sakes  if  I  knowed  ye  at  fust  1  I  thought  you 
was  the  deacon  hlaselfl  look  some  like 'Idjar 
in  yer  big  mantle^*  ho,  ho  t"  and  here  Granny 
Graham  laughed  in  her  oldiamning^  cracked, 


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ARTEU.R'S   IAX>TS'  SO:b£E   MAi^AZSNE. 


tinkling  way.  "  Lawfiil  iftkes,  how'cle  do,  aaj'- 
how,  Pip^ej  7  Wy ,  I  haint  6«en  ye  for  a  cpon'd 
ager'  and  the  old  Udy  net  her  jiiiiil  down  on  4h0 
ground  and  gave  me  a  very  sincere  and  vigor- 
ous tliakiDg,  while  she  puffed,  and  bkiw«d  like 
a  wounded  whale. 

She  aaid  elie  was  jofit  going  oyer  to  old  Miss 
Walton*«  to  Bpend  ihe  day,  and  ahe  thought 
being  they  hiid  iimde  ilew  hominy  she  w^uld 
carry  over  a  couple  of  raesdes. 

I  raised  the  snowy  cloth,  and  peeped  in,  and 
really  I  never  did  see  nieer  honginy.  The 
grains  were  swelled  to  three  tim^  their  j-eal 
size,  and  cracked  all  open*--'' busted  dread* 
luUy,"  she  said^-r^nd  they  lay  pp  looselyi 
hardly  touching  «acb  other,  looking  im)  luU  of 
life  and  oontaeit  as  young  pound-keepeia. 

l^ow  my  hominy  never  looks  tliat  way;  it 
clingB  together  in  a  muss,  like  1*106  that,  has 
been  overcooked.  I  said  i  "  How  in  the  world 
do  you  maoage  to  make  puch  nice  hominy  ? 
Mine  tastes  of  lye  in  spite  of  me,  and  don't 
flwell,  and  is  hard  and  firm,  and  couldn't  be 
eaten  by  old  folks  with  dull  teeth;  and  tken 
•.wheR  I  make  'it  J  lilwayB  have  9ueh  badly 
» chapped  hands*  rough  and  tender,  and  smarti- 
^if^  ior  days  afterwards." 

Gtanny's  eyes  gleamed  out  greenly  wm  cata' 
-«y«a,  and  she  laughed  and  shook  her  old  fat 
ahouklerB  as  she  said :  *'  You've  lots  to  lam  yit^ 
.Alias  Potta,  with  all  yer  teachin'  school  and 
«writiu'  for  the  papera  and  aich ;"  and  putting 
liter  hands  upon  her  sides,  and  striking  the 
.Attitude  she  always  does  when  she  talks  in 
"■airaeHj;,*'  she  told  me  how  she  made  it.  I 
I  took  .my  book  and  .pencil  out  of  n^y  reticule, 
.jind,  leaning  on  the  stepping-block,  I  wrote 
.iiow  to.abake  homitvy. 

The  ly«  in  which  the  corn  is  boiled  mi»t  not 

*ht  strong;  it  is  better  to  be  weak,  and  boil  it 

:longer.    I  have  aiways  found  three  l^oura  long 

lenoHgh  to  boil  it  in  the  lye« ;  Then  pour  it  out 

.into  SrXub  in  ifhich  is  a  pailful  or  two  of  water. 

Drain  iUtSi^  and  put  on  clean  water  eupugh  to 

Ktoovor  it  ^well;     And  now,  to  si^ve  chapped 

hands^take  a  dean  brDom-T-I  keep  one  for  that 

purpose  Abae-^and  stir^  and  scrub,  and  wash 

>ahe  domwitli  it  briskly.    Do  this  three  or  four 

iimes  after  |>ouring  off  and  adding  clean  water. 

Then  let  if  «&•»!  half  an  hour*  in  the  last  water 

you  pedsed  oaiti    There  i$  no  need  of  puttinfg 

.'the  handk  ahout  it  at  kill  while  washing  or  rins- 

•  ing  U,  i^ot  evea^when  yon  take  it  qui  <of  the  tub, 

.  whieh  can  be'  done  with  a  sktAmer*    li  Che 

Nweather  is  oeld,  drain  die  water  ofi)'and:  let  it 

'  atand  out  all  aight  to  frecsie ;:  th«&  it  won't  take 

.any  longer  JMooeJtlLdone  than  to  cook  a,mess  of  1 


beaUB^  .Boil  it  slowly ;  don't  stir  it  at  all,  for 
ijf  you  .b^t)  it  you  will  have  to  keep  it  ap,  or 
it  will  burn  and  stick  to  the  kettle.  Salt  it  a 
little,  and  that  not  until  you  are  about  takiiig 
i^  off  the  fire.  Leave  plenty  of  the  water  about 
it:  in.  whiob  it  waa  boiled.  The  large,  smooth 
fiint  com  is  the  nicest  to  make  hominy. 

The  W^itooe  all  coaxed  me  to  stay  for  din- 
ner, end  I  bad -a  mind  to,  and  just  put  my  fio- 
geee  .up  to  the  atringe.of  my  silk  calash  booDCt 
when  Mm*  Walton  said :  "O  Pipsey,  you  an 
so  fond  of  pictures  that  I  must  show  yoo  1 
ohromo  oiir  X^muel  bought  when  he  was  in 
Pittsfaoigh  a  few  days  ago  I"  and  she  took  the 
picture  out  of  a  poirtfolio  and  sat  down  beside 
mie^  wiping  her  red^  snuffy  nose  on  the  wrong 
Mde  of-  her  oalieo  apron. 

Jt  f#as  a  .beautiful  picture — that  of  a  littk 
girl  on  her  way  to  sohool,  who  had  flung  down 
her  books  and  slate  on  the  grass,  and  was  stoop- 
ing o:ver  to  faaten  her  garter.  Her  round,  carl; 
head,,  vith  the  broad  luit  half  way  down  her 
shoulders,  h^  bare  fat  neck  and  bosoo^  beaati- 
ial  urms,  perfectly  Aliaped  1^^,  apd  the  natonl 
and  graceful  position  that  a^  little  girl  in  i 
huvry  would  assume,  made  it  very  charming. 
I  admixed  it  exceeding^. 
.  *' Don't  overlook  this,  Miss  Pipsey,"  sud 
Mm.  Walton^  pointing  to  the  backgroM 
wheve^in.a  low,  ewampy  plaoe,  grew  luxoii- 
antly  the  j^tXj  green  flags,  and  the  rank 
graasesy  and  the  straight  cat-tails,  a«d  the 
heavy  moist  lily  leaves  that  seemed  to  lie 
afloat  on  the  still  water* 

I  stooped  over  to  gather  in  all  the  glory  of 
the  rural  picture^  when  I  chanoed  to  look  at 
the*  fingers  that  pointed  out  the  emerald  gen 
in  the  background,  and — I  didn't  want  to  sta/ 
for  my  dinner  at  alU    I  didn't  feel  hungry. 

Mxm  Waltom  had  been  making  a  boiled 
-chickeq  pie  for  dinner,  and  I  could  see  the 
paste  sticking  around  hex  finger  nails  and 
dogg^  j4iU -over  her  wedding-ring.  The  pie 
crust  was  rich  and  good — I  had  positive  evi- 
dence of  that— but  I  waa  n.bt  at  all  hui^ry.  I 
preferred  fresh  air,. and  X  rose  and  lt^/t,  Oh, 
but  that  xoba  a  wedding-ring  of  its  fpuantic 
assQoi^tioos  when  one  thinks,  ''to  such  riie 
uses  must  ye  come  at  lastl"  Don't  understaoii 
me  as  really  meaning  tvVe.  I  just  had  to  ssj 
that  or  nuss  a  fine  quotation  of  the  poet's.  I 
meap  to  such  unromantic,  practical,  base,  un- 
poetical  uses  as  making  up  nice  dinners— loying 
uses  ihey  are,  too,  if  moely,  and  graciously,  aod 
lovingly  done*  Loye  and  duty  are  iu«?para- 
ble. 
...  I  went  np  the  lane  near  where  the  old  school- 


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145 


hon«e  aaed  to  stand.  It  irss  always  a  pretty 
place  to  me.  I  stopped  atid  leaned  on  the  old 
mossy  rail  fence^and  laid  my  hands  as  tenderly 
on  the  gray  tufts  and  patches  on  the  damp, 
decaying  ndls,  as  I  would  touch  a  head  sil- 
vered o'er  with  age.  Oh  1 1  thought  how  good 
it  would  seem,  if  only  for  one  minute  could 
oome  back  to  me  the  same  fresh  enthusiastic 
glow  that  warmed  my  little  soul  when  I  used 
to  climb  up  those  same  old  rails,  a  barefoot 
Bcbool  girl,  and  peer  over  into  the  luxuriant 
tangles  of  beautiful  things  that  grew  un- 
touched inside  of  those  same  fence  comers. 

I  thought  Nature  in  all  her  glory  and  beauty 
lay  there  then,  ereu  as  a  queen  would  lie  down 
in  indolent  .abandonment  among  her  jewels, 
and  satins,  and  embroidery,  and  laces,  her  own 
form  perfect  in  volnptuoiw  beauty,  and  grace, 
and  elegance.  What  a  maze  of  gay  and  green 
growing  things  used  to  sojourn  in  the  summers 
there!  There  were  sweet-smelling  hazels,  of 
a  peculiar  woody  fragrance,  that  is  unequalled 
flare  by  the  grape-vines  when  in  blossom ;  piled 
np  masses  of  wild  roses;  the  beautiful  rasp- 
berry bushea  with  long,  uniformly  curved  red 
stems,  graceful  in  their  droop  as  i^  the  wind- 
ing flow  of  waters;  the  box  elder  with  its  red 
rabies  all  aglow;  the  klnnekinick  with  its 
medicinal  bark,  the  golden  rod  shooting  up 
like  yellow  flames ;  the  sumach  with  its  crim- 
son con^;  the  wild  sunflowers  that  looked  like 
a  flock  of  yellow  birds  just  alighted ;  broad, 
rank,  bristling  leaves  with  names  unknown  to 
my  childish  vocabulary ;  and  the  gay  rambling 
bittersweet  that  ran  riotous  over  all  with  a 
greed  that  used  to  make  me  almost  angry. 

In  this  very  comer  that  I  used  to  liken  to 
grandma's  rag-bag,  because  it  had  a  little  of 
everything  iti  it,  grew  those  beautiful  little 
cops,  with  rims  turned  back  like  little  vases, 
faintly  outlined  with  pale,  red  streaks,  and  in 
Md  out  among  the  cup  bearers  many  upreach- 
ing  arms  persistently  crept  like  a  sly  thief— a 
poisonous,  jagged,  wild  vine,  full  of  purple 
dusters  that  looked  like  tiny  bunches  of  grapes. 
Tempting  they  were  to  the  little  brown  hands 
that  could  not  keep  away  from  Nature's  lavish 
l>ttuty,  lying  so  loosely  all  out  of  doors,  and 
not  owned  by  any  little  girl's  mother. 

And  so,  the  scratched  hands  and  face  and 
neck  paid  the  penalty  of  loving  such  things 
immoderately.  I  was  sent  home  from  school 
poisoned,  and  fevered,  and  swollen,  and  crying 
with  pain  and  fear  and  self-reproach. 

The  eyes  that  saw  so  many  wonders  in  that 
marvellous  fence  corner,  closed  their  swollen 
lids  for  days;  and  the  hands  would  not  make 


fists,  for  the  meddlesome  fingers  stood  out 
stiffly,  and  hot  and  burning;  and  the  purple 
fiioe  bore  no  resemblance  to  any  little  girl  ever 
seen  in  Pottsville,  or  Sylvan  Dell,  or  anywhere 
in  tlie  wide  world.  Wise  old  women  flocked 
in  with  cures,  but  everything  aggravated  the 
fiery  poison,  and  Nature  took  her  own  slow 
way,  which  lasted  for  many  days. 

Yean  afterward,  when  I  so  longed  to  make 
the  bare  walls  of  my  home  dieerftil  and  beauti- 
ful, I  dug  up  an  ivy  vine,  and  trained  it,  with 
strings  and  sticks,  up  between  the  door  and 
window,  flying  hither  and  thither  so  as  to  have 
it  done  by  the  time  father  would  come  to  din- 
ner. My  mother  heard  the  digging,  and  hailed 
me  from  the  clacking  loom  with : ''  Is  that  the 
way  you  get  dinner,  Pipsey?  What  are  you 
doing?" 

"Just  fixing  something  nice.  Dinner  is 
nearly  ready,"  I  hailed  back. 

She  looked  out  of  the  upper  window,  and 
cried  right  out,  saying:  ''  Oh,  yoa  have  killed 
yourself,  you  idle,  good-ibr-nothing  girl !"  and 
she  laid  her  face  on  the  sill,  her  patience  tried 
to  its  utmost,  and  wept  bitterly. 

My  heart  was  neariy  broken.  I  believe  at 
that  time  I  had  no  higher  ambition  than  to 
have  a  growing  vine  beside  the  doorway — my 
very  soul  reached  out  pleadingly  for  a.  green 
vine  to  love  and  to  cherish.  I  cried  because 
my  mother  did,  and  I  tried  taiy  very  hai*dest 
to  die  then,  my  life  was  so  locked  up,  so  bleak 
and  bare  and  unlovely ;  no  one  understood  me, 
or  took  me  by  the  hand,  or  gave  me  a  book,  or 
a  geranium,  or  an  appreciative  encouraging 
word,  or  a  loving  look ;  I  was  like  Gain  with 
the  mark  on  his  brow. 

For  weeks  I  lay  swollen,  and  blind,  and 
burning,  and  suffering.  They  pitied  me,  and 
rocked  me  in  the  cradle,  and  fed  me,  and  made 
fun  of  me,  and  I  thought  it  was  very  sweet  to 
be  so  cared  for.  I  shall  never  forget  the  hor- 
rible face  in  the  glass.  The  cure  for  poison 
we  learned  in  later  years ;  and  the  vines  I  bo 
longed  for,  now,  that  I  am  one  of  the  heads  of 
the  family,  clamber  over  the  doors,  and  win- 
dows, and  portico,  and  on  frames,  and  rude 
crosses,  and  stumps,  and  out-houses,  and  just 
wherever  I  choose. 

But  my  sweetest  sense  of  enjoyment  was 
gone,  with  the  freshness  of  my  girihood,  before 
they  camcb  I  train  them  carelessly,  mechani- 
cally, quietly,  without  apy  glow,  or  bright- 
ness, or  lighting  up,  just  as  I'woulddo  any 
necessary  work  or  duty  for  those  I  love. 

O  ye  in  whose  charge  are  growing  children, 
loving  the  beautiful,  I  pray  you  touch  them 


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146 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


not  with  an  iron  hand ;  bind  them  not  down  as 
in  servitude;  love  them,  and  walk  with  them, 
and  rejoice  with  them  aa  companions,  instead 
of  stern  parents.  Make  them  to  oonfide  in  you 
of  their  own  free  will ;  make  due  allowance  for 
their  warm,  swift  young  blood,  so  unlike  yours, 
thin,  and  cold,  and  sluggish,  mayhap.  Bemem« 
ber  their  birthdays  with  gifks,  the  same  as  their 
holidays ;  make  them  bright,  and  glad,  and  hap- 
py. Train  them  to  be  constitutionally  happy, 
and  no  after  sorrow,  or  blight,  or  adversity 
can  break  them  down  under  its  weight.  Boot 
out  every  vestige  of  pride  and  self,  and  implant 
therein  nobility  of  soul  and  manliness  of  prin* 
ciple.  Keep  before  them  the  character  of 
CfariBt,  a  poor  carpenter,  who  toiled  with  His 
hands  as  other  laborers  do.  Oh,  labor  is  hon- 
orable, sanctified,  and  no  toil  should  be  looked 
upon  with  disdain  when  Christ,  the  man  "  with  - 
out  sin/'  dignified  and  made  holy  tlie  humblest 
calling.  Make  your  children  to  fully  under- 
stand this  in  its  deepest  meaning,  and  teach 
them  to  look  upon  idleness  as  a  sin. 

While  I  think  of  it,  I  may  as  well  tell  the 
sure  cure  for  poison  of  ivy.  Make  a  wash 
moderately  strong  of  sugar  of  lead  and  warm 
milk  or  water.  Wet  a  little  rag  or  sponge,  and 
apply  the  wash  to  every  part  affected.  If  you 
are  in  a  hurry  to  get  well,  let  the  wash  be  rather 
strong.  Three  or  four  applications  will  effect 
a  cure.  If  the  eyes  water,  and  feel  hot,  apply 
a  wet  cloth  to  them  with  the  wash  weakened. 
It  \b  very  painful  when  the  eyelids  are  poi- 
soned.   This  is  a  certain,  positive  cure. 

After  I  had  dreamed  awhile,  and  lived  over 
the  flown  years  in  the  lane  near  the  site  of  the 
old  school-house,  I  went  on  around  the  hill  to 
call  on  Lua.  I  had  not  seen  her  since  that  day 
we  ^ere  out  riding  together.  As  I  drew  near 
the  house,  I  began  to  think  there  was  no  one 
at  home ;  the  curtains  were  all  drawn  and  doors 
closed,  but  a  wreath  of  smoke  curled  up  lazily 
from  the  chimney,  and  I  did  hope  Lua  would 
be  alone,  so  she  could  make  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
raise  one  leaf  of  the  table,  and  we  two,  who 
once  were  almost  one,  could  sip,  and  nibble, 
and  laugh,  and  talk,  and  have  a  very  happy 
hour  together. 

As  I  drew  near,  I  saw  her  little  girl,  Pipeey 
.Ellen,  sitting  ont  on  the  mounting-block  with 
a  hammer  in  her  hands. 

I  said :  ''  Is  ma  at  home?'' 

*'  Yes,  but  I  have  to  keep  yery  still,  'cause 
4Bhe  has  the  headache  to-day,"  said  the  child. 
"  I  was  going  to  put  my  new  shoestrings  in  my 
gaiters,  and  I  came  out  here  to  &x  them,  so  I 
jronlda't  hurt  ma's  head." 


"A  hammer  is  the  last  thing  to  fix  shoe- 
laces with,"  said  I,  laughing. 

'*  0  Auntie  Potts,  don't  yon  know  that  if  yon 
don't  take  a  hammi^r  and  pound  the  little  brass 
ends  of  the  strings  kind  o'  flat  that  they  will 
slip  off?  And  it's  so  much  bother  to  lace  up 
your  shoes  with  a  friaed-out  string,"  said  the 
child,  and  her  mouth  and  eyes  stuck  out  with 
very  earnestness. 

"  Sure  enough,"  I  said.  "  Why,  yon  are  a 
real  little  woman  to  attend  to  such  things  in 
the  proper  time.  Thu  will  help  you  in  the 
mornings  when  you  are  in  a  huriy  to  start  to 
school,  and  keep  you  from  getting  angry  or  ont 
of  patience.  Why,  I'm  just  proud  of  my  little 
i^smesake,  Pipsissiway ;  bless  your  heart,  auntie 
loves  you  more  and  more  every  day  of  your 
life  I"  and  I  gathered  the  little  frowsy,  elfish 
head  to  my  bosom,  and  kissed  her  sweet  red 
mouth  and  brown  eyes  again  and  again  as  I 
added :  *'  When  your  ma  gets  better,  tell  her 
that  Pipsey  came  to  see  her,  but  because  she 
was  sick  she  will  call  another  day.  Tell  your 
sick  ma  I  love  her  best  of  all  my  old  school- 
mates, and  that  I  think  her  the  best  and  sweetest 
woman  in  the  world ;  and  you  be  good  and  kind 
to  her,  dear,  and  step  lightly  when  her  head 
aches,  and  don't  burn  anything  in  the  house 
that  will  smell  badly,  'cause  that  makes  one's 
head  ache  so  much  worse.  It  makes  the  head 
nearly  burst  with  pain,  remember." 

The  little,  moist,  fresh  lips  kissed  both  my 
cheeks,  with  that  bustling,  unoertain,  hit-and- 
miss  way  that  dear  little  ones  always  kiss.  Oh, 
the  charms  that  cluster  round  the  form,  and 
face,  and  ways  of  babies  and  little  children  are 
many  and  marvellous,  and  past  comprehend- 
ing in  all  their  sweetness ! 

Dear  Lua — ^I  knew  all  about  her  headache  I 
I  remembered  years  and  years  ago,  that  when 
Lua  was  not  very  well,  at  times  she  was  irasd- 
ble,  and  would  flash  up  and  say  unkind  things 
in  such  a  bitter  way.  What  sterling  good 
sense  Lua  did  manifest  I  She  would  say  to  us 
girls  at  those  times,  as  she  now  aays  to  her  own 
family :  '*  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  do  not  feel 
well,  and  shall  not  be  in  a  very  amiable  mood 
for  a  few  days.  I  am  ill-natured,  and  fiiult-find- 
ing,  and  gloomy,  and  depressed,  and  unhappyi 
at  times,  and  I  want  you  should  all  bear  with 
my  weakness  and  inflrmity  for  awhile." 

How  laige-hearted,  and  lovable^  and  con- 
sistent! 

Indeed  I  do  not  want  to  talk  about  my  neigh- 
bors, and  tell  their  little  secrets,  but  this  truth 
may  do  some  poor  weak  wonum  good,  and  I 
will  tell  it  for  her  sake.    Sach  poor,  feeble, 


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147 


struggling  Bistera  can  be  coanted  by  the  tbon- 
sands.  It  is  nature,  working  steadily  on  bar 
own  plan — the  plan  tbat  was  laid  awaj  back,  co- 
eval, perhaps,  with  Eve,  the  first  woman,  weak 
and  human. 

In  certain  phases  of  ill*  health  the  woman 
who  tO'day  is  an  angel,  to-morrow  may  be  any- 
thing but  saintly — the  will  to  command  her 
entire  self  is  wrested  out  of  her  hands  by  Na- 
tnre  in  her  own  wonderful  workings,  and  she 
is  tossed  about  like  a  leaf  in  the  winds.  She 
is  to  be  pitied,  and  loving  husbands,  and 
&lhers,  and  children  should  be  cautious,  and 
kind  and  tender  of  the  frail  creature  whose 
beet  interests  are  for  a  time  in  their  keeping. 
I  belieye  naany  a  poor  wife  and  mother  who 
is  sick,  and  grows  morbid,  and  listless,  and 
nervons,  and  finally  settles  down  into  insanity, 
and  at  last  commits  suicide,  might,  in  the  first 
stage  of  the  disease,  have  been  cured  if  her 
malady  had  been  thoroughly  understood,  and 
patiently  borne  with  by  her  own  family. 

This  in6rmity  unhappily  grew  upon  Lua ; 
but  she  faced  it  like  a  brave,  true  woman  as 
she  was.  She  would  go  to  her  room  and  stay 
there,  and  read,  and  rock,  and  rest,  and  when 
the  shadows  were  darkest  she  would  cry ;  but 
she  knew  the  cloud  would  soon  pass  away,  and 
she  would  bide  her  time,  and  come  out  smiling 
and  happy,  having  held  herself  as  it  were  by 
main  force,  injured  no  one  by  a  hasty  or  un- 
kind word ;  and  so,  ''the  smell  of  fire  would 
not  be  on  her  garments." 

Dear  Lua,  what  a  sweet  phase  of  womanly 
character  she  showed  I 

When  I  reached  home  I  was  quite  out  of  | 
breath ;    my  calash  was  the  last  ounce  too 
much,  and  I  had  loosed  the  ties  and  let  it  hang 
down  my  back.    The  deacon's  camlet  cloak 
hung  across  one  arm,  and  I  was  so  tired  I 
looked  like  a  pilgrim,  only  instead  of  a  staff  I 
carried  a  reticule.    I  had  filled  it  with  pine 
cones,  and  beech  nuts,  and  acorns,  and  other 
pretty  things.    Through  the  strings  of  it  I  had 
stuck  a  bundle  of  teazles.    I  thought  in  mak- 
ing up  a  winter  bouquet,  two  or  three  of  them 
would  work  in  handsomely.    I  have  a  plan 
<)evised  of  making  a  cross  to  stand  in  the  sit- 
ting-room— to   have  a  viny  festoon  of  some 
kind  of  evergreens  twine  about  it,  and  hang 
from  it,  beautified  with  bittersweet  berries  or 
amaranth  flowers ;  and  I  have  a  compact  little 
bird's  nest  already,  with  three  tiny  eggs  in  it, 
that  I  will  put  in  the  right  place.    I  don't 
know,  maybe  I'll  not  make  it,  I'll  consult  the 
girls  first.    They  want  a  parlor,  a  real  prim, 
oold  parlor,  and  I  tell  them  I'll  have  no  sep- 


ulchres in  the  house — we  will  all  live  all 
through  the  house,  as  fast,  and  hard,  «nd  happy 
as  we  can,  and  that  is  why  our  sitting-room 
looks,  as  they  say,  like  "all  out-of-doorn." 

There  are  books,  and  pictures,  music,  plants, 
curious  things,  fossils,  petrifactions,  papers, 
pens,  pencils,  and  furniture  to  be  used,  every- 
thing plain  and  substantial,  and  I  think  really 
nice,  and  coeey,  and  jolly. 

80  much  better  than  one  of  that  kind  of 
parlors  of  which  cousin  says,  ''they  are  so  nice 
to  lay  out  dead  folks  in"— the  kind  kept  for 
show,  and  for  people  who  care  nothing  for  7011, 
and  will  go  away  and  laugh  at  your  "grundy- 
ness."  The  kind  of  parasites  who  like  also  to  go 
out  into  the  country  to  eat  spring  chickens, 
and  real  cream,  and  sweet  clovery  butter  that 
has  the  babble  of  brooks  and  woods  and  green 
fields  about  it— those  dear  delightful  friends, 
who  will  go  away  from  your  hospitable  roof, 
and  say  smart  things  about  your  brown  hands, 
or  your  bare  feet,  or  your  own  hair  put 
smoothly,  and  cleanly,  and  sensibly,  or  wonder 
how  you  could  be  so  illbred  as  to  go  with 
your  sleeves  rolled  up  while  in  their  august 
presence. 

I  have  known  silly  people  who  lived  in  a 
village  of  ten  or  fifteen  houses,  stricken  with 
the  very  leprosy  of  poverty,  who  would  talk 
glibly  of  the  delights  and  joys  of  country 
life,  and  say  they  like  to  go  out  into  the  coun- 
try, it  was  so  much  healthier,  and  it  was  so 
sweet  to  hear  the  birds  sing.  I  treat  such 
people  with  deference,  so  great  that  I  never 
permit  any  acquaintance  whatever.  I  would 
as  lief  have  galling,  punful  sores,  past  the 
skill  of  man  to  heal;  why  asthma  and  ca* 
tarrhs  are  sweet  companionship  compared  to 

them.  ^^     ''  • '     «  *2  .  ^  ' 

Mew 

CoivFiDENCK  is  not  only  the  life  of  love  and 
the  essence  of  peace,  but  it  is  also  the  soul  of 
obedience ;  without  it,  we  feel  that  the  power 
which  rules  us  is  tyranny,  and  that  to  obey  is 
to  be  a  slave.  The  secret  of  all  hearty,  happy 
compliance  with  laws,  divine  or  human,  is  a 
loving  trust  in  the  law-giver. 


Bemember,  that  he  is  indeed  the  wisest 
and  happiest  man,  who,  by  constant  atten- 
tion of  thought  discovers  the  greatest  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  good,  and  with  ardent  and 
animated  resolution,  breaks  through  every 
opposition,  that  he  may  improve  those  oppor* 
tunities. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A  YOUNG  GIBL'S  INFLUBNOE. 


BY  JEXnnSE. 


SPEAKING  of  the  Bin  of  intempenmoe  one 
evening,  an  old  gentleman  with  silver  hair 
remarked  that  many  a  on^.  had  been  saved 
through  the  gentle  inflaenoe  of  it  woman,  and 
requested  leave  to  tell  the  following  story  to 
illustrate  the  &ct : 

The  little  village  of  Brier  DeU  lay  basking 
in  the  sunlight  of  a  bright  winter  afternoon. 
In  spite  of  its  romantic  name,  it  was  a  bust- 
ling, active  little  town,  though  not  very  large. 
Brier  Dell  had.  always  been  a  strictly  temper^ 
ate  town,  a  Good  Templars'  lodge  being  one  of 
its  principal  features.  Many  a  one  had  ap- 
peared on  the  npot  requesting  land  enough  to 
build  a  saloon  upon,  but  always  being  sent 
away  as  quickly  as  possible,  as  if  his  very 
presence  tainted  the  pure  air. 

But  one  ill-finted  day  two  dark,  evil-looking 
individuals  appeared  in  town,  bought  a  lot,  and 
commenced  the  erection  of  a  building.  In 
answer  to  the  questions  of  the  inhabitants,  they 
replied  that  they  were  building  a  drug  store. 
Said  inhabitants  expressed  their  approbation, 
and  wondered  why  no  one  had  thought  of  put- 
ting one  in  before.  But,  ah,  how  little  they 
knew  what  a  curse  it  would  prove  I 

Well,  the  building  was  finally  finished,  and 
the  proprietors  placed  drugs  upon  the  shelves 
and  whisky  under  the  counters.  The  good 
people  of  Brier  Dell  looked  solemnly  at  one 
another,  and  shook  their  heads,  but,  for  a  won- 
der, took  no  measures  to  pat  a  stop  to  such 
ghameful  proceedings. 

In  the  suburbs  of  the  town  several  good 
buildings  had  been  erected,  and  on  the  par- 
ticular afternoon  of  which  I  speak,  a  young 
man  emerged  from  one  of  these  and  sauntered 
slowly  up  the  street.  Glancing  at  his  face,  you 
would  have  set  him  down  at  once  as  genial, 
honest,  and  even-tempered.  A  frank,  open 
face,  merry  blue  eyes,  broad,  high  forehead, 
and  wavy,  brown  hair ;  altogether  quite  a  hand- 
some young  fellow,  and  a  great  favorite  with 
every  one. 

While  he  was  sauntering  up  the  street,  a 
young  girl  was  saying  to  her  mother:  "Now, 
mamma  dear,  yon  must  lie  still  and  rest,  and 
I  will  run  up  town  and  get  your  medicrne." 
Her  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  and  her  dark 
brown  eyes  seemed  full  of  love  and  tender^ 
ness. 

(148) 


I  was  standing  by  the  door  of  the  store  as 
she  came  in,  while  on  the  other  side  a  party  of 
wUd,  reckless  young  fellows  were  trying  to 
persuade  the  aforesaid  young  man  to  take  a 
"social  glass"  with  them.  He  refused  for  some 
time,  saying  he  had  n^twr  tasted  liquor,  and, 
what  was  more,  he  never  intended  to.  But 
they  kept  urging  him,  and  telling  him  that  cm 
glass  would  do  him  no  harm. 

He  hesitated,  looked  at  the  glass,  and  hesi- 
tated again,  but,  finally  taking  it  in  his  hand, 
said :  "  I  will  drink  f/las,  but  not  another  drop 
as  long  as  I  live.''  The  others  looked  at  one 
another  and  winked. 

The  young  giii  who  had  just  oome  in  took  it 
all  in  at  a  glance.  Her  face  grew  pale,  and 
her  beautiful  eyes  filled  with  sad  reproach,  bat, 
stepping  firmly  up  to  the  young  man,  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  said  in  a  low  bat 
firm  tone:  "  WBlis,  for  the  love  of  God,  and  tat 
your  mother's  sake,  donH  Umeh  it," 

For  a  moment  he  looked  angry,  but  the  nezt 
an  expression  of  sadness  and  shame  came  into 
his  eyes,  and,  setting  down  the  glass,  he  tuned 
toward  her  and  said:  *'You  have  saved  me 
from  shame  and  humiliation,  and  I  thank  yoa 
more  than  I  can  tell." 

"  I  knew  him  well,"  continued  the  old  gen- 
tleman, as  he  finished  his  narrative^  '*and  from 
that  day  till  the  day  of  his  death  he  never 
touched  a  drop  of  liquor,  and  all  through  the 
gentle  influence  of  that  young  girl." 


Insects  must  lead  a  jovial  life.  Think 
what  it  must  be  to  lodge  in  a  lily.  Imagine  a 
palace  of  ivory  or  pearl,  with  columns  of  silver 
and  capitals  of  gold,  all  exhaling  such  a  per 
fiune  as  never  rose  from  human  censer.  Fancy 
again  the  fun  of  tucking  yourself  up  for  the 
night  in  the  fi>lds  of  a  rose,  rocked  to  sleep  by 
the  gentle  sighs  of  a  summer's  air,  and  notbiiig 
to  do  when  you  awake  but  to  wash  yourself  in 
a  dewdiop  and  iall  to  and  eat  your  bed- 
clothes. 

CoNVERSATiOK  is  the  daughter  of  reasoning 
the  mother  of  knowledge,  the  breath  of  eonl, 
the  commerce  of  hearts,  the  bond  of  iriend- 
ship,  the  nourishment  of  content,  and  the  occo- 
pation  of  men  of  wit. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TOWARD  THE  ^EIGHTS. 

IN  SIX  GHAPTEBa 

.  BT  &  JlENNIS  JONES. 


CHAPTEB  IV. 
*<*Ti8  better,  'tis  fur  bettor  He  shodld  lead 
Our  Ibotetapa  in  the  pstti  JOe  hath  decreed." 

Kate  Winthrop  marmared  the  wordi»  rever- 
ently, :for  the  girl  had  an  undereurrent  of  deep 
feeling  beneath  the  rippUng  efurfaoeof  a  ligbt 
exterior;  and  the  reader  will  pleaae  bear  this 
in  miad,  as  in  what  I  ehall  feoord  of  lier  the 
light  exterior  will  ofteneat  appear. 

Sitting  in  the  coolness  of  the  bflgbt  May 
ttoming',  she  had  been  wandering—* aa-aheoften 
did — amid  the  meshea  of  reasonings  vainly 
striving  to  smooth  the  tangled*  akein  of  human 
weal  and  woe,  aa  we  aeeit  wi^  onr  dim  earth 
vision. 

'  "Tis  better,  'tiafer  better ;''  her  lipa  repeated 
the  words  softly,  but  her  fingerft  worked  like 
thoaeof  a  perplexed  child,  and  her  brown  eyea 
were  Ml  of  the  tmaolved  problem. 

••"Why,  Kate  I"  broke  in  a  merry  voiee, 
"you  hxJk  as  if  you  were  gazing  on  the  Styx, 
inatead  of  oar  own  beantifiEiI  atreiim.  Sneh  an 
expression  is  an  insult  to  the  day,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  recent  felicitoua  arrival  of  my  deair- 
flble  self,  after  a  protracted  abaence.  Might  I 
presnme  by  right  of  relationahip  to  qtteation 
the  cause?" 

Guy  Barton,  cousin  and  foster  brother  to  the 
young  lady,  had  seated  himself  eoolly  on  the 
ottoman  at  her  feet,  and  was  now  wailing  her 
reply  with  mock  gravity. 

She  amiled  a  little  at  his  raillery,  and  re- 
plied :  '<  Well,  Cousin  Quy,  I  was  thinkiog"^ 
a  short  paoae,  ibUowedby  a  profouttd  '^  In- 
deed P'-^I  was  tbiBbnig of  thedifierort  phaaca 
lile  has  for  t^fierent  peraoDs  1 1  was  eontvaat- 
ingmy  own  lot  with  ^at  of  one  I  know,  whose 
life'ia  BO  hard  and  barren  that  I  can  oonoeive 
of  no  brightneaa  in  it  all;  a  perfect. persoai- 
ficatioo  of  loneliiieaa. 

Gvy  waa  ailent  a  moment,  and  then  queried : 
'*  A  maiden  of  forty  wiotera  with  none  to  krve 
save  her  feline  aoquaintanoee?^ 
f*  ^'Ko,  nop  replied  hia  eoapanion,  impa- 
tiently ;  <*a  yoang  teacher  who  came  to  Oak- 
hmd  aoon  after  yoa  left.  .  She  came  alone, 
ivitkout  lettera  of  intredoction ;  and  the  oom- 
vuttee  employed  her  at  the  fint,  becatee.  no 
other  applicant  offered ;  but  Bhe.haa  proved  ao 


effideoty  they  hatei  l^eea  glad  .to  retain  her. 
Sheeeema  to  be  completely  isolated. from  her 
•  friend»-*if  ahe  haa  any--«lu»  no  coroeapondence 
it  ia  aaidy.and  apenda  her  vacations  at  Oakhuid. 
A  alaaange  lady  who  died  at  Mnb  Even^a  about 
two.  years  ago,  left  her  .little  child,  in  this  young 
lady'a  care,  and  I  suppose  it  afibrda  her  some 
Bolace ;  bnt,  oh,  audi  a  homeless,  okeenleaa  life  I' ' 

**  I  beg  your  pardon  .for  my  Indicroue  mis- 
interpretation ofi  youoB  meaDiDg,'f  said  Guy, 
humbly.  .         . 

''Granted,''  answered  Kate,  .''en  condition 
you  bear  in  mind  that  your  sin<  does  not  con- 
sist in  the  iniatake^  but  in  the  wilfully  wrong 
licQlii^',  tiiat  could  augsjeat  auch  a  caricature 
aa  you  have  drawn,  and  do  penanoa  aocord- 
inglyi  I  aee  you  base  not  renouooed  your 
former  errora,"  she  confinued. 

^'I  tell  yon,  Ghiy  Barton,  diat  old  oat^Utach- 
'  meat  stoi^  istoo  thraadbare  for  this  enli^teoed 
age  and  community  i  And  I  tell  yoa,  more- 
over, that  deapised  sisterhood  contains  hearts 
great  enough  to  love  the.world  at  large;  hearts 
all  untramaoelried  by  a  oontracted  affection 
concentrated  upon  one  petty  specimen  of 
hamanity  I" . 

Guy  laughed  heartily,  and  assured.  Kate  it 
was  a  pity  such  enthusiastic  eloquence  should 
be  wasted  upon  a  aingle  liatener;  but  begged 
to  know  the  peaanoe  before  accepting  the 
pardon%  ... 

"Well,"  aaid  Kate,  demurely,  "I  have  an 
errand  this  morning  at  Croaa  Lanof  and,  while 
I' am  aaakiog  glad  the.  heacta  of  the  little  ones 
at  the  brown  cottaga^  you  afaall,  if  truly  sorry 
for  your  misdemeanor,  carry  a  package  and  a 
note  to  Misp  Clementina  Seymour,  a  reapeoted 
unmarried  friend  of  mine  wiio  lives  half  a  mile 
beyond,  and  gracionafy  and  deferentially  Wait 
her  reply.".. 

'  Gny  ahmgsed  hia  ahooldera,  and  drew  .up 
hia  browa  with  a  well-feigned  expression  of 
resignaAion,  and  "aooepted  her  majeaty'a 
terma." 

.*.'If<m,  Guy,"  aaid  Kate,  as  he  lifted  her 
from  the  carriage  at  the  brown  cottage,  "  mind 
,yotti  deliver  the  note  to  Miss  Clementina  her- 
aeK  j  and  don't  tread  on,  the  cata,  or  be  lacking 
in  deferential  politeneaa  to  their  mittrem." 

f  .  (149)  , 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


150 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


Guy  promised  to  be  on  his  best  behavior, 
and  drove  away. 

Despite  the  nonchalant  air,  he  felt  the  pen- 
ance in  a  slight  degree,  as  he  pictured  to  him- 
self the  tall,  spare  form,  and  attenuataid  hti^  in 
spectacles  and  cap,  with  an  indefinite  number 
of  frUU. 

His  ring  was  answered  by  a  fair,  young  girl, 
with  a  cloud  of  flossy,  golden  xiftglsts  xobnd 
her  shoulders. 

"  Very  pretty  waiting  maid,''  tfaooghi  Goy ; 
^  wonder  if  she  dragoniies  over  her  much  V* 

He  had  almost  forgotten  his  errand,  when  a 
voice — Guy  thought  he  never  heard  a  sweeter^ 
invited  him  to  enter« 

*'  Thank  you.    Is  Miss  Seymour  in  ?" 

"  That  is  my  name,''  was  the  answer.    . 

'^Pretty  young  relative,"  mused  Goy. 

"  Mias  Clementina,"  he  explained. 

''  She  has  the  honor  of  addressing  yon,"  was 
the  smiling  reply. 

^  Then— with  ill-conoealed  embarrasment^ 
"  I  have  a  note  andl  a  package  lor  you  fitom 
Miss  Winthrop." 

*'  Thank  you.  I  believe  I  addiess  Mr.  Bar- 
ten?    Pray,  walk  in." 
•     With  easy  grace  she  led  the  way  to  the  par- 
lor, and  then  excused  herself  to  reply  to  her 
-  Mend's  note. 

When  left  alone,  Guy  made  an  effort  to  re- 
gain his  composure.  The  pioture  he  had 
sketched  of  Miss  Clementina  reovrred  to  him, 
and  the  uUer  ludicrousnese  of  tlie  whole  afiair 
overcame  his  gravity.  A  hearty  ringing  laugh 
escaped  him,  followed  by  what  seemed  a  rip- 
pling peal  trom  a  distant  apartment.  It  might 
have  been  the  echo  of  his  own ;  at  least  the 
young  lady  re-entered  the  next  moment,  look- 
ing as  demure  as  the  white  kitten  that  followed 
in  her  footsteps. 

When  Guy  reached  the  brown  cottage,  Kate 
met  him  at  the  gate,  and  tiie  dainty  note  was 
delivered  with  Imperturbable  gravity,    j. 

''Excuse  me,  Guy,  and  Til  just  peep  into  it 
and  see  when  I  may  expect  the  pleaeiure  of  « 
visit  from  Miss  Seymour." 

The  result  of  the  ''peep"  seekned  satisfac- 
tory, judging  by  the  efforts  she  made  to  sup- 
press the  mirth  that  bubbled  forth  in  spite  of 
hor. 

*^  A  very  entertaining  correspondent,  I  opine," 
said  Guy,  when  she  had  finished  the  perusal. 
**  Pray,  Kate,  what  misdemeanor  can  I  perpe- 
trate to  call  for  a  second  penaBceY" 
'  "  Don't  flatter  yon rself,  sic,"  answered  Kate, 
saucily,  "that  your  punishment  will  always 
conWn  Bo'motih  olemency*?' 


Guy  Barton  looked  at  the  pretty  lace,  smil- 
ing up  to  him  from  under  the  jaunty  little 
..riding  iuit,  and  thought  what  a  bewitdung 
creature  she  was,  to  be  sure;  and  then  he 
thought  of  an  old  college  chum,  who  had  never 
seen  his  charming  cousin;  and  then  he  lell 
into  '^  a  profound  revery,"  which  Kate  dedared, 
on  reaching  home,  "  she  had  not  dared  to  bretk 
for  fear  of  serious  consequences." 

The  result  of  the  "revery"  was  an  uh 
nouncement  the  following  week  of  an  expected 
visitor. 

"  Kate,  I  have  told  you  of  Vincent  Greyeoii, 
I  believe.  I  spent  a  month  at  his  channing 
villa  laftt  folly  and  exaeted  a  promise  to  reton 
the  iiivor, .  I  received  a  letter  from  him  due 
morning,  stating  that  he  will  be  with  us  io  t 
few  days." 

In  response  to  Kate's  "  Tell  me  about  hioi, 
Guy,"  he  went  on : 

"He's  a  splendid  fellow,  though  a  litUe 
ecoentrio-<ioes  the  most  informal^  unacooont- 
able  things,  at  times. 

"  I  hadn't  seen  him  before  since  we  left  col- 
lege. He's  been  to  Europe,  and  dear  knon 
where  all.  lie  w«s  in  this  vicinity  a  few  yesn 
ago.  I  found  some  of  the  scenery  about  Oak* 
land  delineated  in  his  sketch-book  with  i 
faithfulness  that  fiurly  made  me  homesick. 
He  is  quite  an  artist,  as  you  see^  Kate,  a  fine 
scholar,  and  has  been  pronounced  by  girls  of 
undoubted  taste  'perfectly  handsome'— tall, 
well-built,  with  finely-shaped  head,  sapeib 
luoustache,  dark  hair  and  eyes — ^indeed  I  oied 
to  shrink  from  introducing  him  where  I  felt  in- 
terested ;  but  he  has  grown  a  bit  morbid,  Fm 
afraid— don't  care  a  fig  for  the  society  of  bdiei, 
though  be  carries  himself  with  the  most  con- 
summate gallantry  when  thrown  among  then. 
I'll  trust  to  you,  little  coi,  with  what  assistSDee 
you  can  get,  to  bring  him  round  all  right." 

"Let  me  eee,".  ruminated  Kate— "Gem 
promises  to  be.  with  uii  nest  week,  ancM) 
Guy  I— would  yoo  mind  doing  another  erxand 
for  me?  You  do  thing!.. so.  nicely— theie^fl 
Arianai  Hartdei>*^w»  must  have  her,  she^B 
perfeedy  irresistible." 

And  so,  all  unconscious  of  the  trap  laid  ftir 
him,  Mr.  Vincent  Greyson  duly  arrived  at 
OairlaiHi,  and  waa  proaounoed  "  a  msgnifi^st 
catch"  by  all  the  girls,  aiid  "a  splendid  feUow" 
by  Dr.  Winthrop. 

Indeed,  the  old  gentleman  and  his  gotf^ 
soon  found  snch  attraction  in  each  other's  so- 
ciety, that  Mias  Kate  felt  cal  led  upcm  to  lecture 
her  "  papa  soundly  for  Iceeping  Mr.  GnjWB 
allito  himself.". 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


TOWARD    THE   HEIQSTJ3. 


m 


"Why,  Kate,  my  child,  I  must  certainly 
pmcribe  for  jrou  IMort  your  adflsluiffls  be- 
owieB  chronie  1  DoqboH  ^e  rideajad  wmUc  with 
you  girlB  every  day,  aod  li«t(».lo yoUr  email  talk 
with  the  moet  martyr^Uke  putieaoe?  Don't 
deny  the  yoang  man. a  tittle  reepite^  my  ^ea«/' 
Aqd  the  old  gentleman .  mounted  his  hone 
withsarpriBing  agility,  and  rode  away,  ehaking 
his  glove  in  answer  to  the  threatening  gestures 
of  the  dark-eyed  sprite  who  oonstttuted  .his 
housekeeper,  pet,  and  plaything,  all  in  one, . 

Yes,  during  his  visit,  now  about  to  terminate, 
Vincent  Greyeon  had  devoted  himself  to  the 
.senrice  of  the  young  ladies  with  ane^4ieption- 
able  gallantry,  displaying  the  most  amiable 
iodifiereuce  as  to  which  of  the,  trio  rode  by  his 
side ;  ox  whether  he  turned  the  music  for  pvetty 
Aria,  charmiiig  Clem,  or  sprightly  Kate;  and 
manifesting,  it  most  be  confessed,  %i^  equal 
xelish  for  a  ride  or  a  tramp  with  hja  friend 
Gay  for  sole  companion,  or  a  long  discos- 
rioQ  of  abstruse  theories  with  Dr.  Winthrop  in 
the  library. 

"Your  friend  is  confirmed  in  his  errors  i  we 
can  do  nothing  with  him.  Pity,  too^  for  he's  a 
charming  fellow,"  was 'the  verdict  rendered  on 
Guy's  return  from  ob^ing  a  peiemptory  call 
to  the  city  for  a  few  days.    ... 

"You  have  just  returned  in  time,"  lisped 
Mi»  Marsden.  "  We're  going  to  have  a  pic- 
nic to-morrow." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Kate, "  and  we're  going  to 
make  the  cakes  and  things  ourselves^  as  Mat- 
tie's  sick ;  and  we  want  you,  Guy,  to  beat  the 
eggs  for  us." 

"Where's  Vincent?"  inquired  Q^^.  -.  "I 
baven't  seen  him  yet." 

"  Ohf  he  and  papa  are  in  the  study  having 
one  of  their  dry  old  talks  that  tlp/^  hoik,  eiyoy 
80  much !"  said  Kate,  spiteful^.  "  Ypu  must 
not  disturb  them  on  any  pretext. .  But  come 
on,  all  of  you.  We  will  not  make  much  pro- 
gress standing  here." 

And,  followed,  by  her  m^rry  aids^  she  led  the 
way  to  the  kitcl^en,  Irom  whence  peals  of  laugh- 
ter issuing  from  time  to  time,  wjth  sundiy 
■avory  odors,  gave  token  that  th^  work  was 
going  forward. 

The  ibilowing  day,,  which  was  to.tei^minate 
Vincent  Greyson's  vipit  at  Oakland,  foond  that 
g^tleman  devoting  himself  assiduously  to 
Kate  and  her  friend  Aria,  as  they  £»tmed  one 
of  the  merry  groups  clustered  through  the  ver- 
dant aisles  of  Morton  Park, 

"Can  either  of  you  give  me  a  djoe  to  the 
fUssificatioa  of  thi9?"  asked  Vincent,  throw- 
u^  a  spray  of  wild  flovjars  into  the  lap  of  each 


of  his  eompanions. '  "  At  first  sight,  it  appears 
to  belong  to  the  Labiate ;  but  examination  will 
show  you  that  is  not  the  ease.  Where  do  you 
place  it,  Miss  Kate?" 

That  young  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders 
slightly.  .''Pray,  Mr.  Greyson,  don't  ask  me 
for  any.  of  thofe  horrid  Latin  terminationa  1  I 
laid  my  hotany  on  the  shelf  when  I  left  school ; 
and,  spanking  of  flowers/'  she  rattled  on,  "Pm 
especially  intamted  in  tbat  charming  little 
blue  belle  over  .yonder.  You  can't  see  her 
from  where  yoM  sit^  Mr.  Greyson;  she's  a 
teacher,  and  astudy  for  sages.  Don't  she  look 
loveJiy  in  that  blue  gingham.  Aria?  Some- 
body-^not  Linn«eus— has  assigned  her  to  the 
Co^udifwoi;  but  that's  gross  sUnder;  she's  as 
innocent  as  the  peach  blossoms  suggested  by 
her  cheeks^  Mr.  Frank  Ingram  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.".. 

Vincent  smiled  a  litttle  sadly,  but  answered 
carelessly ;  " '  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters/  Miss 
KMe;.. cheeks  often  borrow  their  'suggestions' 
from  rouge  and  pink  saucer;  and  innocent 
aweetness  is  as  often  a  well-adjusted  mask  of 
diwimolation.'' 

Miss  Marsden's  arched  brows  reached  a  lit- 
tle higher  elevation  than  their  wont,  as  she  sat 
pulling  her  flowers  into  pieces  with  a  preelpi- 
tanny  altogether  incompatible  with  a  carefiil 
•nalysis. 

*'  For  shame,  Mr.  Greyson  I"  exclaimed  Kate. 
"PU  Mpart,  you  for  speaking  evil  of  those  in 
authority." 

"  Please  don't  I    I  recant,"  laughed  Vincent. 

''  Then  show  your  sorrow  by  pi ucking  us  yon 
fem("  and  she  pointed  to  the  top  of  a  rook. 

The  rather  difficult  ascent  was  soon  made, 
and,  grasping  the  prize,  the  young  man  ifas 
about  to*  descend,  when,  a  fragment  of  rock 
giving  way,  he  ^*  came  down  sans  eertmomey"  as 
.Kate  said^ alighting, however,  upon  his  ieet; 
but  the  meii7  laugh  was  changed  to  a  fright- 
ened cry  fiem  both  the  girls^  as,  the  nextino- 
.  menty  he  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

•While  Kate^with  her  natural  impulRiveness, 
ran  for  assistance,  Aria  hastily  improvised  a 
pillow  by'  means  of  ^lawls,  upon  which  she 
.tenderly  raised  Vincent's  head  with  trembling 
hands^  and  a.&oe  not  less  white  than  his  own. 

Dr.  Winthrop's  >portly  form  soon  made  its 
appearance^ . '   • 

'*  Don't  be  alarmed,  Miss  Marsden,"  he  said, 
seeing  Aiiafs  'pale  face,  as  with  one  hand  he 
loosened  Vincent's  necktie,  and  with  the  other 
nncersmoniously  drew  ont  the  pillow. 

The  yoong  man  soon  opened  his  eyes. 

*'  Are  you  much  hurt,  Greyson  ?  This  yomig 


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152 


ARTHVK'B   LAI>T8   BOMS   MA&AZINE. 


l«dy  reported  70a  dead/'  M  Kate  cnoe  up, 
finfihed  and  ont  of  breathe 

^Oh,  DO  I"  aiwwer«d  Vinoeftit,  maUng  an 
effort  to  riite ;  "  only  a  sprain.  I  hav«  a  bid 
liabit  of  going  off  in  a  fainting  fit  dn  therilight- 
eit  pretext;  bat  if  I  am  left  to  the  error  of  my 
-wayfl,  prone  on  my  baclc,  I  woo  recorer." 

"Yon  would  better  remain  ^et  a  abort 
time/'  fluggeeted  the  physician.  **Kow,  Mias 
Harsden,  bring  on  your  pillows,  please.  This 
young  lady  had  you  bolster^'  np  to  the  beet  of  \ 
her  abilities,"  he  continued,  laughing.  "You 
know,  miss,"  addressing  Aria, ''*  that  fainting 
is  caused  by  loss  of  blood  to  the  brain,  and 
natni^  places  the  individual  in  a  position  for 
the  heart  to  supply  that  loss  most  easily;  sO, 
you  see,  the  patient  Is  best  off  withont  a  piUow." 

**  Oh,  yes  t"  replied  Ana,  in  mnch  oonAtsion; 
''I  ought  to  have  known  that,  What  could  I 
have  been  thinking  of  P' 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Vincent,  langhing, 
*'  you  hare  laid  your  physiology  on  the  shelf 
with  Miss  Kate's  boUny." 

Here  Kate  entered  a  shower  of  protestations 
of  sorrow  for  the  accident,  and  self  aoeaaattons 
of  being  the  cause. 

"Pray  don't  think  of  it,"  begged  Vincent, 
*^  It  is  nothing  serious,  and  will  give  me  a  pr^ 
text  for  enjoying  your  hospitalf  ty  a  little  longer. 
By  the  way,  here  is  the  fern  you  wanted,'*  peek- 
ing it  up  from  the  ground.  "  Pardon  the  man- 
ner of  presentation,  and  remember  of  what  it  is 
the  token." 

In  spite  of  his  raillery,  it  was  plain  to  be 
seen  that  he  was  soflfering  intensely ;  and  Dr. 
Winthrop  insisted  that  he  should  return  to  the 
boose  immediately,  that  he  might  attend  to  the 
sprain. 

The  carriage  was  brought,  and,  in  spite  of 
Vincent's  remonstrance,  the  Whole  party^^in- 
ohidiiq^  Guy  and  Miss  Seymoor,  who  oaoM  dp 
at  this  j anctare>^retamed  at  onoe. 

Tlie  sprain 'proved,  upon  examination,  to>be 
rather  serious,  so  moch  so  tliat  Dr.  Winthrap 
▼etoed  the  thought  of  Vineent's  leaving-  the 
home. under  a  fortnight. 

''And  now,  my  dear  fellow,''  said  he,  aller 
the  sofiering  anklerhad  been  attended  to,  *'tkey 
will  never  need  your  presenoe  in-  the  least  at 
Greyson  Villa,  and  wfaiie  you  areooavaleselng 
we  can  discuss  at  our  leisure  the  anlgeot  w« 
touched  upon  this  morning." 

And  so  Vtnoeai  Greyson^aifisit  at'OaklaiMl 
wasr  lengthened  out ;  and  that  gendemao  iboad 
himself  wondering  at  the  hail^ionsciona  com- 
placence characterising  liia  aoqaiesoanoe  In  the 
arrangement. 


CHAFTBBV. 

"Miss  Kate,  please^teli  me  something  more 
of  the  yoong  My  whose  wonderfnl  qaalHies 
yon  were  descanting  <m  at  the  picnic  I  be- 
lieve yoQ  proaoanoed  her  'a  stndy  for  w^ 
jtst  before  I  intermp ted  you  with  that  awk- 
ward laptm  UikgMkJf 

Vincent  Was  nnrrang  .his  disabled  ankle  on 
the  bofii,  and  the  gtris  were  working  with  cobi- 
meiidable  indoatry  on  some  of  those  pretty  lit- 
tle snpevflnities  whiek  eome  young  ladies  con- 
trive so  beiAudftilly. 

Kate  looked  np  with  a  pleased  surprise.  Ab 
she  afterw«Vd'safd,  ''she  considered  the reqaert 
a  very  hopeftil  symptom." 

'*  Indeed,**  she  responded,  eagerly,  •*!  am 
sure'  your  verdict  will  agree  with  mme  when 
you  have  heard  all  about  her."  And  she  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  her  listener  all  she  knew  of  Mia 
Dalesftvd,  which  wasn't  liruch,  to  be  sure ;  but 
Kate  expatiiited  to  a  considerable  length  on 
the  mysterious  Mreumstahces  attending  he 
erUrie  at  Oakland,  touched  plaintively  upon 
her  lonely  life,  and  painted  her  beauty,  accom* 
plishments,  and  marvellous  school-room  feats 
in  the  most  glowing  colors. 

"I  declare, Kate,**  lisped  Aria,  looking  up 
from  the  zephyrs  she  was  sorting,  "you  grow 
perfectly  enthusiastic  over  that  ^or  little 
school-itjom  dttidge  h  I  don't  see  anything  w 
remarkable,  for  my  part.  I  suppose  she  ifl 
some  one  in  reduced  eihnimstances,  who  is 
obliged  to  teach  for  support;  and  F  don't  won- 
der she  wfehes  to  keep  her  employment  a  secret 
from  her  former  acquaintances." 

The^  Wair  a  eur?^  in  the  full,  red  lips,  and 
a  something  in  the  voice  and  manner  of  the 
speaker,  whic^-  detracted  strangely  from  the 
beauty  Which,  a  iboment  before,  you  would 
hai^  pronound^  almost  fitultless. 
•  Kate'^  eyes  fairly  flatbed,  but  she  bit  ber 
Hps  attd' looked  at  Vh^cent. 

He  was  regarding  the  speaker  attentively, 
bis  fine  features  wearing  an  expression  thit 
hSmed-  at  both  annn«mem  ahd  contempt  See- 
ing Kate^s  appMittg  glance,  he  said,  addre«- 
ing  MiM  l^arsdeh  with  deprecating  eoartesy: 
'*  I  beg  leave  to  differ  from  you.  Miss  Aria,  '^ 
regard  to'lihi*  yOtmg  lady^s  work  being  an; 
cause  fer  hbmftiation.  I  claim  that  her  pi9- 
fessSoo  iiiseoond  to  one  only — that  of  the  min- 
istry; The  inetructors  of  our  youth,  if  tnie 
teachers^  aareeo- workers  with  the  ambaseadsfs 
of  Christ.  It  belongs  to  them— if  they  but  will 
to  exercise  the  greet  prerogative — ^in  mouiding 
the  plaatie  mind  of  youth  into  shapes  of  angelic 
beauty;  in  luring  straying  feet  iniopathief 

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TOWARD    TMK   HEIGHTS, 


X6S 


pnritjT  and  truth ;  in  oonfirming  struggling 
Efibrt  in  the  upward  march  to  Bight ;  ia.  dia- 
robing  pure  Religion  of  austeri^,  and  orovi^ 
tag  Virtue  by  the  bright  example  of  a  daily 
Hft^  embodying  much  that  is  beautiful  ia.pec^ 
Beyerance  in  well  doing,  to  shape,  the  destinies 
of  nations,  and  wield  a  scepter  which  .shall 
sway  the  hearts  of  thousands*  Thia  young 
lady,  from  what  I  can, gather  from  M.}^  I^ate's 
ittcription,  is  doing  a  noble  work,  though  as 
Longfellow  expresses  it — 

**  All  her  hope  and  all  her  prids 

Are  in  the  village  school." 

"  Bight  r'  was  the  emphatic  exclamation  of  \ 
Dr.  Winthrop,  who  had  entered  during  the 
tonversation  ;  **  but,  Mr.  Qreyson^  you  are 
avare  that  the  most  charming  theories  often 
Iwe  the  delicate  frost  work  of  elaborate  beauty 
when  brought  into  the  furnace  of  praotical  ap- 
plication. The  young  lady  under  considera- 
tioD  is  one  of  your  model  teachers ;  but  I  <am 
afraid  she  finds  some  of  her  material  verjr 
aa>pla8tic,  if  you  will  allow  me  the  expres- 
sion/' 

Here  followed  a  discussion  of  the  ".eduos:- 
tional  problem,"  in  <which  all  exc^'/Miss 
Maisden  joined  until  th6  tea-bell  rang, 

Vincent  Grey  son,  as  if  to  atone  for  the  crime 
of  calling  that  young  lady's  opinion  in  ques- 
tion, devoted  himself  to  her  service  most  z^al- 
OBsIy  during  the  evening,  embellishing  hisoon^ 
venation  with  the  pretty  little  zelros  which 
Biake  up  so  large  a  part  of  the  chiMhat 
60  entertaining  to  a  certain  liype. of  yoaag 
ladies. 

The   following   week,    Miss   Marsden :  a»> 
aoimced  the  absolote  neoessity  of  returning 
'  kome  at  once. 

''I  think  it  is  really  too  bad,"  exclaimed  Kate, 
"that  now,  just  as  Mr.  Greyson  is  beginning  to 
set  better,  and  we  shall,  be  able  to  look  forivard 
to  some  splendid  ndes  and  sails  again.  Aria 
must  take  it  into  her  head  to  break  up  the 
party.  And  she's  perfectjiy  iauDov»blte^  too,*' 
Bhe  continued,  with  vexation,  Vthosgh  »he 
can't  give  half  a  reason  :for  her  haste  I". .: 

So  Miss  Marsden,  in  "her  unacoouotable 
freak,"  returned  home  the  next  day.  Ah 
•^^l  you  are  not  the  first  that  has*  assisted*  in 
Wing  a  trap  for  others^  only,  to  be  taken  in 
tl»at  same  snare. 

Br.  Winthrop  being  called  awayisuddenly, 
Vincent  was  left  almost  wholly  to  the  tender 
inercies  of  Kate  for  the  few,  remaining  days  of 
bis  stay ;  for  to  quote  her  language^  "  Clem  and 
^uy  were  grown  so  surprisingly  selfish,  as  to 
*^^^  for  no  one's  society  or  com&Nrt,  save  each 


other's;"  but  the  amiable  little  hostess  grsr 
cionsly  called  into  the  requisition  all  her 
powers  of  pleasing,  and  was  never  tired  of  per- 
forming the  music  he  admired,  or  reading 
aloud  frOnl  his  favorite  authors,  to  say  noth- 
of  the  tableaux  and  theatricals  she  planned  for 
his  especial  ekitertainment. 

^'  Where  are  Cleta  and  Guy,  I  should  like  to 
know?"  she  said  one  momiog  the  week  pre- 
ceding tho  time  set  for  Vincent's  final  leave- 
taking  ;  ''  they  are  never  here  when  they  are 
wanted  I  Oh^  yonder  they  come  lagging  along. 
Please  open  the  piano,  Mr.  Greyson,  while  I 
^ook  up  thie  music 

"  I  think  you  two  must  suddenly  have  lost 
yoar  hearing)"  she  said,  archly,  as  they  eo- 
tered—the  one  lo<^ing  very  happy,  the  other 
very  rosy.  *'  I  have  screamed  after  you  till 
my  lunger  are  sore  1  Mr.  Greyson  and  I  want 
you  to  sing  this  new  quartet  with  us." 

"Perhaps,  out  of  consideration  for  your 
lungs,"  began  Guy ;  but  Kate  put  her  hand  over 
his  mouth  with  an  impeaative  little  gesture  to- 
ward the  piano. 

And  so  the  quartet  was  sung.  And  who 
could  tell  that  among  the  rich  symphonies 
that  blent  to  weave  that  joyous  melody  there 
were  glad  echoes  of  bliss  newly  found,  blend- 
ing with  yearnings  for  lost  love  and  happiness, 
breathing  lamentivolef 

Thus  it  is,  we  have  each  our  part  in  life's 
grand  anthem — let  us  sing  it  heartily — whether 
grief  or  gladness  underlie  the  strain — remem- 
bering that  oftentimes  when  we  grope  most 
darkly,  the  light  is  just  beyond." 

*'  Eureka  I  the  vulnerable  heel  of  the  doughty 
Achilles  {".exclaimed  Kate,  on  her  return  from 
a  ride  the  following  day.  "  I  say,  Guy,  your 
friend  hasn't  his  heart-as  strongly  fortified  as 
he  flattered  himself;  but  it's  altogether  inex- 
plicable]" 

"Lady  Katherine,"  said  Guy,  "when  you 
graciously  conclude  that  Pve  been  upon  the 
rack  for  a  sufficient  time,  be  pleased  to  en- 
lighten m9." 

/*  You  don't  deserve  it  after  that  speech,  but 
I'll  be  magnanimous-  this  time,  as  I  want  the 
benefit  of  your  pre-eminent  powers  of  logic* 

"Well,  Mr*  Greyson  drove  me  round  to 
Morton  Park,  and  as  we  entered,  he  having 
been  unusually  sunny  and  agreeable,  we  met 
Miss  Daiesford  apd  her  liule  charge.  Well, 
Guy»your  unimpressible  ftriend  started  at  sight 
of  her  as  if  he  was  frightened,  and  flushed  and 
paledi  and.  paled  and  flushed  like  a  school- 
girl f  and  drove  home  in  such  a  profound  state 
of  abstraction,  that  I  verily  believe  he  was  as 


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154 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


nnoomicioaB  of  my  angtwt  presence  as  if  Fd 
been  In  the  mooD.  I  don't  know  but  be  would 
have  driven  over  the  bank  above  Oak  Orove, 
if  I  hadn't  agked  him  to  be  careful.'^ 

Guy  laughed.  «ril  veto  this  driving-  out 
with  my  little  cousin  if  it  subjects  her  to  sueh 
imminent  peril,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  to 
form  the  acquaintance  of  the  young  lady  who 
has  power  to  produce  such  wonderful  phe- 
nomena. "  How  did  she  appear,  Kate  ?  Did 
she  seem  to  recognize  him  ?" 

''I  don't  think  she  saw  him;  she  was  show- 
ing Bertie  something  by  the  roadside  as  we 
passed.  I'm  puzzled  completely  1  Fve'spoien 
to  him  of  her  repeatedly,  and  he  never  gave  any 
token  of  special  interest.  Til  tell  you  what, 
Guy,  I'm  going  to  send  her  an  invitation  to 
spend  the  day  with  us  on  Saturday." 

"You  think  perhaps  the  two  problems,  if 
brought  together,  will  solve  each  other,"  said 
Guy,  laughing. 

Kate  rested  her  chin  on  her  hand  in  a 
^ay  peculiar  to  herself  when  in  a  brown- 
study. 

Vincent  soon  came  in,  looking  as  composed 
as  his  usual  calm  self;  and  Kate  went  out  to 
see  about  dinner,  singing  softly: 

"Oh,  for  pome  Ariadne  kifid, 

A  olae  with  Bkllfal  fingers  to  onwiiid  r 


CHAPTER  VI. 

If  Kate  Winthrop  had  been  puzzled  before^ 
she  was  completely  astounded,  when,  on  Sat- 
urday morning,  Vincent  Greyson  coolly  started 
on  a  fishing  excursion,  carrying  lunch  with 
him — thus  signifying  his  intention  of  protract- 
ing his  absence.  She  had  told  him  that  the 
expected  Miss  Dalesford  to  spend  the  day  with 
them,  and  she  hoped  he  would  find  her  all  that 
she  had  pictured.  He  had  manifested  no  in^ 
terest  in  the  announcement  except  to  ask  the 
young  lady's  Christian  name,  and  seemed  so 
ditlTait  and  strange  that  Kate  Was  getting 
thoroughly  out  of  patience  with  him,  as  he 
told  Guy,  reporting  the  above  to  him  on  his 
return  from  the  poet-office. 

Had  any  one  been  watching  Vincent's  move- 
ments, they  had  suggested  another  unanswer- 
able question,  as,  on  losing  sight  ef  the  house, 
be  turned  his  back  on  the  river,  and,  with  fish^ 
ing-rod  on  his  shoulder,  rushed  into  the  wood 
with  the  abandon  of  one  seeking  he  knew  not 
what. 

Pushing  on  through  the  cool  woods  in  the 
dewy  mornmg,  he  came  to  a  sudden  stand ^ 
and  a  smile  Of  the  Wtterest  scorn  wreathed 


his  lips.  Tool  and  coward  T  he  ejacih 
lated*  *' running  from  a  woman.  She  wm 
the  first  to  torti ;  and  shall  I  flee  from  her 
DOW?  But'  ^H  to  avoid  a  scene"— agun 
starting  forward.  A  child's  voice  calHng, 
each  call  half  swallowed  up  in  a  great  to^ 
broke  in  upon  his  soliloquy.  Following  the 
direction  of  the  voice,  he  came  upon  a  littk 
boy,  who  at  tig^t  of  him  turned  and  ran  as  ftr 
dear  lifo.  Vincent  dropped  his  fishing-ro^ 
and  with  quick  strides  soon  overtook  the  littli 
fugitive.  Grasping  the  child's  arm,  he  Btf 
down,  and  drawing  him  to  him,  said  Vm^:^ 
**  Don't  run  away  from  me,  my  little  man ;  p» 
baps  I  can  help  you.  What  are  you  doiii 
here  in  the  woods  Uone?" 

The  child  replied,  between  his  sobs,  tbt 
^' his  sister  had  told  him  to  stay  in  thepitk 
while  she  went  up  the  hill  a  little  way  to  get 
kim  some  bright  scarlet  berries ;  and  he  went 
out  of  the  way,  just  a  little,  to  cat4?h  a  pretty 
bird;  and  the  bird  went  a  little  fart  her,  snd  ill 
at  once  he  waa  lost,  and  oould  not  find  iun- 
self;"  and  here  the  child's  grief  bunt  fiNlii 
afresh. 

tf  Wiell,  never  mind ;  Pll  bring  you  back  to 
your  sister  all  right,"  said  Vinoent;  yet,  Id 
spke  of  the  assuranoe  of  the  tone,  he  knev  u 
little  what  route  to  toke  as  the  child. 

''What  is  your  sister's  namef  he  iM 
of  the  little  &lloW|  now  dinging  to  his  )aak 

"Inea."  . 

Vincent  Greyson  stopped  abruptly,  sod  the 
child  looked  lap  wondermgly  into  his  fiioea 
he  muttered  to  himself:  *'  The  fates  axe  agiiiut 
m»\.  Well,  such  weakness  deserves  ponisb* 
ment.  If  her  nn&ithfuiness,  and  all  tkeM 
years  of  schooling,  have  been  in  vain,  I  will 
bring  myself  to  meet  her.  I  can  turn  from  her 
as  coldly  as  she  turned  from  me  in  the  dt; 
when  she  wrecked  my  lifiBl" 

The  aezt  moment  his  deep  tone^oke  the 
echo^  of  the  still  woods  in  the  name  towludi, 
for  yearSjhe  had  sealed  his  lips. 

His  eall  was  answered,  and  he  strode  /b^ 
ward  as  if  to  meet  his  fete,  scarcely  heedisg 
the  little  ieet  that  with  difficulty  kept  pace  witii 
his  own. 

CMfting  to  a  sudden  opening  in  the  wood,  he 
stodd  face  to  face  with  the  W6man  whose  inuge 
every  day  looked  down  from  the  **  inner 
wall "  of  his  heart,  let  him  dose  his  eyes  as  he 
might. 

She  grew  deadly  pale  at  sight  of  him,  vA 
stood  as  if  transfixed  to  the  spot. 

Hie' frigidly  formal  speech  he^ad  woven  to 
address  ta  her  Wats  forgotten,  and  the  ptin  <rf 

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TOWARD.   TEE   HEIGHTS. 


155 


fean  was  ooncentzated  in  the  half-reproachful 
tone  that  uttered  only  her  name :  ''  Inez  t" 

With  a  trembling  hand  she  drew  from  her 
pocket  a  letter,  and  pat  it  into  his  hand  with- 
out a  word.  He  glanced  over  it  hurriedly,  and 
then  read  it  again. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Inez  ?  Why  have  yoa 
kept  me  waiting  bo  long  for  your  reply  ?"  he 
iskedy  in  a  bewildered  way.  "This  letter 
dates  fiye  years  back." 

Sending  the  child  away  a  little  distance  to 
gather  wild  flowers,  she  told  him  the  story  of 
Marion  Ware's  confessic^,  adding  at  the  close: 
''Let  us  judge  her  tenderly,  Vincent,  she  has 
igone  to  her  account.'^   And  then  she  made  her 
own  confession,  how  in  the  dark  tiine  when 
her  fortune  went  down  iii  the  Yortex  following 
her  nncle*s   death,  and  swarms  of  Bunshlne 
friends  turned   coldly  from  her,  she  had  oon- 
stnied  his  silence  into  a  like,  a.  more  cruel, 
desertion ;  how  in  the  agony  and  despair  of 
that  time  she  had  left  her  former  home  with- 
out confiding  her  intention  to  any,  and  had 
lOQght  a  refuge  where  she  hoped  to  forget  the 
past,  using  every  precaution  to  prevent  dis- 
covery. 

There  were  mutual  confiBssiotM,  t6o  saK^ed 
for  repetition,  whispered  in  the  co<^,  shady 
wood  on  that  bright  June  morning,  when  the 
glad  truth  dawned  upon  Vincent  Greyson  that, 
during  the  long  years  that  had  separated  them, 
both  had  been  true,  though  each  deemed  the 
other  faithless. 

'^What  right  have  you  to  kiss  my  sister 
Inez?"  The  tone  was  as  full  of  indignation  as 
the  childish  voice  could  contain. 

''The  best  right  in  the  world,"  answered 
Vincent,  turning  and  smiling  down  upon  the 
hoy  as  be  stood  there  with  his  little  hands 
dincbed  fiercely,  the  picture  of  liliputittn  pug- 
nacity, ^ith  his  flowers  scattered  on  the  gronnd 
athiafeet. 

"  I  say  yon  have  not  I"  he  retorted,  stoutly. 
''She  is  my  own  sister  Inez,  and  nobody's  else 
m  all  the  world." 

"But  I  am  your  brother,"  explained  Vin- 
cent, *'  come  to  take  you  both  to  my  beautiful 
home  far  away.  I  am  lonely  without  you,  and 
will  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  you  happy. 
VillyoogoT 

The  question  was  asked  in  a  low,  tender  tone, 
Uid  both  the  man  and  child  looked  at  Inez  for 
reply. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Vincent  Greyson  and 
Inez  Daleslbrd  wexe  walking  leisurely  op  the 
gnnd  old  avenue  leading  to  Dr.  Winthrop's 
hospitable  mansion,  ihe  former  .in  a  very  dif- 


ferent frame  of  mind  ftom  thai  in  which  :he 
left  it  an  hour  previous. 

The  jovial  old  doctoi^  who  had  witnessed 
Vincent's  strange  manoeuvre  on  setting  OQt» 
could  not  forbear  rallying  Mm  on  his  speedy 
and  unparalleled  success. 

Vincent  received  his  badinage  with  the  most 
sparkling  aoquiesoence^  and  explained  to  the 
wonderweyed  Kate  that  he  had  accidentally 
met  with  her  expected  visitor,  and  that  she 
proved  to  be  a  former  friend  of  his« 

When  in  the  evening  he  returned  with  Miss 
Dalesford  to  her'  boarding-house,  little  May 
Evers,  to  her  mother's  astonishment,  welcomed 
him  as  an  old  acquaintance,  and  then  proceeded 
to  inform  her  whisperingly  that  "  this  was  the 
gentleman  who  wrote  in  Miss  Dalesford's  book 
and  made  her  so  sorry ;  but  ^e  guessed  Miss 
Dalesford  had  forgiven  him." 

And  so  Vincent  Greyson's  stay  at  Oakland 
was  again  protracted;  and  Kate  laughingly 
assured  Gay  that  the  result  of  her  schemes  was 
surpassing  her  highest  expectations. 

"You  know,"  said  the  young  lady,  **we 
nei^er  like  to  acknowledge  onreelves  foiled  ( 
and  though  our  desires  are  brought  to  a  opn- 
summation  independently  of  our  exertions^ 
martyr-like  we  do  not  reftise  to  bear,  the 
blame,"  imitating  Mrs.  Arnold's  voice  and 
manner  to  perfection. 

Inez  completed  the  two  weeks  which  re- 
mained of  the  term  for  which  she  was  engaged 
in  the  little '  school-house^  with  a  joy  in  her 
heart  like  the  singing  of  birds  in  early  flipriBg 
time,  filling  up  the  intervals  with  superintend- 
ing the  making  up  of  sundry  beautifal  and 
delicate  fabrics  that  had  an  air  of  orange  blofr- 
soms  about  them. 

Guy  one  evening^  >to  the  blmhing^  discom- 
fiture of  Miro  Seyxtiotir,  proposed  to  the  happy 
pair  to  wait  a  few  months  for  company  ;  hot 
Vincent's  absence  from  home  had  been  unduly 
prolonged  already ;  and  as  to  leaving  Inez  be- 
hind, that  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

And  so  one  day  the  good  people  of  Oakland 
were  electrified  by  the  iightning-spread  intdH- 
gence  that  Squire  Treadway  had  issued  license 
for  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Vincent  Greyson  and 
Miss  Inez  Dalesford  Lynnel 

And  the  quidnuncs  turned  it  over,  and  pamed 
it  llN>m  one  to  another,  viewing  it  in  various 
lights,  through  various  distorted  mediums. 

And  Mrs.  Arnold  called npon  Inez  to  inform 
her  that  '^it  would  be  expedient  to  dear  up 
the  mystery  enveloping  her  name  before  lead- 
ing Oakland." 
In^  with  a  cool  self-ponession  astonishisg 


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156 


ARTHUR'S   L ALT'S   SOME   MA^AZINJE!. 


to  the  irrepreasible  lady,  informed  her  in  turn 
that  "  there  was  nothing  in  regard  to  the  matter 
which  eoDoeroed/  however  remotely,  any  6oe 
in  the  oommunity." 

On  a  bright  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
^  month  of  roeee,"  the  little  charoh  of  Oakland 
waa  garlanded  with  flowers  by  busy  hands  that 
yied  with  each  other  in  the  work  of  loye. 
•  And  then  the  waiting  at  the  altar,  ''the 
spoken  words  holy,"  the  irreTocable  vows,  fol- 
lowed by  the  asual  April-day  mingling  of 
smiles  and  tears,  with  some  holfangry  glances 
at  the  one  who  had  dared  to  claim  "oar  Miss 
Inea." 

Then  eame  the  comforting  of  little,  sorrow- 
fhl,  half'-rebellioiM  hearts ;  a  farewell  yisit  to 
this  brown  school- house ;  a  tender  leave-taking 
of  a  lonely  grave  in  the  chnroh-yard;  then 
cheerful  good-byes,  and  the  happy  party  set 
out  for  the  eyening  train  as  the  last  sunbeams 
lingered  on  the  far-off  hilitops. 
«  *  *  «  •  «       « 

The  chariot  of  the  year  has  rolled  round  its 
drooit  thrice  and  again  since  that  wedding-- 
day, strewing  its  green  and  sombre,  its  flowers 
And  snow-wreaths ;  and  to-night  Ines  sits  in  the 
June  twilight,  her  eyes  fondly  following  a 
bright,  manly  hSy  as  he  guides  the  little  feet 
of  baby  May,  shouting  in  her  in&nt  glee,  to 
•meet  a  well-known  form  approaching.  The 
tears  well,  up  in  her  eyes  as  of  yore,  but  they 
have  lost  the  old  yearning  look  of  sadness  long 
MgOi  for  her  heart  is  aglow  with  the  peaoefbl 
trust  that  He  hath  done  and  "  will  do  all  things 
well ;"  and  her  lips  are  wreathed  with  smiling 
•as  they  murmur  the  diapason  of  her  glad,  new 
life  song : 

''Though  the  way  to  the  Heights  lead 
through  labyrinths  of  doubt,  there  is  bright- 
ness and  joy  at  the  end  thereof." 


Changing  ths  CoiiOB  of  Flowebs. — ^An 
lEogtish  paper  describes  a  case  of  yellow  prim- 
icee,  ivhich,  when  planted  in  a  rich  soil,  had 
■  the  jSowere  changed  to  a  brilliant  purple.  It 
.al«o  says  that  charcoal  adds  great  hrilUancy 
to  the  colors  of  dahlias,  roses,  and  petuniias; 
carbeonate  of  soda  reddens  pink  hyaciniha,  find 
phosphate  of  soda  changes  the  colors  of  Jiiany 
plants. 

.  CoKSCiBNCR  is'  n  sleeping  giant ;  we  may 
-Ittll  him  into  a  longer  or  a  shorter  slnmber ; 
hut  his  starts  are  frightful,  and  terrible  is  the 
hour  when  be  awakes.  \ 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

BT  MART  A.  FORD. 

YOUR  path  whkds  up  the  hill-fide  fair  and 
sunny, 
Through  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom,  | 

And  mine  through  lone  and  erer-deepening  ahsd- ; 
owe 
Of  eveaiog's  twilight  gloom. 

Before  yonr  eyes,  sweet  as  the  shores  of  Eden, 

Blossoms  a  pleasant  land ; 
IPor  me  the  tangled  wild  and  dreary  desert 

Stretoh  wide  on  either  hand. 

Jjof,  bean^,  friendship— woman's  dearest  bk» 
ings^ 

And  fondest  hopes  are  thine ; 
A  soro;  despairing  heart,  forever  starring 

On  empty  husks,  is  mine. 

God  pity  U8  whose  feet  must  eyer  linger 

By  Marsh's  bitter  streams. 
Whose   yeamiog    arms  but  clasp  the  modnag 
phantoms 

Of  Tain,  delasire  dreams ! 

Is  it  because  my  sins  are  red  like  crimson, 

And  retribution  minsi 
Tha^  to  my  p<Mrtion  fall  life's  tasteless  ashei^ 

To  youf  s  the  golden  wine  7 

If  I  ,have  sinned,  have  others,  pure  and  blamelsai, 
Passed  tb  rough  the  flames  unscarred — 

No  soorch  or  stain  upon  their  garments'  whitenttt, 
Their  spotless  skirls  unmarred  ? 

Ori  if  tbey  through  long  years  of  wrong  and  folly 

To  adverse  winds  have  sown, 
Wherefore  must  /,  uablest  and  unforgiren, 

The- whirlwind  reap  aloae? 

-Bepialatf  heart,  oppressed  and  heavy  laden, 

Be.sileatl    Clod  is  just; 
He  beareth  every  prajer  and  cry  of  anguieb; 
'Believe  Him«  lovoi  and  trust. 

0  sister  fair,  for  yon  sweet  fields  of  promise 

BloBEom  'neath  summer  skies ; 
For  me  the  path  across  life's  dreary  desert 

Lone  and  beclouded  lies. 

Bat  ill  the  better  home,  where  falls  no  8badow> 

Tbat  borne  from  sorrow  free, 
I,  bow  deformed,  bereft,  shall,  clothed  in  beauty) 

Walk  side  by  side  with  thee.  * 


It  is  not  enough  to  belieTe  what  you  mw*" 
tain;  you  muBt  main^n  what  you  belief^ «» 
maintaint  it  becanse  you  believe  iL-^Whatthi' 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


BETTER  THAN  OUR  FEARS. 


BY  T.  8.  ARTHUB. 


«  JOHN  r' 

tl     The  man  did  not  Btir. 
''John  V*     His  wife  laid   her  hand  on  hie 
shonlder.     He  moTed  slightly. 

"It  is  very  dark  I  know,  husband  dear! 
Bat  night  does  not  last  forever.  Morning 
always  comes." 

"  We  haye  waited  a  long  time  for  the  day  to 
break,  Hetty — a  long,  Jong  tiiae !" 

Hr.  Archer  lifted  his  bowed  head,  and 
looked  at  his  wife  drearily. 

**A  long,  long  time,  Hetty,"  he  added,  "and 
the  night  is  still  black." 

"  But  the  earth  turns  steadily.  It  cannot  be 
long  from  daybreak." 

"  Maybe  not,  but  I  have  lost  heart  and  hope. 

Oh,  if  I  could  but  die  I"    And  Mr.  .Archer 

threw  up  his  hands  with  a  despairing  gesture. 

"And  leave  me  heljpless  and  friendless," 

Baid  his  wife. 

"  If  we  could  both  die  I"  be  answered,  monrn- 
folly.  "We  are  not  fitted  for  a  world  like 
this,  We  cannot  keep  step  with  the  eager, 
Wilfish,  unscrupulous  crowd.  We  are  jostled^ 
and  hurt,  and  driven  to  the  wall." 

"  God  made  it,  and  takes  care  of  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Archer,  in  a  confident  tone.  "  If  he  ^ 
clothe  the  grass  of  the  field  which  to-day  is, 
and  to  morrow  is  cast  into.  tl>e  oven,-  will  he 
not  much  more  clothe  us?  Let  the  past  give 
08  confidence  for  the  future;  Up  to  this  hour 
he  has  led  us  by  a  safe  way."  .   , 

"  But  such  a  dark  and  strange  way/'  re- 
turned her  husband.'  ".At  scarcely  aipy  time 
during  these  past  ten  years  have  I  been  able 
to  see  a  hand's  breadth  before  me ;  and  when 
the  cloud  did  lift  for  a  moment,  it  wap  that  I 
i^ght  see  some  impassable  mountain^  or  some 
frightful  precipice."  ,  . 

"And  yet,"  spoke  the  wife  cheerily,  "ihe 
mountain  and  precipices  are  behind  us.  Though 
we  have  come  thus  far  on  life's  journey  by 
ways  that  we  know  not>  we  have  come  safely." 
"If  there  werenQ  more  steep  mountains  to 
climb;  no  more  preoi pices  to  threaten  de- 
airugtion,"  said  Mr.  Archer.  "  I  am  weak  and 
weary." 

"As  thy  day  is,  so  shall  thy  strepgth  be. 
Has  it  not  always  been  so,  my  hq«iband? 
vThen  was  the  burden  God  gave  us  to  carry 


too  great  for  our  strength? — or  the  way  by 
wh^ch  he  led  us,  impassable?  Then  think, 
dear  husband  I  how  much  better  it  is  with  us 
than  with  many  others  whom  we  know.  There 
is  poor  Mr.  Edgar.  It  is  now  nearly  two 
monihs  since  he  was  able  to  do  a  stroke  of 
work ;  and  his  wife  is  a  weak,  sickly  thing.  If 
you  are  in  doubt  and  despair,  how  must  it  be 
with  him  ?"    . 

"Poor  fellow,*'  said  Mr,  Archer,  with  a 
toncb  of  sympathy  in  his  voice.  "His  case  is 
baa,  indeed.  I  don't  see  what  is  to  become 
of  him  and  ids  family.  The  neighbors  should 
look  after  him." 

"  Who  are  his  neighbors  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Ar- 
cher. 

Her  husband  did  not  answer  the  question. 

"Are  you  not  of  the  number?"  she  queried. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  if  all  are  as  badly 
off  as  we,  there  is  precious  little  help  in 
them." 

"There  is  refreshment  in  a  cup  of  cold 
wattr,"  said  Mrs.  Archer.  "Many  a  life  has 
been  saved  by  so  snxall  an  offering.  Let; us 
give  the  water  if  we  can  do  no  more.  While 
brooding  over  our  own  troubles,  we  have  for- 
gotten those  of  our  poor  neighbor  who  is  far 
worse  off  than  we  are.  Come,  John,  let  us  go 
round  and  see  after  the  Edgars." 

"You  go,  HeUy;  I  don't  feel  like  it,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Archer.  "If  there  is  anything  I 
can  do  I  will  try  and  do  it.  You  go,  and  talk 
with  Mrs.  Edgar.  J  don't  doubt  but  you  can 
say  something  that  will  give  her  comfort." 

"  John,'*  said  Mrs.  Archer,  "  God  is  thegneat 
comforter  of  us  all ;  and  if  we  would  have  his 
blessing,  we  must  be  like  him.  Give,  and  it 
shall  be  given  unto  you.  Let  us  try  tp  forget 
our  own  troubles  in  an  effort  to  ease  the  trou- 
bles of  those  who  are  in  more  difficult  places, 
dome  I  Mr^  and  Mrs.  Edgar  may  be  in  sore 
need  of  just  such  help  as  it  is  in  our  power  to 
give," 

A  little  way  from  the  Archers  lived  Mr. 
Edgar^  He  was  a  mechanic  with  a  wife  .find 
, three  children.  Two  months  before  he  had 
injured  himself  in  lifting  a  heavy  piece  of  tim- 
ber, and  had  not  since  been  able  to  do  any 
work.  His  wife^'who  was  in. delicate  |iealth, 
had  taken  in  sewing  since  that  time,  and  earned 

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with  her  needle,  two  or  three  dollars  a  week. 
Bat  the  strain  of  overwork  and  anxiety  was 
too  much  for  Mrs.  Edgar.  '  While  iki  tb^  net 
of  setting  the  table  for  their  scanty  meal  on 
this  very  evening,  a  sudden  faintness  seized 
her,  and  she  fell  insensible  to  the  floor. 

Her  husband  had  barely  strength  enough, 
with  the  assistance  of  his  oldest  child,  a  girl 
ten  years  of  age,  to  lift  her  upon  a  settee  that 
was  in  the  room.  While  in  the  act  of  doing 
BO,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Archer  entered.  He  who 
cares  tenderly  for  all  His  children  had  sent 
them  in  this  time  of  sorest  nee<}. 

In  his  strong  arms,  Mr.  Archer  carried  the 
insensible  woman  to  her  chamber.  All  his 
own  cares  and  troubles  were  forgotten  in  a 
moment. 

For  ne.irly  half  an  hour  this  fainting  fit  con- 
tinued ;  then  conscious  life  slowly 'returned. 

"  I  knew  it  would  come  to  this  r*  Mr.  Edgar 
had  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  so  full  of  misery  and 
despair  that  it  aroused  in  the  heart  of  his 
visitor  a  feeling  of  deep  commisseration. 

"  Your  wife  is  not  strong,*'  he  said. 

"  Strong !  No,  sir  f*  the  man  answered,  in 
a  tone  of  bitterness.  "  She  hasn't  the  strength 
of  a  child.'' 

His  face  worked  painfully — he  clinched  and 
unclincbed  his  hands  in  a  helpless  kind  of 
way — there  was  a  de.^perate  look  in  his  eyes. 

"No,  sir,"  he  added,  **not  the  strength  of  a 
child ;  and  yet  burdens  that  strong  men  find 
often  too  great  to  bear  have  been  laid  on  her 
shoulders.  O  sir  I  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  man 
to  see  his  wife  staggering  under  heavy  loads 
while  his  hands  are  powerless  to  help  t  I  grow 
so  desperate  sometimes,  that  I  can  hardly  keep 
back  evil  thoughts." 

"How  long  is  it  siifice  you  were  able  to 
work  ?"  asked  Mr.  Archei^. 

"  More  than  two  months,"  the  man  replied. 

**  You  are  gaining  strength  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  V 

"  You  walk  better  than  you  did  a  few  weeks 
ago.    1  have  noticed  that." 

"Yes ;  but  What  is  walking?  I  want  strength 
for  working,  and  that  doesn't  come.  I  can't 
lift  a  ten-pound  weight  without  a  pain  in  my 
back.  I'm  a  useless  drone — a  burden  and  a 
care.  Heaven  help  me  I  I  sometimes  wish  I 
were  dead  1" 

"Heaven  will  help  you,,  my  friend,'*  said 
Mr.  Archer,  offering  the  assurance  1)is  own 
weak  faith  had  not  been  strong  enough  to 
accept. 

"  I  don't  know  about  tliat,"  replied  the  other, 
gloomily.    "God  is  good  to  some,  but  very 


hard  on  others.  We  are  not  the  favored 
ones." 

"  We  will  talk  abput  that  some  other  time," 
said  Mr.  Archer.  "  There  is,  I  doubt  not,  a 
loving  care  over  us  all ;  but  when  our  way  lies 
through  dark  and  difficult  places,  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  we  are  not  forsaken  of  God.  After 
the  fear  and  pain  are  over,  we  are  able  to  see 
the  hand  that  led  us  in  safety." 

The  man  sighed  heavily,  but  <fid  not  answer. 

"You  worked  for  Lloyd  &  Co.?"  said  Mr. 
Archer,  after  a  little  silence. 

"Yes." 

"  Has  any  one  from  the  mill  been  to  see  yoo 
since  you  were  hurt  ?" 

"No.  I  have  been  left  to  die  like  a  dog. 
Mill  owners  have.no  souls." 

"  I  have  always  heard  Mr.  Lloyd  spoken  of 
as  a  kind-hearted  man." 

"  So  he  is  to  his  dogs  and  horses,  his  cows 
and  his  sheep.  But  for  his  human  depend- 
ants— save  the  mark  I  I  have  worked  faith- 
fully in  his  mill  for  six  years ;  and  now,  crip- 
pled for  life  in  hla  service,  I  am  turned  off  to 
starve." 

"  I'll  see  about  that,"  returned  Mr.  Archer, 
rising  abruptly  and  leaving  the  house.  A  ha^ 
ried  Walk  brought  him  in  a  few  minutes  to  t 
handsome  residence,  surrounded  by  tastefol 
grounds.  As  he  entered  the  gate,  he  met  the 
owner,  a  sturdy  looking  man,  with  short  iron- 
gray  hair  and  beard;  a  strong  but  delicate 
month,  and  blue  eyes  out  of  which  looked  a 
woman's  tenderness. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Lloyd." 

"Oh  I    Mr.  Archer,  I  believer 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  -Lloyd  held  oat  his  hand  in  a  frank, 
kindly  way. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Archer.  Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"Thank  you  I  Not  for  me.  But  there  ia 
one  sorely  needing  your  help."  Archer  spoke 
in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  feeling,  and  in 
which  Mr.  Lloyd  detected  an  accusing  spirit 

"  Who  is  it?"  was  promptly  asked. 

"You  have  had  in  your  employment  for 
several  years  a  workman  named  Edgar?"  said 
Mr.  Archer. 

"Yes;  a  faithful  and  true  man.  What  of 
himf  Mr.  Lloyd's  voice  was  fhil  of  concern. 
"  Nothing  wrong  with  him,  I  hope?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  something  very  wrong.  He  wm 
badly  injured,  while  in  your  employment,  over 
two  months  ago." 

"Badly  injured,  did  you  say?"  asked  Mr. 
Lloyd. 


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"Yes, sir;  bo  badly  injured  that  he  has  not 
been  able  to  do  a  stroke  of  work  since.    His 
weak,  sicklj  wife  has  had  to  keerp  the  lankily  ; 
np  ever  since ;  and  now  she  has  l>roken  down/' 

"And  I  was  told  nothing  of  this  (V  exclaimed  . 
Mr.  Lloyd,  his  face  growing  pale. 

''Did  yoQ  not  hear  o^  thcf  accident f^Hdred 
Mr.  Archer. 

^No;  I  nmtk  have  been  atway  wheh  it  '<*&> 
eoiM.  I  «jte  dfttti' absent  bn'  bcisiness^ftv- 
qoently  fane  ireek^  st  )&  ttrnfe.'  '  ify  parttters 
haTemoie  Co  ^^th  the  milt  And  thework- 
Wb  than  I  hflhrei'  •  Btit  Where«doto  Ed^  Hvef' 

'*It  is  neittly  If^otttef  of  k  mile  distant" 

^Areyotl  neslr'him?*' 

"Yes,  sir."         i 

'*May  I  Mk  yOd  to  show  ma  the'way  r 

"I  am  going' flglit  back  %6  has  house.  My 
wife  is  there  cloihg  what  she  can  for  Mrs.  Ed* 
gsT)  whom  we  Ibnnd  in  a  fainting  lit,  the  result 
of  Qlier  eziiaastion  fr^m  overwork  and  anxiety/' 

Mr«  Lloyd*  searoely  spokis  a  work  as  he 
walked  rapidly  in.  the  direiotio|i  of  Edgar's  'cot- 
tage. On  anivingyihe  went  ihi  hurriedly,  and 
Sleeting  his  workxBBD  fiiod  to  fiU^  said  with 
mach  feeling : 

^My  poixr  maul  This  la  M  wrong!  I 
never  •knew  a  wvrd  about  it* until  a  moment 
igo.  Some  one  id  miserably  ito'blamel  60 
take  heart.    It  Idiall  all  ber  made  right'' 

The  look  of  ^gimtfful  surpiue  that  flushed 
into  Edgar's  &oe-r4e  flew  of  manly  teun  that 
eoold  not  be  repieased-^ravealed  toMr.  Lloyd 
the  depth  of  misery  out  of  which  he  had  lilted 
this  poor  forgotten  one^ 

**  Pardon  my  weakness,  sir/'  Edgar  made 
newer,  as  aooa  as*  he  oould  command  his 
roioct    *'  Bnt  it  came  on  me  so*  suddenly." 

''Why  didn't; yoa  send  me  word?"  asked 
Mr.  Lloyd.    **  It  wasn't  right  in  yon  to  do  so."* 

'^I  thouglit'  yov  must  kno#  it^  sir.  Every- 
body knew  I  was.  hurt/' 

"I  was  not  at  heme ;  and  when  I  came  back| 
no  one  told  meJ>  It  was  all  Very  wrong.  I 
tbtll  be  hard  on  aoniebody  for  this. :  Who  was 
yoar  foreman  ?"! 

There  was  an  angry  quiver  in  Mr.  Lloyd's 
Toice. 

**  Don't  behhfd  on  anybody  ontny  account," 
•>id  Mr.  Edgar.'  '^Maybeit  was  only  forget* 
felntw."       

*  IV>rgetftilneBS  such  as  this  is  a  erime^"  was 
^«  Item  answer*  ^  The  man  who  fails  to  t»* 
poft  a  case  like  yours  is  not  worthy  to  hold  a 
fonnan's  position." 

''Please  ex^kMEio  me  for  a  moment,"  said 
Sdgar,  rising  with  difficulty.     "I  must  tell 

VOL.  xxxvm.— 11. 


Mary  the  good  news.    It  will  comfort  her — 
poor  soul  I" 

A  ^]^d;h^  n^ved  slowly  away  to  an  adjoining 
jchamber.  In  a  little  while  he  came  back,  with 
mcjst^/e%  #ut  of  which  all  the  trouble  had  gone. 
-  "You  are  a  neighbor  of  this  poor  man," 
Mr.  Lloyd  hsjd  iaid  to  Atcik^,  ka  soon  as  they 
wetealoife.'   '  ••  '•   '  '  *  •''•'^  '•'  '      f- 

"Y*,8ii':t  ilTlven^arlilm.*      '    i 

^' And  hiiv^  i  fti^ndfy  iVitercsf  ih  KAb  wel^ 
fkrd  f  '  Bdt  I  n'^ed '  tiot  ask '  that  'ihesiM 
Yoiir  a<*tlonrrt'  haVfe  prdv^  that:  Hiivte  you 
leisure  to  walk  home  with  me?  I  would'  likte 
to  ddifot  whh  yori 'aiotot  itlm."   "  "' ■ '  •• 

"Irit  be  your  wish,'!!  «hall  he  happy  ib 
act  With'  ybu  for  his  rielf^i;"  skfd  ^r.  A^iMier;' ' 

It  was  long  Ifter  thdi"' iMai  stijpt)^  hbuif 
when  Mf.  Archer  retuth^'home  ihkt  Wenin'^; 
His'  wife  W^dted  for  him,  wondering  at  his 
delay  j  wotideKng,  hnlil  sufrt^rise  at  hik  kbeende, 
began  tb  chiingei  Into  oonciei^. "  IVeii,  as  sli^ 
sat  listeJiing  intently,  she  Jieard  the  ifefi-knowtr 
sound  6f  liis  coining  f^}  H  was  hot  ^th^  ut^ual 
mea^tiYed^treaii,  btkt  qbick  and  elaAt?^  "What 
ooQldf  It  ix]|«lui  7  *  She  had  risM^  and  wit^  lesti- 
ing  forward  as  he  threw' b^en  tii^dobir.'  A!^- 
ii^OBtWith  tt  bound' he  dthie  in,  dtt<^Miig  her  in 
his  arins.  "  "  "  •  "'       ''.*■'■■.•■'■'. 

"O  Hettyl"  he'  eirikiidea;«r  hkv^  dtrch 
gobd  new^  for  yduf  'MrJ  LT6yid  wi^  me  to 
btt  h!bt  private  and'  dbnfidenti&f'  clerk;  and 
ofibre  me  twice  as  much  a  year  M  T  hkve  ever 
niadci  in  my  lifo.  It  is  jolt  the  pi&ce  bf  all 
bdi'ers  that!  would  lik^  krid  one  ib  which  I 
am  sure  I  can  give  satisfiiction.  '  TS^  Is 'such  a' 
tru^  nbble^hekrted  mab,  Hetty.  I  bevel!'  tm- 
der^tdod  him  b^foM.  Yoo  don'tf  know  wh4t  W 
long;  nice*  talk  i^^liavei' had  tdifetb^r.^  H^ 
says  he  is  sure  I  aid  the^ihaii  he  has  Itjtig  b^en 
searching  for  ;•  and  if  an  liooeift  eibM  to  be 
true  and  fidtkful  to  the 'work  he  gives  m^  (o 
do  will  avail  knything,'  h»  nhs^' not  be' diaap* 
pointed." 

^He  has  1>een  hutUtr'to'  ns  4hidf  «U  our 
foara,"  answered  Mhk  Aixdte^, 'vHth/aaab and 
a  gush  of  Ihankfii)  team^as  4h^ 'iaid'«her'wa^ 
face  apon  her  husband's 'breasi?' '  '    '<*'    •  ^> 

"He  has  always  been  better,^'  impoadnA 
the  husband.'  '^But  I  am  s^oh^a* coward  when 
evil  threatens.  To'  thhik  ihdw'thls*  saccoi* 
eamef  It  makes  incf  haiiibld,  and  glad,  and 
thankful,  all  in  one.  We  were  not  seeking  our 
okn  good,  but  that  of  another.  "W^e  W^re  >efibr- 
Ing  and  net  asking  help/  ^WeA  d  w«  were 
wo  reached  oUI  odr  hands  to  thosa^wllK)  w«re 
weaker,  and,  lo  I  the  help  W«  *neadedt!  laa.eoBBO 
totttall»  •         ••  /.     '    . 


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%T  rraoiKf  A  F.  T0Wi4&eMD. 


CHAPTER  XVII.    :. 

AFTER  midmght  Darley  Hancd,  pould  not 
Bleep,  or,  at  ^ivft,.i/.he,drfpp«d  awv  ^or 
«  fe9r..s)fQipeotaJoto  a  ^iaUfrtsteU.  Alunftier,>iie 
was  sufe  to  ^tiyt  up  014^  qI  fom^ ,  boirU^lf^ 
dntan^mith  hiaJbea^throbbi^fg^aad  bi^  n^cv^ 
abiikipg,   .   .     •      .  ...;.    ..,^ 

Long  afterward,  jrhwJla^Uy  ^•iedt^i^iiiqa.U 
]U8  dreaana .^ti  itb^  liix^;eFerj tiding  w^s*;  bazj 
9iki ,  QO^foB^i^  kf:  hia  wmorj^a  so4  'O/t  njigbfr 
maff,  OU^  <}fv  ^bidbk  f^pen  /of  bobgoblin  and  gpr- 
goD4ta^ed  «md  gnipoed  at  blip;  and./e^,  aU 
the  faces  aeemed  to  h«ve  sofnt  ainbtle  jikLeQeis 
to  tJbajb  c4  the  bearded  ^txap^r  whom  Darlej 
t^ad  ^n  in.tbe  famt  moonUgbt  oj^  (be  lonely 
road,;  oa  tfi.  tiba|;  ot^fr  faoer-wbicb;  \he  bo/ 
knew.  hy\  Jii^art— that  bad .  glared  at  hii^  9.  mo- 
m^n^/as  bf .  pasoad  hj^ ,  Ipdeed  iDi^^ej.  (i^d  oot 
been,  irfti^  (to  ^,  tM  twp  face^,  o\it  .of,  bia 
tbaQglits  all  da/y  ;|^d  he  bad  e^rpised  thoae 
shri^wd  wi^ .  of  Itis .  00  liftle  ia .  9|N)cuhiUng 
on  young  Forsyth's  trouble,  without  j9;etMPg  f^ 
p^ticl^,9»ii]^B  th^  trfi(b(  thoj/gbi  > 
,,,".H^i]flf  UJjJ  ca|i't.f*Emd,,lJu8  any  longfi^v" 
l^^^d  at,  li^p\j  atart^^  up  out  of  a  ^rea/v  or 
nightmarf,  ft  ppl^  sweat  actually  breakifijg.  all. 
over  (lia.s^u^  iitUe  liipb^:  "jl'U  get  up  a^d 
BfM  if  A  flgnart  ^rpt  wont  get  th^  cobwebs  out 

ofny.oldbifdn.''  .  , 

.  Pariay.Hfkn^  W44  ceirl»i]yk.,»pt  Do  waiA  long 
W  ^  eiioovl^l^n  o(  anjPthing  to  whi^  i  he  had 
onfe  i^ada  up  this  miii<l4  ao.he  was  ouipf  bed 
Ia  amuiutei,4Ki9iB«d(hui»elf  in  tk^  dark;,  and 
thien6M»m.Med.4«.AhQ.wi9dclw  and  iiooLed  outb 
In  the  ^aat  a  gps^jficM  dawo,<iiraB  ju^  begii^-i 
Ding  to  nBQy  aqd  overhead  idie  sma  w<ei«  ge^ 
ting  pale. 

iKvftfiytbiilg  lookadnWmDtepahly  dff^ar^  atid 
doldvAhekWtifU.U/fildand.bapa  oo  tbe  edgA 
oi  >wijaletTraUj{tha  :miigs^  the  deiu  rustle  of 
leaves,  the  gladnwsiiofi. blossoms  gone  down 
iM4»i«riDibil^/SiD#ty  flats  ofwdodsaAdittead- 
owa^«hata.metfo]p4t  wa^  that  tha  winds  and 
the  voloodfl  wtfoiil  iloOtt-  be  1  spuming,  a. great 
Whtte|fihroi>d</or(|^ll.ithat.B|ask,liMkeUne4s  anA 

.-6oBMitho«|ghts.af  this  Jtind  wereln  thebgy'a 
tool,  as'  hs  g90^  ont  of  tha  small  window 
paa«B<^,.th9.oldj"isaDrlU^;"  then:iu»  tdtfned 
a«4-vsnt4oM..Atairfl.,,-..:  m  ,  ^- . .  ... 
The  stove  was  np  now,  and  Darley  Ijispacted 
(160) 


thA'8r«te,;and  found  that  the  fire  had  kept  all 
night.  So  long  as  the  weather  was  moderately 
WATQI,  J'rudy  n»g84rd«4  iVia:  pwos<  of  eziravs- 
gsooe  to,M>i<d  a  Iresh  firsr  avei(y  day.  T^ 
damper  hsRt  only  to  be  ^sqad  jioWf  and  the 
c^a  woaJd  aU  be  alive  in  n  short  tp  ma.  It  wsi 
shignlar  thi«,  years  sffterwtrdy  JOadey  Hsaai 
could  nevor  heboid  a  si«o«lderUig  .fire,  with 
little  brigbt  arrowy  tongiMa:lkk«  ^imajl  liaafdi 
shooting  among  the  coals,  that  his  did  not  re- 
call that  dfeir^.  dawn,  and- hiioaelf  slandrog 
by'the  grate  iii'the  eld  ."iki^vto;^  bat  some- 
thing happened,  aa  yon  will  learn  in  a  littls 
while,  which  made  that  momiDg  stand  out  ia 
D«rUsy  Hane^'a  mtmwf  dear  aiid  sharp 
against  all  theotber  moniiiigaof  hia  boyhood. 
-'  fie  went  oet,  .patting  hss-.baadliiii  his  podc* 
^la.and  fsciD^  t&e  bJaak ipiotinoKif  the  dead 
tar^-ssid  thd  early  daw%/{with  the  chilly 
dampness  clinging  to  the  air. 
:  "JNow^tf  l.had  the  faihteal  twge  orwbiff 
of  soperstitionM about  moy'f- Mattered  the  boy, 
''wouldnH  r  Hkiuk  tl)e..chcMta-  and  goblioi 
had  made  a  sobon  me  last  ni^tf  But  Hsii- 
lei!s  fat}ier*a  ghesl  gave  upraising  himself  long 
sgb. beyond  ^the 'stage  heaida;  and  if  he  ^dn't, 
TbosAleTlian't  Denmark,  and  Ppi  not  Hamlet's 
ancle.*    ♦  •'•.,...•••    i- 

Now  Darley  thought  that  waa  ratheva  devtf 
jdke«.  it  tended  to  put  him  in  «  belter  humor 
with  i  himself;'  and  he  keptioaat  a  brisk  paee^ 
and  his  blood  began  to  eiMnlate!  more  rapidly, 
And  the  ooM,  patient  dawn  grew  slowly  into 
Aayiig^iitaround'Thoml^y*'  i'  - 
-  About  two  niiiee  from  hom^  Ddrley  pained 
where  the  road  forkedi-  He  wis  unoeitun 
which  ooorsfe  to  take^  for  000  path  led  olT  to 
llieoid  t«rDpike,'and  beyond- »thal  was  a  ciil 
acrosH  lots  that  would  materially  diminith  tbs 
diKtance  home,  while  the  other*  roadfttrnok 
down  to  the  rirer  Jatw ;/ and  jnit  beyond  the 
bridge  lay  the  highway. 

Darley  took,  at  ^first,  the  rt>«d  which  inte^ 
nested  the  turnpike.  Hfl1irent.«  low  rods,  and 
lhei»— to  this  day  without  knowing  why— with- 
out any  possible  jMipen  < for.  the  dbange  ie  ^'« 
eeurae,  he  suddenly,  stopped,  Awed  abooty  r^ 
trasHl  his  steps,  and  to«k  ihe  otlier  fork  of  lho 
road. 

A  drearier  speetsel^  can  har^^y  be  iipagio«<I 
than  that  which,  ijreewd  the.  hoy  as  l»c  »"♦ 

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A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


Wl 


vpon  the  river  flats.  Thej  laj  before  him 
wrapped  in  gray,  unwholesome  fogs,  sloping 
wide  and  bare  down  to  the  river,  the  banks 
fringed  with  swamp  willows,  which  shone 
•pectral  through  the  mists. 

In  the  snmfner  the  same  landscape  made  a 
delicioQs  picture,  with  the  cattle  gracing  knee- 
deep  in  the  low,  rich  pastures,  and  the  river 
ihioing  broad  and  blue  betwixt  them;  but 
DOW  the  fog  and  gloom,  and  wide,  utter  bar- 
renness made  the  whole  scene  inexpressibly 
drearj. 

Dsrley  shivered,  and  hurried  off  toward  the 
bridge;  and  he  had  nearly  guined  this,  when 
the  boy  suddenly  f^tood  still,  struck  with  the 
tight  of  something  white  on  the  river  bank. 

It  was  quite  light  by  this  time.  The  white 
object  moved  a  little,  and  then,  peering  through 
the  thick  gray  mist,  Darley  Hanes  saw  that 
there  was  a  human  figure  op  t|ie  bank. 

There  it  stood,  motionless  a?  a  statue,  star- 
ing It  the  broad,  dark  current  below,  which  at 
this  point  rushed  rapidly  to- the  sea. 

Barley's  curiosity  was  greatly  excited  by 
hiH  diAGovery,  while  something  in  the  whole 
position  of  the  motionless  figure  struck  a  chill 
tbroogh  him.  As  his  g]Bze  cleared,  the  boy 
Mw  the  whitenesh,  which  had  first  attracted 
his  notice,  were  the  shirt-sleeves — in  that  chill, 
wintry  fijg,  too  I 

Darley  Hanes  was  no  coward.  He  drew  his 
breath,  however,  and  his  heart  beat  fast  as  he 
*toiedown  to  the  bank,  with  an  awful  fear  lest, 
before  he  reached  it,  the  figure  standing  on 
the  edge  of  tbe  bank  should  plunge  away  from 
Us  sight  into  the  dark  river  below. 

The  miry  soil  gave  no  echo  to  his  footsteps, 
U)d  he  had  almost  reached  the  figure  —  he 
nw  by  this  time  that  it  was  a  young,  half- boy- 
ish one,  instead  of  the  old  man's  he  had  fintt 
^cied  itr—when  suddenly  it  stirred,  turned 
•boat,  and  confronted  Darley  Hanes. 

In  a  moment  the  boy's  face  grew  actually 
livid^he  stood  still  as  though  a  thunderbolt 
M  struck  him  to  the  8|]f^t,  and  he  cried  out 
sharply — a  cry  of  amazement^  horror,  pity,  all 
^  one;  for  the  face  that  Darley  Hane^  saw 
^VD  there  among  the  river  fogs  while  the 
^*WD  was  growing  into  early  day  was  the  face 
«f  Ramsey  Forsyth  1 

There  was  an  awful  look  in  the  latter's  eyes 
*~ft  wild,  bright,  defiant  glow — that  even  in 
'^t  dreadful  moment  struck  Darley. 

Have  you  come  for  me?"  he  asked,  in  a 
▼oice  hardly  above  a  whisper.  "  I  wont  go 
^  haok  with  you.  I  tell  you  I  wont ;  but  I 
Wont  give  you  any  trouble  either  j"  and  then 


his  glance  shot  down  to  the  river  again,  and 
Darley  knew  what  the  boy  meant,  and  knew, 
too,  that  in  a  minute  more  all  would  have  been 
too  latje. 

He  drew  closer  to  Ramsey,  shaking  in  every 
limb;  and  seeing  now  a  long,  swollen  bruise 
on  one  side  of  the  youth's  face :  "  Forsyth/'  he 
asked,  in  a  shaken  whisper — for  it  struck  the 
younger  boy  that,  the  elder  had  suddenly  gone 
mad  —  "what  has  happened?  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  7" 

Ramsey  stared  at  the  questioner;  but  the 
bright  horror  did  not  clear  out  of  his  eyes. 
'*  Don't  you  know?"  he  asked.  "  Haven't  they 
sent  you  afler  me?  I  tell  you  I'll  save  them 
ihe  trouble  of  hanging  me;"  and  again  his 
gaze  struck  off  to  the  river,  which  went  swift 
and  dark  to  the  sea. 

Darley  was  more  and  more  convinced  that 
his  friend  was  suddenly  gone  distraught.  He 
must  save  him  from  self-destruction.  If  there 
were  only  somebody  in  sight ;  but  at  that  time 
of  \he  morning  no  human  being  was  to  be 
found  on  the  low  meadows  of  Thomley  River. 

Darley  put  his  hand  on  Ramsey's  arm.  ^  My 
dear  fellow,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook 
with  pity  and  horror,  *'come  away  from  here  I 
Let  me  help  you." 

Ramsey  stared  again.  The  pity  which  was 
uppermost  in  Darley *b  eyes  seemed  to  strike 
the  other  now.  "Haven't  you  heard?"  he 
asked.    "  I  thought  you  had  come  for  me." 

"  What  is  there  to  hear,  Forsyth  ?  What  is 
dbe  matter  with  you  ?"  asked  Darley. 

Then  the  answer  came,  mounting  up  in  a 
sort  of  shriek  that  would  have  made  any  hu- 
ipan  nerves  shudder :  "  X(u£  night  J  murc/ired 
my  father/** 

There  was  a  cry  this  lime  from  Darley 
Hanes,  and,  too  weak  to  stand  he  sank  down 
on  his  knees  on  the  damp  ground,  covering 
his  livid  face  with  his  hands,  and  crying 
out,  "O  my  God  I  my  God!"  as,  in  all  the 
troubles  which  had  fallen  so  heavily  into  his 
boyhood,  he  had  never  cried  that  name  before. 

The  cry  must  have  pierced  through  the  fire 
and  frenzy  at  work  in  Ramsey  Forsyth's  brain 
to  his  heart — a  cry  that  could  have  come  only 
from  a  soul  that  had  loved  and  trusted  him, 
and  that  was  smitten  now  with  an  unutterable 
ago.iy  at  his  words. 

He  drew  nearer  the  boy.  ''  I  didn't  mean 
if}  do  it,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  it  was  a  robber 
when  the  pistol  went  off  in  my  hand." 

It  was  an  hour  after  daylight,  but  Prudy 
and  Cherry  were  still  fast  asleep. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


162 


ABTEUB'S  LADra   EOliE   liAGAZlSE. 


It  was  a  pleasant  sight,  that  of  the  young, 
pretty  iaoes,  with  the  masset  of  dark  hair 
aboat'th^y  as  they  laj  slumbering  together  in 
the  chamber  of  the  'Mean-to/'  But  Darlej 
Hanes  had  something  but  pretty  sights  to  be 
thinking  of  that  morning,  as  he  rushed  into 
the  room  and  shouted,  "  Prudjr-^herry — ^you 
must  get  right  up  I" 

There  was  a  movement  of  both  heads — then 
the  two  girls  opened  their  eyes  and  saw  Darley 
standing  there  with  his  white,  shocked  face. 

'*  What  has  happened  ?"  cried  one  or  both  of 
the  voices,  and  the  girls  were  sitting  up  in  bed 
and  staring,  alarmed,  at  their  brother. 

''  A  great  deal  has  happened,"  said  Darley, 
in  a  voice  that  was  not  just  his,  so  grave,  and 
shocked,  and  old  it  seemed.  '^You  must  get 
right  up.  There's  somebody  down  stairs  needs 
you.  I've  brought  him  home  with  me,  and 
I've  only  just  saved  him  from  drowning  him- 
self in  Tbomley  Biver." 

"  Drowning  I"  cried  two  amazed  voices ;  and 
then  the  sistera  looked  at  each  other  and  at 
Darley  in  white  amazement, 

"  It's  Bamsey  Forsyth,"  he  continued,  rapid- 
ly. '*  I  don't  dare  to  leave  him  for  a  minute. 
O  girls,  you  don't  know  what  awful  work  I've 
had  to  bring  him  here,  aqd  you  lying  quietly 
asleep  all  the  timer 

Every  word  of  their  brother's  incoherent  talk 
only  added  to  the  amazement  and  horror  of  the 
girls. 

''Are  we  awake,  PradyT  asked  Cherfy, 
shivering  and  drawing  closer  to  her  sister. 

*'  1  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  answered  Prudy. 
"  D&rley,  do  stay  a  minute — what  is  it  yon  are 
saying  V*  For  the  boy  had  turned  away,  and 
was  going  down  stairs. 

He  turned  back  now.  fhe  truth  was  so 
terrible,  Darley  had  instinctively  shunned  it; 
but  it  must  come  out,  and  as  well  now  as  ever ; 
and  he  did  not  dare  stop  to  pick  his  way 
through  careful  words  to  the  dreadfol  fact 

"  Girls,"  he  said,  "  the  most  awful  thing  has 
happened  that  you  ever  heard  of.  jRaouey 
Fonyih  %kot  hiM  father  lasi  night/  He  didn't 
mean  to — he  thought  it  was  robbers.  I  don't 
know  all  abont  it  myself— I  only  know  that  he' 
is  down  stairs  this  minute  by  the  fire,  and  that 
he'd  have  been  lying  drowned  in  Thomley 
Biver  long  before  this  if  I  hadn't  got  up  before 
daylight,  and  found  him  on  tlie  banks  just 
ready  to  spring  in,  and  dragged  and  pulled 
him  home  with  me." 

The  girls  burst  out  crying.  Darley's  story, 
coming  so  suddenly,  had  shocked  them  into 
utter  helplessness.  If  he  could  have  cried  with 


them,  it  would  have  been  an  unutterable  relief, 
but  there  was  the  boy  down  stairs,  and  for  him- 
self Darley  felt  that  this  morning  had  made  an 
old  man  of  hitai;  but  Darley  was  mistakeii 
here ;  he  would  find  out  in  time  that  it  takes  a 
great  many  dreadful  mornings  to  make  us  old. 

He  spoke  now,  with  a  quavering  through  hii 
voice :  "  Prudy — Cberry — ^yoi/re  only  girls,  I 
know,  and  this  is  an  awful  trouble  to  face ;  but 
we  are  only  boys,  too,  and  you  are  all  io  the 
world  we  have  to  look  to.  If  you  fail  oa, 
everything  must  go.  Can't  you  be  women 
now — strong,  and  brav^  and  helpful— in  thii 
awful  crisis  7  If  you  don't — if  you  go  down  in 
tears,  and  sobs,  and  fright,  that  will  be  the  end. 
Ah,  Prudy,  yon  are  the  oldest,  and  you've  got 
a  warm,  true  heart,  I  know,  when  trouble 
oomes,  and  it  was  never  needed  so  much  u 
now.  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done,  and  I 
want  yoQ— not  a  Reared,  helpless,  sobbing  girl, 
but  a  calm,  brave  woman — and  Cherry,  too,  to 
plan  and  work  with  me ;  for  there  the  poor  fel- 
low sits  down  stairs  with  a  look  that  woald 
melt  a  stone  to  see,  and  I'm  the  only  friend 
he's  got  in  the  world  now,  and  I'm  only  a  boy, 
and  it's  a  big  trouble  to  carry  All  alone." 

Then  Darley  went  down  stairs.  The  homely 
eloquence  of  the  boy  had  not  been  lost  on  hfii 
bearers.  There  was  done  up  in  the  making  of 
those  frail  young  girls  a  power  which  would 
be  sure  to  respond  to  this  appeal. 

Prudy,  all  quivering  with  amazement  and 
horror,  turned  to  her  sister. 

''Cherry,"  she  whispered,  "you  heard  what 
Darley  said.    We  must  do  it." 

'•Yes,  Prudy;  we'll  try,"  answered  Cherry, 
her  tears  dropping  iatit  on  her  nightgown ;  and 
in  the  next  few  moments  the  girls  were  out  of 
bed  and  dressing  themselves  as  fkst  as  their 
shaking  hands  would  allow. 

In  all  its  hundred  years,  the  south  room  of 
the  old  "lean  to"  had  never  witnessed  such  a 
scene  as  it  did  on  that  morning  when  the  two 
breathless  girls,  with  faces  out  of  which  all  the 
pretty  bloom  had  wilted,  came  down  stain  and 
saw  Bamsey  Forsyth  sitting  there  by  the  fire, 
which  wa^  alfin  a  live  glow,  while  Du-ley  was 
rubbing  the  hands  of  their  guest. 

The  boy  made  a  sign  to  the  girls,  and  they 
came  forward,  and  Bamsey  sat  before  them 
with  his  head  sunken  on  his  breast,  and  the 
indescribable  expression  of  utter  d««pair  per- 
vading his  attitude  which  had  marked  him 
that  morning  as  he  stood  on  the  flats,  with  the 
dark,  silent  river  waiting  for  him  below. 

"These  are  my  sisters,  Forsyth,"  said  I>w^ 
ley,  trying  to  speak  in  a  cheerful  voice.  *'They 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


A    DOLLAR   A    DAT. 


168 


wDl  be  M  good  firiwDib  to  yea  u  lam,  every 
whit" 

Witk  a  fltort,  as  tlwogli  an  anow  had  ttnick 
and  quivered  in  hie  iesh,  Bamwy  tamed  and 
itered  at  the  gfarla*  There  was  a  awift  terror  in 
his  look ;  and,  as  that  yanished  at  tight  of  the 
yeong^  pitiful  faoea,  thej  law  something  in  his 
qrea.  Whenever  Cherry  talked  about  it  after^ 
wardfl,  »he  would  draw  her  breath  and  lower 
her  tone,  and  say:  <'It  wa0JiMtaw(^lI"  ' 

Of  a  sudden  Basosey  iprang  up ;  the  sight  of  ] 
fhcwe  girls  brought  Cttmj  back  wUh  terrible 
vividness;  und^-perhapa  though  he  did  not 
kne<w  it  htosell^  though  he  had  teaaed  and 
4ortoented  the  life  hs^if  oat  of  her— that  ypong 
siiter  oC  hia  was  a  little  dearer  to  Ramsey  For- 
syth than  anything  in  the  world  beside.  "  Why 
didnt  yott  let  me  drown,"  he  cried,  **  when  I 
wasted  to  f  It  would  ail  have  been  over>  long 
before;  and  it  wasn't  any  kindness  to  bring 
ae  back  to  this  r 

The  tears  rained  right  over  Cherry's  cheeks 
as  she  heard  that  dreadful  cry;  but  Prudy, 
Iheqgh  her  whole  iaoe  shook  with  the  efibrt, 
•tepped  right  up  to  the  boy»  and  put  both 
hands  on  his  shoqldec.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  Dar- 
ley  did  right  not  to  let  you  drown.  "  I'm  glad 
he  found  you — sad  brought  you  here  to  as  i" 

**  But  you  wont  be^"  answered  Bame^,  with 
a  look  which  it  seemed  aothiog  human-oould 
have  stood  unmoved,  ''when  they  come  and 
dng  me  away  from  here  to  prison." 

**  They'll  have  to  do  that  over  my  dead  body 
first,"  shouted  Darley,  getting  right  up  on  his 
leet  and  spreading  out  his  clinched  fists,  and 
looking  as  fierce  tm  some  old  knight  when  he 
mounted  his  steed  st  the  eound  of  the  trum- 
pet, and  lode  into  the  lists  with  the  old  battle 
cry  of  tilt  and  tournament  on  his  lips,  ^  And 
•B  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  Heaven."  As  for 
Prady,  she  looked  fierce,  and  glanced  at  the 
poker;  and  Cherry's  round  little  (aoe.with  tlie 
tears  on  it^grew  stem  as  she  stared  around  for 
a  weapon  with  which  to  bear  down  the  mijesty 
of  the  law,  and  decided  on  a  well-worn  dust- 
brush.  '    / 

''And  when  it  eomes  to  the  trial,  and  the 
hanging — n<^  it  would  have  been  better  to  let 
ne  drown,"  said  JUmsey  Forsyth,  in  low,  slow 
tones,  and  glancing  with  a  shudder  toward  the 
door. 

''They  wont  hang  you.  You  didn't, mean 
<o  kill  your  ihther,"  said  Prudy«  veiy  dedd- 
edJy. 

'*Ko,  indeed  yon  didn't^"  sobbed  Cherry. 
•^They'd  see  that." 
B^disey  sank  down  in  a  chair*-he  put  his 


hands  before  his  focet  "Noy"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  sounded  hollow  in  their  ears,  "I  did 
not  mean  to  kill  my  fother;  hui  I  vxu  robbing 

The  brother  and  the  aisten  gased  at  each 
other.  Darley  shook  his  head  in  a  way  which 
imidied  that  he  believed  young  Forsyth  did 
not  know  what  he  was  saying,  and  the  girls, 
ia  their  pity  and  horror,  were  at  once  disposed 
to  adopt  this  view  of  the  case. 

Bomething  dreadful  had  happened,  which 
had  shaken  the  youth's  wits  and  driven  him 
to4he  very  verge  of  suicide,  but  they  weije  not 
going  to  Uiink  sny  evil  of  Darley's  friend  and 
theirs— they  witnessed  his  agony,  and  that  was 
enough  with  this  brother  and  his  innocent 
young  sisters;  no  matter  how  the  focts  stood 
against  Bameey  Forqrth,  they  would  still  be- 
lieve he  wes  "more  sinned  against  than  sin* 
ning,"  and  blame  would  be  swallowed  up  in 
pity. 

"If  I  could  only  get  him  warm,**  said 
Darley,  still  keeping  to  work  at  the  cold 
hands.    "  He's  just  like  a  cake  of  ice,  Prudy." 

"  We  must  get  some  hot  tea  down,  right  ofl^" 
died  Prudy ;  and  now  she  knew  her  ground, 
and  commonplace  work  and  care  steadied  the 
girl's  nerves  is  she  set  promptly  about  it — 
coming  back  every  now  and  then  with  Cherry 
•to  look  at  their  gtiept,  whose  sunken  eyes  and 
lived  face  seemed  to  grow  more  deathlike  every 
moment  He  did  not  speak  or  stir--once  or 
twice  he  raiwd  his  eyelids  and  gased  at  them, 
but  they  were  all  doubtful  whether  he  saw 
them;  indeed,  Ramsey  Forsyth's  eyes  bad 
•seen  little  since  midnight  save  the  dead  body 
of  his  fother  stretched  sUrk  and  stiff  before  him. 

At  last  Prudy  whispered :  "  We'd  better  get 
the  lounge  up  to  the  ^le," 

The  broad,  old-fashioned,  but  very  comfort- 
able piece  of  furniture  was  dragged  from  its 
dme*hoDored  place. 

Ramsey,  utterly  submimive  now  through  ex- 
haustion and  misery,  laid  down  on  it^  and  they 
piled  blankets  upon  him. 

By  this  time  the  tea  was  ready.  Dariey 
lifted  the  boy's  head,  and  Prudy  held  the  cup 
to  Ramsey's  lips,  and  he  tried  to  force  down 
a  swallow  or  two  of  the  drink,  but  the  success 
cost  Budi  a  painful-  effort  that  he  waved  the 
eup back,  saying,  "I  can't  drink  it." 

His  head  sank  back  on  the  cushions— his 
drawn  mouth— the  ashen  pallor  of  his  fooe 
gave  it  a  deathly  look.  The  scared  trio  of 
watchers  .around  the  lounge  stared  at  cash 
other  and  at  theii*  guest,  a  fear  lest  he  might 
did  in  a  little  while  suddenly  striking  them. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


IM 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   BOliK   MAGAZINE. 


Pradj—with  whom  all  eihotion  wm  pretty 
eertain  to  take  mwu  the  form  of  practical  help- 
fulnem— hurried  o/f  to  get  ready  midm  heated 
bricks  for  the  boy's  feet,  and  in  a  moment 
t>arley  followed  her  into  tlie  old  kitchen  to 
hold  a  short  council. 

"Pnidy/'  in  an  undertone,  ''what  is  to  be 
done?" 

The  girl  Rhook  her  head:  ''He  has  an  aw- 
fullook — awful/' she  said. 

"  You  don't  fc'pdiie  he  is  (roing  to—"  The 
little  raonoRjllable  stuck  in  Darley's  throat 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  a  dreadftil  trou- 
ble like  this  does  kill  folks,  you  know." 

"  I  know  it  does — at  least  I've  read  of  siieh 
things;  and  there  cooMn't  be  any  trouble 
more  awfol  than  this.'' 

"  No,"  said  Prody,  under  her  breathy  widi 
her  scared  fiice,  "there  couMn^t.  It's  all  come 
BO  suddenly  that  I  can't  really  take  it  in.  Bat 
you  mustn't  leave  Cherry  there  alone  with 
him." 

Barley  turned  to  go  back,  but  before  he 
reached  the  door  he  came  to  Pmdy  again  and 
said,  "  Prudy,  we  ought  to  do  something.  Can't 
you  help  me  to  think  7  A  girl's  thoughts  are 
sometimes  better  than  a  boy's." 

Nothing  could  have  proved  moire  omidii- 
sively  the  awful  straits  into  which  Darley 
Hanes  had  fallen  than  this  Confession.  At 
any  other  time,  too,  yoa  may  be  sure  Prtfdy 
would  have  plumed  hi^rself  on  such  an  avowal, 
but  so  absorbed  was  she  in  the  dreadful  trag- 
edy one  of  whose  acts  was  so  strangely  going 
on  under  the  roof  of  the  old  '*  iean-to"  tfalat 
winter  morning,  that  she  was  quite  nnoon- 
scioua  of  the  compliment  to  her  aex'  whinh 
inhered   in  her  brother's  speech. 

"The  trouble  is  inside:  i^s  a  mind  diaeaie, 
you  know"-*unoonscionsly  again  quoting  Mac- 
beth*—''and  we  ean't  reach  that." 

"That's  so,"  said  Darley;  and  again  the 
brother  and  sister  stared,  frightened  and  help- 
leas,  at  each  other. 

"  Darley,"  said  Prudy,  aa  a  sudden  thought 
struck  ber,  "  are  you  sure  he  baa  done  that  to 
his  father  V*  her  words,  you  aee^  shootitig  away 
from  their  awftil  meaning. 

"He  said  io,  over  and  over,  on  the  way 
homei-  O  Prudy  1"  bursting  right  out,  "you 
don't  kndw*^nobody  ever  can— what  an  Aw- 
ful time  I  had  this  morning  to  get  him  here. 
I  had  to  drag  him  sometimes  by  main  force. 
I  never  should  have  believed  I  was  so  strong; 
and  he'd  have  broken  away  again  and  again, 
if  he  had  had  the  strength."  ^ 

"  Poor  fellow  r  with  anoth^ahudder*  "fiot, 


Darley,  there  may  be  a  chacee,  after  all,  that 
his  father  is  alive." 

"0-*-h  Prudy!  what  makes  yon  think  so? 
He  would  scream  out  everf  little  whil^  oom^ 
ing  home,  that  he  heard  his  ftrtlwr  cry  out,  and 
saw  him  fiilL" 

But  Prtidy  conld  see  that  Barley  csn^t, 
with  treftttbling  eaueemess,  at  a  hope  which  had 
never  creased  his  own  mind. 

"The  irst  thing  to  do,"  said  Prudy— now 
folly  aroused  to  the  oourse  of  action  which  the 
circumstances  demanded — "ia  to  go  out  sn4 
learn  the  tmth.  Everybody  will  be  fall  of  h 
by  this  time,  and  be  ready  enough  to  talk  it 
ovtf  with  yon.  Yon  must  get  right  off,  Dw- 
ley.  We^ll  take  care  of  him;  and--^op  jmt 
one  moment — yon  most  get  this  eup  of  tci 
down ;  and  if  yoD  could  eat  a  mouthfol." 

"  I  can'^-^not  one,"  answered  Darley,  sett- 
ing the  cup  with  trembling  fingers  and  galffing 
down  the  contents.  "  O  Prudy,  if  it  should  be 
true,  after  all,  that  his  father  ia  not  deadi  It 
b  so  woliderfal  yon  thought  of  that  V 

"  I  don't  dare  to  hope,"  said  Prady,  sohbiag  i 
again ;  "  bot^  my  heart  will  keep  praying  to  | 
God.    If  the  wont  is  true,  ke  will  not  lite 
through  the  day.** 

"  And  in  the  odier  ease,  we  shall  eveiy  ooe 
die  of  Joy,  I  do  believe,"  answered  Darley,  har- 
rying on  his  (^d  coat  "  And  Pmdy,  keep  the 
fttmt  ^ttOT  locked  and  the  curtains  down ;  and 
if  anybody  comei^  don't  let  them  in  for  yoar 
life.  Not  a  living  soul  knows  he^s  under  ioor 
roof." 

"  And  not  a  soul  will  be  likely  to  oeme  for 
US,"  said  Prudy.  "If  there  ahonld,  Tli  seod 
them  round  to  the  back  door." 

Then  Pmdy  hurried  one  way  and  DaHey 
another.  The  whole  talk  had  not  occapied 
more  than  three  minutes,  but  it  seemed  to 
Cherry,  keeping  her  scared  watch  foithfally,  as 
she  had  promised,  by  the  ashen  foce  on  the 
lounge,  much  more  like  three  hours. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Darte/s  thumb  on  the  front  do<MP.  He  had 
been  gone  something  over  an  hour. 

"  Cherry,  you  go,"  said  Prudy.  There  was 
such  an  awfVil  fear,  such  i  mighty  hope  at  the 
older  girl's  heart,  that  she  could  not  drag  he^ 
self'to  her  feet. 

As  the  bolt  flew  back,  Darley  rushed  ^ 
and  upset  Cherry,  and  bounded  into  the  fooB< 
"Forsyth,"  he  shouted,  "your  forher's'slifel 
your  father's  alive  1" 

Itamsey  Fdrsyth  sprang  into  the  wMdk  of 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


A    DOLLAR'  A    I^AY.^ 


165 


the  fbom.  Not  imtllitlM  trtfai^  V  Sth«  iii«|i* 
ang«l  8lMJl>  tkmdev  •ifft^  Mat  iMt  stoep.  'will  any 
wnod  aw*k»  his  mmvI  like  thdee  woi-chs. 

H«  bod  Mb  ^tli  lii»  cold  Bf^Mn  liicA  fa^ly 
•tiffiiig'thro^glii  all  this  ttaie  of  Daiitjr's  abi- 
8«Me,  Wbll«  Ofe^  ^rl9  had  'kept  th^iD-wmtefa, 
te  tke  uost  twfft^  ailently/  :  Piudy  kad  net 
kintad  lb  •ChMy^niial  icnmilt'of  hope  Md 
tapwaa  gaikair  on  intlwr  aim  Mnl^<  and  only 
God  had  kngitvn'tlMiti 

The  scene  that  .Ml|»¥«d  in  the  <'leaii*to/' 
that wlntervtf irvnafr. ^Vh Jte'P^W  1VP  hardly 
y«t  two  houi]B,hi|;b|,w^  .o;9e  tiha,!  tfaopeeiM^ 
aUthepcwerof  word^  „j,.  .   -  ,!•      !     •  i 

They,,  the  foui:  actocs  in.  ij;^  were  n^y'er.  ypiy 
clear  about  the  ipatter.  ,WheD(^ver^  af^erw{|^> 
they  tried  tip.. gq.; oyer  with  the  scene,  th^^ 
always  choked  aod  the.  ^ords  shook  ani^  trem- 
bled^ and  at  the;  best.  Qnejppuld  only  ap^apjii 
toBome  oonfused  no^f 6^.  ,of .  ,wh^  happ^ed  f  ( 
ibetime.     /  •  ^     \   l^ ,  ,     ,  .  ',^'   \ 

Xou  know  l^Tf,jJt 'iV—if  you  bayV,^v/W 
heeh  through  .any  f  ^ful  crisis  of  joys  or  s^r^ 
R>WB-^th'at  tii'e8e-,haveJ>eeo  f  Imost^impossibJi^ 
to  live  ovej;  in  s^ob  afterwardr 

The  accounts  >aUieigreed  in  tnis,  howeyer, 
that  the  little  people  sobbed  and  wrung  their 
hands  for  awFul^oy,  and,  that  Bamsey  ForByil^ 
held  parley,  witli  the  jgrasp  of  ten  giants,  anci 
laade  him  go  oyer  and  oyer  with,  the  words, 
tnd  that  Darley  forgot  bin  stqr^  and  could  not 
talk  straiglit,  and  actually  ^ent  down  in  ai 
great  bellow,  and  that  trudy  dropped '  rigbi 
<m  her  kuees  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and 
sobbed  out,  ''  I  knew.  you. wouldn't  let  bim.die^ 
dear  God ;  I  knew  you  wouldn't.''^ 

As  for  Cherry,  that  shy  little  n^  aid  en.  found 
herself  with  her  arms  around,  Ramsey's  neck, 
and  she  was  laaghing  and  crying  together,  and 
wying,  "  They  won't'  hang  you  now — oh,  they 
woait'i"--' '  '   '.       '    '  "•  •      "  ;i/ .. 

The  first  thing  Which  broti^ht  the  ^roup  a 
little  to  their  s^ns^,  was  the  condition  of 
Banisey.  *  liid^d,  if  he  bad  not  had '  tU^ 
forces  of  yoiith  On  his  sidik,  Tdo  not  believe 
the  boy  could  have  liyed  thtoiigh  the  awful 
shock  of  joy  which  dame  suddenly  on  all  the 
•gony  he  had  underj^ohe  since  .mid;iight  *  and 
an  older  heac!^  ihan  JDarley's  would  ha v(?'takin 
care  to  break'  the  good  n^ws  less  a(^j:uptly. 

When  the.  string;  gc^sp  si j()  ^nffiy  frufn  J>ar* 
ley,  and  the  ydoth  lay,  liaftp  iptd  heilpiew,  on 
the  :fl0Off,  with  tha,  jdf tadfui'  'whiteaosn  about 
his  meuth  amdithtt  4read6ii  joyriio  ,hia  eyes^ 
the  othen  'liters  frigfatenad  oito  •conifianitiye 
calmness.  .  • '  •  •  •  ..  a  .  ,  - 
They  got  him  on  fbe  louh|fe  agiin,  and 


OBNM  thare^  land  aataally  iacapabla  of  artico- 
lating  a  loud  word,  he  turned  to  Darley^-witb 
hk  white  lips  and  pltti<Miig  ^yea,  and  whis- 
pet«d : :  ^8ay  it  again  \  aay^tAgaln.*' 

''HeVi  cUv«.  i  swti^  U-^be*s  alive  r 
BfaoMted  Da^lof*   '       /.,...••. 

Than  tiia-soA,  «#e^^abaikeft  f^oio»  of  Pmdy 
came  up  into  the  excitement  "  There;  now^ 
^  most  aU  ba  >rery  qutoi  and  Ibitan  %  "and  >^oa 
ttiMibe-A  4BiiMi|«Dajri«y/-aDd'  teU  ^ii^  all  you 
know."  - 

l>ar]ey  dilA,  getting  tbrobgfc  wiAi  ft— as  he 
ttdd  aKWrWMd-*  wHMottll  ^man^'  bhfoders,  oib 
UMtoh  blxRidoring^  •  !>': 
•  i  Ha  bad  gancpstraigbft  to  the  ibiuilaih  bead^ 
that  morning,  which  proved  to  be  Ketcham^ 
butcher.  stall-^aiiymei^a'Bttfcing. about  Thdlrn- 
Jey  being  pretty  •be^taiinvof4lagercBtcrlaihnieat 
iii.thaii.viouittf4<i  .    '  o 

Eetcham  was  unoaaUy  well  prinwA  on  tbfi 
oo6aai0n;  for  the  butcba^aobild  having  btek- 
en  an  arm  the  day  .befon^i  this  iniaa  bad- seen 
the  iurg^awkb  bad  attended 'pvarnigbt  on 
Fbmythv'  -   .i   .-.  »'     l»  ■  • 

Eetcham. «ktall«d  tbo 'iaoiai,  with ^ bis  knife 
in^aa band  ku^a (foarterof  beief on  the  Uble 
before  him,  to  a.  g^Mdy*  brbwd-;  but  no  ona 
ki4ng  upon  iua  woids' for  life  or  death  like  the 
fvedcia^faoed,  ftigbt-bairad  newsboys  with  bis 
eapidraapn  downoloaa  to  bik  glittering  <eyei^ 
wbana. nobody •flidtooed.  .  '  '  ' 
.-Ttie  elory  which'  the  boteher  datdkled  to  bis 
gaping  ^>aadienoe  amboated  anbatsritially  Co 
this:.: 

ForByth  had,  during  his  youth,  an  occasional 
ii[ftaok  of  somnambaHste.!  H6  bad  nat^  bow- 
evary  for  yeitra-dereioped  anything  wf  .tlie  sort ; 
and  it' wa^  w  varyi  singubif  jooinoidence  thai 
ha  kh^old  bavc^  iqrisan-'Mm.  iliaitbed  in  bia 
sleep  and  confronted  his  son  on  the  nighi  ^ 
Ihe'irobberyA  •.•,■').."  .'.  w'  .1 
,  Aamsey'ajvbi^p  bad,  ho  wevei*,  partially  awak» 
ened  his  fatb^iand  the  jnanfaad  beard  tho 
nport  of  the  ptaio)  end  tiia  dseadful  words 
wbicii'  foliowadi  ha&iro  be  sank  upon  the  flaotr* 
TbA  bouMeboidrwaB'crooaed.by  tbisnoi^e,  and 
tbe>  servantb  bad  rof^h^/  lo  iba'hack . coom, 
where  •  Farygl tbi  .waa  diseorered  •  iyibg^  shot,  on 
tbafleon  *.  .'i  .,.--■■'.-.  ' 
.i'A' terrible  .aQ|UDiaienaUfd«.  Tba  rifled  cbes^ 
the  rolls  of  money  l^ing  around^.^^**  ^  \asti^ 
tlM  iflAifirevsionttbat  Yobbeni  kkd^'^utec^d  the 
hous^f  and  wbii^^ome  »tarah^d  tba'pn»wisear 
QU»ei«i  roda  polt  baaie  ,for. »  aargaoiu. ., 
-  Beiiur^  ibt^  dudtor  ajrdivad».  lM)w<»yaVy  the  m«ja 
bad-  pariiaily.'iTfeoovered,  and  bis.  iihit  wurda 
muttered,  wb<Hi  be  wiuibaiidly  con^oiousi  .were 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


166 


ARTHUR'S   LADTa   GOME   MAGAZINE. 


a  oall  QD  Banfejy  whom  lie  calleii  hli  omuv 
deren. 

Poof  Creasy!  sfan.  wes  kneeling  over  Iiat 
father,  in  heti  njightidrevs,  wringing  her  bands 
apd  sobUdg,  whie^  ake  iieatd  those  woids^  She 
stood  right  up,  then,  and  looked  at  PnootOr 
with  a  &oa:.thal  aeelned>  froscn  inlo  .a  dead 
horror.  ,  •  .  ..•  ,  .  ,  .  t  . 
.  Poor.Creesjr  I:  abe  did  not  crj  «»7  moie  thai 
night;  but  wMiib  4bott^  with  the  «r&l.io<iki.iB 
her  eyes. 

Proct^  hbard^  with  evrerybody  elae^  his 
father'^  words.. ;  I  The  ; boy  seemed  like  .one 
dazed,  or  in  a  dream,  after  thaty  hardly  hearing 
or  uddevataoding  when.tha  aerraata  spcte  to 


The  ball  had  entered  Jnat  abore  the  olaTiole^ 
Ik hadimadean  nglycironiid,  bat  nat  one  thai 
would  prove  mortal.  Before  morning  the  aur* 
geon  had  extracted  tha'balL 

Of  oonxae^  Rainsey's  flight  was  at  onoe  dia* 
oo^erediiand  thu.fiiat  only  aabstantiated. bis 
goiH  in  .the.eyte  of  the  honsekold;  yet  it  was 
not  until  after  daylight  that  it  began  to  bO 
whispered  in  Thomley  that,  y^wng  Forsyth 
the  night  before  had  aUemj^ud  .to  rob  hia 
iather,«  then  shot  him  and  fled. 

Even  then,  ,as  the  only  witness  was  tha 
woandad  man  himnblf^for  whom  the  suigeon 
pommandad  absolute  quiet|  no  immediate  mcas« 
ures  were  taken  for  yonng  Forsyth's  aroest; 
indeed,  Thorn  ley  itself  was  half  atimned  by 
the  dreadful  tidings,  and  it  waa  in  most  qnaiv 
ters  taken  for  granted  that  the  youth .  had 
made  his  esoape. 

In  any  ease,  the  last  plaoe  where  anybo^ 
wx^nldhare  Chonght  of  searching  ibr  him  was 
the  old  ''kan4o»"  where  Darley  Hanea  waa 
repeating,  iheihutoher's  story  to  Bamsey  Foiv 
lyth. 

When  it  was  through,  Cherry  was  the  first 
who  broke  out :  ^'  Oh,  I'^n  so  glad  'that  Darley 
didn't  let  you.  drown  I  I'm  ao  glad  T 
•  Bamsey's  e^es'had  sot  onoe  moved  from 
Barley's  &oe  while-  ha  waa  talking.  At  these 
words  he  borftt  rtgbt  out  dnta-  a>  storm  ol  ery*' 
ing  and  sobbing,  which,  they  said,  afterward, 
lasted  ibr.  hours.  But  it  is  «ny  opinion  that 
they  had  very  oonfuoed  notions  of  time  tfarongb-i 
cot  that  dsf -^beside^  tha  crying  waa  not  all  on 
Bamsey's  side; 

At  last>Pmdy  brought  the  tea  agaiiK  He 
drained  the  cbp  with  feverish  eagemesD,  and 
then — it  was  no  wonder,  after  that  long  agDay* 
that  ov^^tazed  sool  and  body  had  givenway^- 
Bamiiey  Forsyth  fell. into  a  heavy  slamber, 
and  his  lace,  with  the  red  glow  of  the  firelight 


npon  i^  haid^  looked  Ilka,  .tha  Ihce  of  Bam 
sey  Fonyth,  sq4>M  and  white  had  it  grown. 

But  for  Darley  there  wim  Iha  old  daily  bett| 
with  the  Morning  News,  rodaid  Thoni^  Qom* 
mon  and  Merchaals'  Block,  and,  haid  as  it 
seemed,:  it; waa  belter,  perhafii»  ^t  the  bsin 
that,  ha  oonid  have'  tha  iblemed  mt^deer  Hfi 
and  the  st^y.wavh,  ta.inaka daar  his<bni4 
and  p»««iptvaad.atfoag  his  thoughts  Ibr  wha 
was  to  come.  (lb  &e  coaJinasrf.) 


•  'LIT  IN  THE  SUNLIGHT. 

WK  wtsti  the'lYi^pottanca  of  admitting  iA 
light  of  the  ^n,  freely,  as'  well  as  boOd* 
ing  these  early  AtlA  lite  fires,  could  be  properij 
{niprei«ed  up6n  our  housekeepers.  No  article 
of  furniture  should  ev^r  f>e  brought  to  our 
homes  too  good  or  too  d^lidate  for  the  sun  to 
se^  all  day  long.  His  presence  should  nerer 
he  excluded,  except  when  so  bright  as  to  be 
uncomfortable  to  jthe  eyes..  And  walks  shoold 
be  in  bright  sniili^bt'  so  tAat  the  eves  are  pro- 
tected by  veil  or  parasol,  ilrheVi  Inoonvenieotlj 
fntehse.  A'  sun  bath  is  of  far  more  import- 
ance in  preserving  a  healthful*  condition  of  tbe 
body  than  is'  generalty  imderstood.  A  ru 
bath  ooets  nothing,  and  that  is  a  mlBfortuDe^ 
for  people  are  deluded  with  the  idea  that  those 
things  only  can  he  good  or  useful  which  coa 
money.  Buf  remember  that  pure  water,  fresh 
air,  sunfight,  and  homes  kept  free  from  damp- 
ness,  will  secure  yon  from  many  heavy  billa  of 
the  doctors,  and  give  you  health  and  yigor, 
which  no  nioney  can  procure.  It  is  a  well- 
established  fact  that  people  who  live  much  in 
the  son  are  usually  stronger  and  more  health/ 
than  thoRe  whocie  occupations  deprive  them  of 
sunlight. — Christian  Union, 

SUMMER  EVENING.— A  feONNiST. 
ar  jcas,  s.  a.  aiurvar. 
{Set  Engraving,)  ,, 
rp^E  •ainiiif  r  ^ay  draws  jto  a  olese,  the  wstt 
X    ShiDf  s  .with  the  glory  of  tbf  setting  saii«- 

The  weary  laboftr,  his  toiliog  done, 
Slo.w.plodi  hie  lonely  wsy  to  home  and  rest; 
Jhe  kioe,  no  more  by  noon -day  heat  opprMied, 
With  tinkling  bells  oome  loitering,  one  bj  one : 
The  lark,  down-cropping  from  the  ctoads,  h«i 
gbile 
To  flbd  his  mate  within' her  grsMsy  aest 
The  river  tbroiig<k  tbe  vaie  goesr  silent  by. 

With  par|^lada|»th8,anil  ripplei  glaaeiaf  bHcl^^r 
With  wbltpearing  sonads  tbe  gentliweit  wisdilj, 
XoBth^g  each  lisee  andilawer  with  kiani  lig^l 
The  floolci  upon  the  hill-side  qoiet  He, 
aUd  of  the  hoar,  and  waiting  fbc  the  ni|hU 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE. 


rl£  following  graphio  deflpp-^P^^on  of  the  Sea 
of  GhJilee  we  find  in  a  recently  publlflhed 
▼olomey  entitled,  ^'Tho  Beoovseiy  of  Jenua- 
km,''  by  Gbptain  C.  W.  WilKm*  B.  Ki 

"Wiih  the  exoeptioik'of  JeraaBlem,  there  is 
DO  place  in  Palestine  which  excites  deeper  in- 
terest than  that  lake  district  in  wfaioh  war  Lord 
pined  so  large  a  portion  of  the  last  three  years 
of  Bis  life,  and  in  which  He  performed  so  many 
of  His  mighty  works.  'What  is  the  Sea  of  i 
Galilee  like  V  is  one  of  the  first  (^uestiQiis  a 
tisTeller  is  asked  on  his  return  from  the  Holy 
Lud ;  and  a  question  ^hjch  he  ^uds  it  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  answer  satisfactorily.  Some 
uthois  describe  its  b^uties  in  glowing  t^rms, 
vhilst  others  assert  that  the  .soeneiy  is  .tame 
isd  onintereslinc^neirtber,  perhaps^  quite  oor^ 
recUy,  though  representing  the  impressions 
produced  at  the  time  On  the- writcar's  mind. 

''There  are,  It  is  true,  no  pine-clad  hills 
rising  from  the  very  head  of  the  lake ;  no  bold 
Headlands  break  the  outline  of  its  shores ;  and 
no  lofty  precipice .  thi^yr  their  shadows  over 
itt  waters;  but  it  has,  nevertheless,  a  beauty  of 
its  own  which  would  alwayb  make  it  remark- 
able. The  hiUs^  exoept  at  Khan  Minyeh, 
vbess  there  is  a^qiall  diff,  are  recessed  froip 
tU  ahore  of  the  lake,  or  rise  gradually  from  it ; 
they  are  of  no  great  Novation,  and  their  out- 
Hoe,  especially  on  the  eastern  side,  is  not  broken 
bf  any  prominent  peak ;  but  everywhere  from 
the  southern  end  the  snow*  capped  peak  of  Her* 
mon  is  visible,  standing  out  so  sh^p  and  clear 
io  the  bright  sky,  that  it  appears  almost  within 
vcich,  aiid,  toward  the  north,  the  western  ridge 
»  cot  through  by  a  wild  goige,  *  the  Valley  of  \ 
Doves,*  over  which  rise  thjC  twin  peaks  or  horns 
«f  Hsttin.  The  shore  lin^  for  the  n)ost  part 
'^lar,  is  br«>ken  on^  the  north  into  a  series  of 
Httle  bays  of  exquisite  beauty ;  nowhere  more 
biaotiful  than  at  Qennesafeth,  where  the 
beaches,  pearly  white  with  myriads  of  minute 
"bells,  are  on  one  side  washed  by  the  limpid 
viters  of  the  lake,  and  on  the  other  shot  in  by 
t  Mnge  of  oleanders,  rich  in  May  with  th^lr 
'  blossoms  red  and  bright' 

"The  surroundiujr  hills  are  of  a  uniform 
brown  color,  and  would  be  monotonous  were  it 
<|ot  for  the  ever- changing  lights  and  the  bnl- 
l^t  tints  at  sunrise  and  sunset.  It  is,  how- 
ever^  under  the  pale  light  of  a  full  moon;  that 
the  lake  is  seen  to  the  greatest  advantage,  for 


there  is  thenatoftnesa  in  the  outlines,  a  calm 
on  the  water  in  whAch  the  stars  are  so  brightly 
inirrorc|d,  and  a  perfect  quiet  in  all  around 
whioh  harmonise.' well  with  the  feelings  which 
cannot  fail  to  arke  on  >  its  shores.  It  is,  per- 
bape,  difficult  to  realize  that  the  borders  of  thii 
lahe,^  now  sosilsfit  and  desolate,  were  once  en»- 
livened. by  <the  hui^  hnm  of  towns  and  villagesy 
and  that  on  its  waters  hostile  navies  contended 
for  sqpremacyk  But  there  is  one  feature  whioh 
mnst  strike  every  visitor,  and  that  is  the  hart 
mony  of  the  Gospel  narrative  with  the  places 
whi^-  it  describes;  giving  us,  as  M.  Benab 
happily  expresses  it,  'im  ein^ieme  ewmgiUf 
loMte,  mau  liiibU  encore/  (a  fifth  Gospel,  torn 
bijHt  stiU  legible.) 

,;''The  lake  is  pearndiaped,  the  broad  end 
heingi  toward  the  north;  the  greatest  width  is 
si^  and  three> quarter  miles  from  Mejdel  (Msg* 
d^la)  to  Khera^  (Geigesa),  about  one-third  of 
the  way  down,  ptM  the  extreme  length  is  twelve 
and  a  qni^t^r  miles^  The  Jordan  eaten  at  the 
north,  a  swift,  moddy  stream  coloring  the  lake 
a,  good  mile  frep:i  its  mouth,  and  passes  out 
pure  and  bright  at  the  south.  On  the  north- 
western  shore  of  the  lake  is  a  plain  two  and  a 
half  utiles  long  ai^d  one  mile  broad,  called  by 
the  Bedawin  JEl  QJmweir,  but  better  known  by 
its, iamiliar  Bible  name  of  Gennesareth ;  and 
on  the  northeast,  near  Jordan's  mouth,  is  a 
aivampy  plain,  £1  Batihah,  now  much  fre- 
quented by  wild  boar,  formerly  the  scene  of  a 
fkirmish  between  the  Jews  and  Bomans,  in 
Wihich  Josephus  •  met  with  an  accident  thai 
nepessitated  his  removal  to  Capernaum.  On 
the.ivest-there«is  a  recess  in  the  hills,  contain*t 
ing  the  town  of  Tiberias ;  and  on  the  east,  at 
the  *  mouths  of  Wadys  Semakh  and  Fik,  are 
small  tracts  of  level  ground.  On  the  south,  the 
fine  open  valley  of  the  Jordan  stretches  away^ 
toward  the  Bead  Sea,  and  is  covered  in  the 
neiiihborhoqd'Of  4he  lake  with  Inxuriant  grass* 

''The  water  of  the  lake  is  bright,  clear,  and 
sweet  to  the  taste,  exoept  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  salt  springs,  and  where  it  is  defiled  by. 
the  drainage  of  Tiberias.  Its  level,  which 
varies  oonsifdevably  at  difierent  times  of  the 
year,  is 'between  six  hundred'  and  seven,  han- 
dred  feet  below  that  of.  the  Mediterranean,  a 
peculiarity  to  which  the  district  owes  its  genial 
winter  diiiuute.  In  sommerthe  heat,  is  great^ 
but  never  excessive^  as  then  is  usually  a  mom* 

,(167)       , 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


168 


ARTEUE'8   LADT8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


ing  and  evening  breese.  Sudden  storms,  such 
88  those  mentioned  in  the  New  Testament,  are 
hj  no  means  uncommon ;  and  I  ha^^'gobd  i, 
opportunity  of  watching  one  of  them  from  the 
ruins  of  Gamala  on  the  eastern  hills.  The 
tnoming  was  delightful;  a  g«ati«  eastsrly 
breeze,  and  not  »  oloud  m  the  fky  to  gi¥« 
iramiiig  of  what  was*  cooi!ngL  fio^dealy,  ab6at 
midday,  ifcere  wsfs  a  wMind  tt  distant  llumdef, 
and  a'  sinall  eloud,  *DO>bigg«r  thUh  a  mii^n*i 
lia«id/  wis  Been  rislhg  over  the  hei^ilMro^ 
Lnbieh,  to  the  west  In  m  Ibw  momeiite  >lkie 
doud  began  to  «ipread/«nd  beaVy  blaisk  dmums 
oahae  rolling  down  th«  hUU  lowi&Hfl  five  liUt^ 
completely  obseuring  Tabor' and  Hafitin.  At 
tiiia  momenl  thfe  breesa  died  sway,  tbefe  wen 
a  few  minutes  of  )^ffect  calm,  diirin|f  which 
tlie  sun  shone  ont  with  intense  pow^r;  and  th« 
•nrfaoeof  the  l«ke  was  smooth  and- even  as  a 
mirror.  TibeHas^  Mejdei,  and  ^h^f^ buildings, 
stood  out  in  sharp  relief  from  th«  ^loohi  bi6^ 
liind ;  bilt  they  were  soon  lout  sight*  of,  ok  (he 
thunder-gust  sw«|:ft  past  them,  and,  rapidly  iid^ 
vancing  across  the  lake,  lifted  tbe  pitfcid  Wafel^ 
Intb  a  bright  sheet  of  foam ;  in  another  tfioment 
it  reached  the  rtiins,  driving  infysiTf  aVid  cotti* 
fyanvon  to  fake  refnge  in  a  cistern,  wKere,  for 
toearly  an  hour,  We  w^re  confined,  listenii^g  to 
the  rattling  peals' of  thnnder  and  torrents  df 
rain.  The  effect  6f  half  the  lake  m  ^Ml 
rest,  whilst  the*  Other  half  was  ft)  wiM  con^ 
fbsion,  was  extremely  grand;  ft  would' have 
Ikred  badly  wifh  any  light  eiMft  caught  ih^tnid- 
liike  by  the  Atofih;  and  We  con  Id  not  help 
thhiking  of  that  memorlible  occasion  on  which 
the  storm  2s  so  grapbicaHy  destribed  as  ''<^ming 
down' upon  the  lake.  '•'  '  ' 

'  "The  Sea  of  Galilee  flow,  as  in  A*  days  6f 
<mr  Saviour,  is  well  «t<6cked  with' "varioiAi  «pe^ 
des  offish,  ifome^of ezeellcmt  flavor.  One  upe. 
ci«s  ofien  appears  in  dense  masses,  W<faich 
blacken  the  sar^<MF  of  %hA  wafer,  thelndividattf 
fish  beihg  packed  fto' closely  together  that  ob 
ade  occasioti  a  'single  shot  fram  a  *  revolver 
]|iilbd  tbpee.  These' skoala  weva'mostHre- 
qdencfy  eeea  near  tha  shore ' of 'Gentiesat^th} 
perhaps  not  hit  from  that  plstoe  whev^  the  dia^ 
eiples  let  dowa  their  net  into  the  aea,  and  *'  en- 
closed a  grent  multlttfde  of  fishes ;  and  Ihefr 
net  brake.' " 

Tt  is  impotwibto  that  iln  ill-Matured  maai  <iah 
have  a  pttbiie  spiHt'^  ^  bow  shoald  \m  love  tetf 
fhotisaad  men  w^o  ri^ver  loved' one  ?—A;ps. 

Hb  who  glveA  biai^lf  airi  of  iffipfRHan<^e,  ^r' 
hibits  the'ci^dentiats  of  impotence. — Lovcucr,* 


PAN8IE8.    "FOR  THOUGHTS." 

'  BT  MRS.  B.  V.  CO!IKUH. 

Tj*^R  tboagbts  of  home,  where,  year  by  year, 
J;    The  paneies  purple  erery  nook ; 
And  when  November  winds  grow  drear 

Stni  «milft)g  frott  tiieif  eoverN  took! 
Yor  tbouglits  6f  little  bands  that  grasped 

8<r  eagerly  tfa^  blesMns  aweel ! 
That  IMW  eW  qvlit'&eaks  aTe.ota9e4, 
.     WhUa'p4aalta  bloom,  at  head  aadfeaL 
.J  f.  .  .  •       .■      '*.  ./  *       i      .      ; 

•Vdr  Hheaghia  of  ^aay  a  vaaiAed  May, 

.  Aad.  many  a  rosy,  fragrant  J  une ; 
Witl^  ba4  aad  bloon  on  every  apray. 

And  rpbias  alf  |(ing  all  in  tune. 
While,  from  ibfi  8prlng>  flr»t  Minjoy  imlle 

^o  tnttima'B  latest  golden  glow, 
I'he  pansles  bloftsomed  all  the  while, 

till  Vid'deii''neath  th^  ekrlle^t  dnov^. 

fW  tb^taglilir of  those' W*to  gave  me  flowerf,- 
With  "^Mtl^e*  WoMi;  sttU  a« forgot ! 

And  happy  dr«a«is  of  yoatbf^l  koars 
Thai  Ucssadr  as  Iciag,  and-  bannoi  ai  JQQt.l 

0  ioaih I  Q  Wa!  0  dsjs  of  yora     . 

.  Tb%l  paa^d  ai^i  naver  ^ome  n«ajin  1     , 

For  ^our  sake9  are  the  panaies  more 
Than  al)  the  gayer  floral  train. 


:    ;  .. '  '..  I  WISH.  ../  . 

•  BaslitBaaiaa BBTcs^a  liiLxa- 

I"lf  reH,  wh^re  grasses  gro#  and  moaae^  Wow, 
Atod,'  overhead;  the  lobg,  1<rw  eNi*  boa|th»  mtfit, 
Casting  oool  abadowa  aveu  level  Hng  grava, 
I  ooald  baiylog  low>-aad  slmiiber  ao. 

I  wiftb  I  ioald  /lot  boar.tha  threab-ea  U  clfsr^ 
.    Breal^ng  atbro^g^  tbe  aiieace  of  the  mor?^    , 

Nor.aee  the  blackbird  poiaing  o'er  tbe.oqriJi 
Nor  boar  the  woti^ra.flpw,  or  breeiea  blo;w. 

S'or  t  am  n^ver  glad,  t^pt  tired,  said,  ' 

Am  ttltei^y  deapafrhig  all  the  daj,  '    '' 
'  And  duak  of  Aigbi:^  aor  oan  I  work, -^  or  pray; 
Can  oikly  bow  toy  head  and  with  bm  dead*  *  - 

WHero   hiUeyoii   aooatida   aUlaes   a^hrittg^  Ibo 

Pfeao,  •  • '. 
.   Aad  dropa  ea  bodi  of  afaarinlbino  bloom, 

Or  Mckon-graf  ea  atoaoa  that  paafk^caoli  loaW 
Mfbon  Jloif  ^iada.paai  dowaj  the  Acaree-jib»k«a 

«''"'«*  .  .      ;•  •  ,:  f. 

, .     .  ■' !  . .         .  '     ' 

Ani  aome  lone  one,  whose  .itfeia  almost  done, 
isits,'  like  me,  luokip^  o^er  tbie  field  of  death, 
i  yearn  to  rbut    Tb,ere  heart-ihruba  quick,  noi 
"   '       bYeath,     •   '    " 
jrdr'ltolW#  joy  a, '•noi'  i^ain,  can  evfer 'trooWe' ma 
•..:  .".. 'again.-  ■'  .    -    •  :■ 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


DllFpSMlTr, 


BY  "OERA^.** 


''T  cftDiiot  cndofto  tha  sight  of  that  womaa; 
i  andsheainayvappeani,  wb«Diredrifetii)B 
way,  for  my  eepedai  torment  I  do  Miere 
deform!^  of  anj  kind  k  hstdiil  to  me/*  pet- 
tishlj  exclaimed  >BI7  bcantiffil  Gomdri  AgneSp 
as  she^  sbaddering^  drew  her  cosily  fii»  (uoeer 
tbout  her  white  throat 

Ik  was  early  spring  t£BM^  and  the  aiv  wis 
chilly,  although  the  sky  was  cloadless,  and  «if 
tkat  deep  loyely  aaare  so  gratefal  to  the  eye. 
Tbeshrili  notesofaflock  of  blackbirds  sounded 
b^m  a  6e)d  near  by^  and  the.  bluebijpds  weve 
telling  as  merrily  of  tlie  pleaaaiU  bappy  days^ 
is  afaich  they  were  to  share  withtkatr  Heaven- 
sppointed  work. 

My  franw  of  mind,  thai  morning,  was  most 
comfortable,  and  my  surronAdihgs  delightfully 
laxorions,  foot  my  dream  was  rod«ly  broken, 
St  I  giaoeed  from  Agnes^s  frown  of  disooatebt 
to  the  pkiable  objeet  whSch  aroaeied  bet  •feel' 
ing,  thinking,  as  I  did  so,  ''  Who  hath  made 
M  to  differ  ?»' 

We  were  driving  throagh  a  by«etreet»  quite 
ia  the  suburbs  of  the  large  eity ,  near  which  my 
cousin's  elegant  home  ww  situated.  LItlte 
common  frame  houses  of  two  or  thr«e  rooms 
each  Ifaied  the  way,  varied  here  and  tb^re'  by 
s  mote  pretentious  building.  These  lastiben- 
tioned  harltig'seen  better  days  and  d6ne  their 
•d«y  in  a  hlghei'  locality,  were  drawn  thither 
to  serve  aa  shelters  for  swarms  of  immortal 
■oaltjfrom  whksh  to  launch  their  barks  upon 
the  troubled  sea  o/ life.      > 

The  womait  was  deformed  and  bowed  to- 
gether, but  raised  herself  as  the  carriage  passed 
to  cast  a  glance  toward  St 

Her  face  totd  of  soflerings  the  most  intense. 
^  was  wofttl  to  look  upon;  but  nothing  evil  was 
^Men  there ;  ani^uLMh  and  want,  but  not  vice 
0'  pssBion  ;  sickness  and  sorrow,  but  not  Crime 
0  Bin.  ^        .    . 

Siie  bad  once  been  hit,  but  now  was  only 
^  iatbly  pale ;  her  deep  bine  eyes*  were  sunken 
•idttnnaiuraiiy  lai^;  the  silked  abuMdance 
^'  her  long  7<*lk>w  hair  was  drawn  smoothly 
^  Tk  from  her  forehead,  showing  the  sharp  out- 
^  «ofherfhce  and  the  high  holloWc^eekR.  All 
^  Id  only  toh!  of  starvation  of  body ;  t&e  soul 
I*  ked  out  clear  and  pure,  untouched  by  did- 
•    ilty. 


..Out  aatureto,  we-  are  told^  are  twofold,  and 
that  which  was  just  now  uppermost  with  mm 
akjuBed  wbrk.  abd  hMred  eeoM  ariid  qniet  I 
was  eojoyiiigk  a  few^weakuT  vest  Aromaiy  labors 
as  teacher  in  a  seminary  in  a>-dlitkat8tate» 
and  thtk  elegance^  the  kunvyof' my.  cousin's 
hosda  waa  most  grateful  to  mai'    ' 

Tbe ;  other  side  of  the  pictate  gave  me,  in 
oootraal^  tho  early  bell,  the  thrumming  of 
scales  and  «nmelodiottS' exercises,  with  all  the 
dradgery  o#'iiistrooltiag  the  caivless  and  Hip* 
paat '  Then  again,  When  there  .at  my  task, 
the  i'othav  nature  worked  with  enthusiasm, 
boildftng  1^' bright  ^astlealbr  thi»  future,  and 
hoping  with  all  strength  and  might  that  tha 
aeeid  sown  might  produce  hatt'es^  Ms  hundred 
Md.      .    •      '     .'  '  • 

During  our  drifo  th«  face  af  tfhis  woman 
baunted  me,  h«r  bowed,  misshapen  shbuld^ri^ 
her  shrunken  limbs,  and  aU  the  gaunt  out^ 
liiM#  bf  her  figure  showing  so  i^lianly  through 
the  meagre  drapery  which  barely '  covered 
thcnt 

'  Two  children^  pralty  and  rosy,  clung  to  hef 
skirts ;  but  in  spke  of  their  po^evty,  the  neat- 
vees-with  whidL  tfaeir  poor  little  garments* 
were  arranged  proclaimed  a  mother's  loving 
earo.  I  formed  my  •  determination  to  learn 
somewhat  of  her  history,  itlt4,  if  possible,  iti 
sotne  way  sofleii  the  hardness  of«lier  lot 

We  prolonged  our  morning  ionf  mitil  late; 
makfaig  seveimt  dalls,  duvlng  which  Cousin 
Agnea  was 'all  affidiilityJ  Nothing 'more  oo^ 
-onrred  W  jiir>  upon  her  sensitive  tastes}  the 
fuse  leal  was  wit^ut  a  wrinkle. 

Each  tioosewaa  large  and  costly,*  each  par^ 
lor  resplendelit  with  mirfovs  and  lace,  velvet 
andrtiaewoodl  lovely  paintings  covered  the 
waNs,  a  snmm^r^like  warmth  pervaded  them ; 
delicibus  hothouse 'flowtes  shed  th^ir  fragrance 
like  incense  around  and  above  us;  the  mellow 
softened  lighi  fell  through  plkte^laiis,  shaded 
by  rich  draperies ;  and  the  subdued  vdces  w«re 
%raiaeduot  to  ofibiid  oi(  break'  lAc^harm  by 
'otve 'discord.  •  .     .  « 

I  looked  on  as  in  a  dreanr.  >N6t  being  obliged 
tb  take  any  prominent  ^rt  iwlfiecoirrersation, 
I  could  lii^ten  and  (pardon' me)  team.  I  heard 
of  the  newest  spring  Istyles ;  of  the  hitest  bit  of 
sdandal ;  of  t&e  plana  Ibr  the  summer  campaign ; 

Digitized  by  yW^gie 


170 


ARTHUR* B   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


even  of  the  meet  fashionable  church  ftid  min- 
ister in  those  gentle,  silverj  tones;  but  abore 
all  rang  in  my  ears,  "  deformity  of  any  kind  U 
hateiiil  to  me.'' 

We  drove  hurriedly  home,  having  scarcely 
time  to  dress  for  dinner,  which  we  were  to'tiike 
qnite  alone  on  that  day,  my  host  being  away 
for  several  days  on  basines^  and  nd  eonij^ny 
•t  the  house. 

My  toilet  being  boob  mad^  I  saidvwii  in  my 
room,  which  was  adjoining  Iha*  of  my  oooain, 
U^  await  hcr,.and  began,  after  an  odd  fiMhinn  of 
my  own,  to  dream  Wide  awnke.  I  had  not 
wandered  far  inte  the  realms  of  fonoy,  how- 
ever, when  I  was  tecalled  by  lend  and  nngry 
tones ;  and  the  oemmauicating  door  i)e»g  ijai^ 
I  heard  4gn«i  apeaking  itith  wieh  sharpness 
nnd  evident  ezeitement  that  I  involontenly 
ptorted  to  my  foet  to  go:  to  her  room.  Thenn^ 
sentence  foil  upon  my  ear  wiUi  perfeetdistind^ 
ness,  and  wanted  me  thai  my  inteKfeieneB.was 
«otrequined» 

"And  prey  what  is  yonr  opinion  worth  .in 
the  matter  ?  It  is  not  needed.  What  I  chooM^ 
that  I  shaU  4o,  You  nre  inotking  ^|. a  de- 
pendent, An  unsalaried  servanL  Yon  eat  of 
mj  brand,  and  iiv^  herA>^  suflbmncn,  1?hia  is 
nay  honse,  and  I  ammyownmiattiessyiindpsiiin 
n«  weU." 

Could  that  be  my  cousin's  gentle,  lady4ike 

voice?    I  had  seen  littleof  her  daring  the  past 

lew  yean,  and  remeaabered  her  as  a  somewhat 

'  spoiled  child  when  wej^laygd  together  in  my 

own  happy  ho^e.  %V 

In  those  dear  old  days,  when  I  was  bleseed 
with  a  Cither's  and  a  niot£er'e.k>ving  cnre^  my 
heart  was  too  light  to  dw^  modi  upon  th« 
^AttleeeliSskwaysof  olherB.    . 

As  my  gnest,  she- > was j  of  conme^  given  the 
first  share  of  my  pleasni^  and  monopoliaed 
nay  toys,,  riding,  nnd  driving  mf  dear  iiule 
pony  without  stittt.  Thm  she  iiraa  the  reaipi- 
nnt»  and  1  the  giter.  £ut  vevetses  came,  and 
for  a  time  we  almost  iiost  night  of  enoh  other* 

She  had  dmwn  a. prise  in  thn matiimctiial 
lottery — not  merely  a  liberal  banker,  to  onah 
all  clMcks  at  sights  but  a  just  and  Qod-feanng 


J  softly  dosed,  the  door,  and  hurried  down 
stairs,  A«  I  (sossed  the  hall,  I  encoantere(} 
Bertha,  the  half  o^nipnnion,  half  lady^i  ipaMl 
of  Agnes,  and  innnky^tarily  cast  a.somtiniaing 
glance  at  hnr  troubled  fo»^  .     . 

She  flu6h«<i>nndnnrByottffi«Ms  i^k,  and  my 
heart  smote  me  for  .my  impertanence*  filin 
looked  so  pale,  so  and,  lo  utterly  forl^nai  I  gave 
her  a  kind  w«(r4  of  greeting,  and  noticing  some 


in  her  hand,  which  shook  like  an  sflpen 
leaf  under  the  light  burden,  I  held  out  my  band 
,to  take  them  from  her;  but  with  courieoDs 
thanks  she  refused  my  aid,  and  passed  on  to 
the  dining-room. 

I  had  scarcely  noticed  the  young  girl  before 
during  the  few  days  since  my  arrival.  Agnes 
had  kept  her  employed  in  her  own  room,  Ind 
I  had  seen  hot  little  of  her.  Now  my  interest 
was  keenly  aioosed. 

Could  my  oetmin  bo  truly!  so  hard,  so  nnfosl- 
kigand  arrogant,  with  sock  refined  tnstei^siich 
sensitive  neh^es,  such  a  delicate  organiatioa? 
Had  she  no  pity — could  she  so  trample  upoa 
thn  unfortunate  and  homeless^  so  bruise  ths 
broken  reed? 

My  mind,  was  sorely  disturbed;  I  eonid  no 
longer  feel  the  oharm  of  the  bright  spring  day ; 
«  hateful  cloud  scismed  brooding  over  the 
hennty  aroood  mn ;  I  was  chilled. 

My  cousin  oaofte  in  proMndy  as  radiant  ai 
ever ;  and  as  I  looked  in  her  smiling  fooe,  and 
listenfd  to  her  musical  voioe^  I  nlmoet  thought 
m;iraelf  jjeeeived.  Could  ehe  assnme  two  cbarso- 
tera  an  distinct— so  at  vannnoe  with  eaeh  other  ? 
Only  onei^uld  be  truly  hers;  and  which  wsb 
it— the  lovely  and  loving,  or  the  maligBant 
and  uaJbv?ingT 

Deformity  was  hateful  to  her ;  bat  what  de- 
fovmity  like  uticuibed  passion,  wilfully  wound- 
ing the  heaits  of  others  and  mookiog  at  their 
miaf<prtunes? 

Philip  iGrordoQi  Agnes's  husband,  wae  ma97 
yiMiB;  older  than  herself,  and  had  sf^ent  the 
early  part  of  his  lifo  in  one  of  our  largest  citieiy 
whero  ha  had  accumulated  most  of  the  wealth 
which  fi^e  now  enjoyed  so  lavishly* 

One  day  while  paming  a  narrow  alley,  os  he 
was  returning  to  his  hotel,  his  attention  wffe 
attracted '  b|y  the.  orfes  and  sobbing  of  a  little 
.one  in  great  diatresa.  He  followed  the  sounds 
into  a  wretched  basement,  whose  door  stood 
op^  and  found  a  pfetty  child  of  five  years 
clinging  to  the  neck  of  its  dead  mother,  aad 
Citing  with  fright,  cold,  and  hunger. 

.  The  aspect  of  the  place  was  desolate^  as  only 
povert^^jl^ni  want  can  make  anything.  With 
-no  ;fi||dflhre,  no  fuel,  no  food,  only  a  little 
straw  and  a  few  rags  up<M^  which  lay  the 
corpse  oit  the  unfortunate  woman  whose  soul 
had  just  1^  its  frail  tenement  and  gone  home-^ 
home,  to  that  Heavenly  Father  who  gatben  tU 
those  who  are  His  in  the  fold  at  last— but,  oh, 
by  what  dnrk  end  deviona  ways,  to  our  sia- 
darkened. vision  I 

Over  the  emaciated  foce  brooded  an  expi«>' 


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'^^  ■ . 


171 


rfon  of  p^if(ect  pteiM ;  «»  almoBt  s&intly  fa»lo 
seemed  to  encircle  the  pure  wBite  brow;  M  U 
last  ray  of  the  iettibg  suit,  struggiitig  in  at  the 
low  window,  played' about  it.     • 

The  little  one  wais  stilled  by  the  entranod'ol  \ 
the  ttranger;  who  took  her  up  in  liirt'amhSy'and 
with  coaxing  words  endeavb)^  to  tlisdov^t 
Bonftwhat  of  thfe  child  aiid  her  toother.  Shd 
would  only  reply:  ''Berths  ia  sO  hungry; 
mamma  hAa  ale^yt  all  day  and  won't  speak  toi 
her."  .     ^ 

Philip  carried  Kei^  up  stairs,  teUtn^  her  shef 
iboald  hdre  food  \  an/d  rousing  some  of  the'  in- 
mates above,  asked  of  thetn  information  rlsfgard- 
hig  his  charge.  But  nbne'l^new  or  car^.  The 
unfortunate  woman  had  been  there  but  a  fbn^ 
weeks,  and  whence  she  came  or  hdw  she  itVed 
BO  one  had  dilMsovered.       ' 

The  child  clung  to  Philip  with  the  confiding 
troRt  of  innocence,  and  his  resolution  was  llip* 
idly  taken.  Seeking  out  the.  proper  authori- 
ties, he  left  means  sufficient  for  the  decent 
iKirial  of  the  mother^  aiid  took  thfe  little  orphan 
to  his  hotel,  where  she  was  kindly  eated  for  by 
the  wife  of  the  proprietor.  That  night  he  ear- 
ned his  acquidtloh  to  the  oounrry  hbme  of  his 
mother,  begging  her  to  be  tender  and  pitifbl  to 
the  little  waif  so  strangely  thrown  Itito  his 
keeping.  .      w    . 

YeaM  afterward,  when  the  sober,  middle* 
8ged  man  of  business  became  a  captive  tO 
Agnes's  pretty  face,  and  made  her  his'  wife, 
Bertha  shared  his  home. 

She  was  never  ^a^  2tf|P  glil^ROme,  like  other 
ftmng  ci^tiirto.^'  Th^hadow  of  her  infancy 
■eemed  never  to  have  liAed  from  her  spirit 
tJentle  and  unobtrusive  aS  she  was,  however, 
Agnes  considelrcfd  iifer'  an  intmdi^r,  and  was 
togrily  Jealous  of  ther  kihd,  fiitherly  interest 
Philip  always  manifested  in  his  ward. 

Bertha's  lips  Uttered  no  complaint,  although 
hands,  feet,  and  hend  ached  with  the  tMioeas* 
hig  demands  made  \sptn  their  strength ;  there^ 
fore  her  j^tector  supposed  her  happy,  or  at 
least  contented.  A  woman's  eye  would  have 
f^d  the  signs  more  acburately ;  but  this  busy 
nterchant  saw  nothing  amfsA:  - 

These  scant  outlines  of  Bertha's  history  were 
given  me  by  an  old  domestic  who  had  served 
His.  Qordon,  senior,  and  after  she  waa  laid  to 
Kit  iSrand  a  place  in'  the  household-  of  the 
•on. 

This  act  of  kindness  was  another  thorn  in 
^t  side  of  the  selfish  woman.  She  told  me 
one  day  with  an  expression  of  intense  divgust: 
*'^lip should  found  a  charity  hospital;  hia 
^tttes  are  decidedly  vulgar.    For  my  pert,  I 


think  iHitii  lk»  pbo^h»Ve>  ontlived«  their  use-* 
fulness,  there  arc  'fioihea'  and  i*(HoBpital»^ 
enoQgh,  where  they  are  much- better  off  than 
itf  a  genlleipMi^i  fcmily.  I  dislike  bein^ 
brought  in  conttfet  with  tlie  old  and  decrepid.t' 

Old  Esther  t^as  keeo*eyed,  and  knew  sho'Was 
Botr  welcome  to  the  mistreaB  of  the  house;  but 
she*  was  far  from  decrepid,  and  many  a  hard 
task  was  performed  by  her,-  not  to  save  the 
'*'Mts  of  soft)  lily  finders;  bdt  fordear  Master 
PhUip's  sake,  Ood  bless  hinf' 

''  O  Miss  Maxy/'  she  wovld  eacclaim  to  me, 
*it  is  little  you  ken  of  that  matins  gOodneuR; 
ibr  ftU  he  eaya  BO  little,  hia  heart  ia  soft  to  all 
sufferihgr  I  weel  remember  the  nigbt  when 
li^  bronghl  Miss  Bertha,  theJitUe  yellow- 
heided  lassie^  up  the  rtad  from -the  landing  in 
his  anus.  He  is- jnst  like  his  nother,  so  good 
to  the  mieerable;  every  lame^hody,  and  all  that 
are  daft  ok>  innocent  like^  are  saered  to  him.  I 
liind  me  ol  one  of  his  way*  when  hit  was  a  slip 
of  a  boy.  He  had  a  little  old  pony  tlmt  got 
worthlefls.  He  gaweit  its  owik  pastore,  aads 
nook  by  itself  In  the  stable^  lest  it  might  get 
harmed  by  other*  «Bd  stttongev  horses,  and 
never  failed  when  he  came*  home  to  treat  the 
pair  beast  tc!  the  bit  of  bread,  or  'apple  from  his 
own  hand.  '  Jennie  wasiuthM  to  me^  mother ; 
did'  nothing  ehall  want. for  kindneas,  however 
old,  that  I  ha^  loved,'  he  weald  aay.V  .  .  . 

My  visit  was  drawing  to  a  temination,  and 
Altbooghileevldiiot  say  ihst  Agnes  had  been 
lacking  in  kindnesA  to  me  personaUy,  yet  Imt^ 
going  aii^ay  witb«  saddened,  disappointed  fffT 
ing  at  my  heart-i'so  many  flaws  in  the 
moAdy  and  ibe  setting  so  nearly  perfect*  . 

'  There  was  to  be  a  little  evening  gatherii 
t!he  house,  principally  lor  my.sake»  I  got  ak«« 
my  (me  pretty  dress  ^reueh  an  occasion — ^tbe 
stereotyped  white — not  of  the  model  plainness 
required  by  oov<el  wMtera  l»r«ll  governesses, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  with  plenty  ol  frille  and 
flonnoes.  Which  reqaiitd  a  skiifalhand  to  do 
1^  nieely.  In-  my  emevgeney  I  applied  t9 
Esther  to  direct  me. 

"Yes,  Miss  Mary,  I  tarely  know  one  who 
can  btelp  |jron.  Maybe  you've  seen  her7-th6 
puir  defomiied  body  in  Orofton  Lane,  but  that 
niceund  hendy  you  wpurld  hardly  believe  it  to 
look  «t  ber.  She  will  do  yoor  dress  for  yon 
tUl  frwill  look  like  new  again." 

**  Then'  yoii  know  that  poor  creature  P'  I  ex* 
claimred.  "  She  has  interested  me  greatly,  and 
I  shall  be  frkid  of  an  ezeuae  to  ga  to  her." 

<^  Yes,  indeed  I  knew  her,  and  of  tor  blessed 
patience  and  tmth..    Whett.you  talk  with  bear 

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172 


ARTHUIC8   LADTB   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


yoa  will  b^  more  inftertflted,  aad  BMjrbe  she 
will  tell  fbu  Mine'of  keflife.^' 

I  went-* to  the  homer  and  was  afitODbhed  At 
the  exqiifalte  neelneM  of  tibe  twe  poor  vooias  in 
which  tbe&milj  of  foQflWed. 

My  dresf  tree  beautilully  fronhened  wid 
Anted  by  htrakilfdl  fingefs,  end  I  enjoyed 
•evehd  pleenoiU  talkii  while  the  work  was-  in 
progrees,  with  Mra.  Seott,  wkiek  wee  Jber 
niime;  She  was  shy  U>  Ulk  of  hem^f  at  fiMt, 
but  I  soon  won  her  children  to  my  nideyand 
the  mothers  heart  wm  not  long  in  iotluwiing. 

One  day  obaerving  a  Tery  handiiome  gold 
croes  and  loeket  in  a  box  abe  was  openii^,  I 
remarked,: "  Yon  have  seen  better  days.''     . 

" Oh,  yea;  and  woraei ones,  toO^''  she  Mplied; 
with  a  kindliog  «ye  and  iluahcd  cbeekk  "  Jdy 
own  father  waa  well  off  in  the  old  .eooatry,- 
and  he  gave,  nie  theae  on  my  eighteentli  birtli- 
day..  I  save  them<iQV  my  .girlt»  I  Was  not 
always  poor,  butitinoe  iboae  days  I  have  knowA 
want  and  misery  enongh*  Ndw  we  are  quite 
ooikifiirtable,  apd  when  John  geta<  strong  onee 
more  we  will  preaper  again,  thank  Ood,  and 
be  happy*«^aUhough,  indeed  ma'am,  I  am 
happy  now ;  Ac  ia  so  kind  and  good." 

"  Do  your  parents  not  .asaist  you— K>r  are 
they  not  living  T*  I  aaked. 

'^They  are  aiire,  and.  my>  Oldest  child  . (it 
with  them;  but  they  nbver  liked  my  busbaady. 
and  will  do  nothing  for  us  while  I  stay  with 
him.  They  would  take  ua  all  bomc^  hut  you 
know  I  cannot  leave  John.  I  love  bim,  and 
my  heart  w6uldfitid  no  rest 

''I  ha»e  endured  worse  poverty  than  tbis  with 

^  for  hini,  and  wo)i^d  do  it  again  if  jieed  i^ 

It  will'ae^opaieT<-he  is  a  good  mai>i.an4 

prosper  now,"  giving  me  a  curious  Kide 

sMinoe  se  sh^  epoke,  «9  if  half-defiant  and 

jealous  lest  I  might  .tbink  John  was  ia.aome 

way  at  fault.  /   . . 

1  oould  not  but  notion 'the  look^  and,  wonder 
what  it  covered. 

"You  haye  been  ^ery  tick,  have,  you  not?" 
aaid  1,  giving  ray  attention  to  a  beauiifnl  box 
of  violets  blooming  just  outside  the  window* 

*^Onoe-^orion<eow)Eltbaaf«er  i  hud  fallen 
down  a  light  of  step^  that  brought  this  round 
shoulder  wbich  yon  sei^^I .  hurt  jny  back,  ai^d 
it  was  a  long,  long  wnary'time  beAMre  il  oould 
watk  or  even  stand,  and  dear  Jp^  ufied  to 
carry  me  in  his  ajana  up  and  doWn,  and  watcb 
OTer  me  as  yon  would  a  idck  cbUd.  He  never 
was  impetioBt  or  oro88,.once.  I  would  not 
leave  hvak  lor  all  the  eomfocU  we  would  get  at 
home.  Poverty  is. not  as  bad  ti>na«8.aepara- 
t&oh.    3t  la  worse  Iw  the  baarl.to  be  hungry 


than  the  stomaeh.    Qed  be  tbanked,  I  am  a 
happy  woman!" 

'•  Yea»  indeed,  ahe  la,"  said  Esther,  whca  I 
repeated  the  oonvemation  to  her.  "  She  hsa 
been  Joha'a  salvation.  Bhe  married  1dm 
egainat.the  will  of  her  ptrenta..  He  was  poor 
and  they  had  an  entirely  different  choice  for 
her— a  man  with  lands  and  money,  but^ 
eared  nothing  for  him.  They  would  not  gire 
hfr  tlieir  blessing,  and  hardened  thenuelTCt 
against  her  even  while  grudgingly  oonseotiqg 
at  the  laatf  They  aent  for  and  took  bar 
oldevt  child,  when  she  waa  so  ill  none  tbooglit 
she  oould  liye  a  d^y.  John  might  well  be 
patient  withber,  then;  for  it  waa  through  bia 
wiok«dness  she  was  crippled  for  life. 

*'  He  was  out  of  work  and  disheartened,  and 
got  unsteady.  She  used  to  follow  him,  to  oosz 
him  home.  One  night,  maddened  by  liquor, 
he  struck  ^er  a  heavy  blow,  and  she  fell  down 
a  long  flight  of.  btoiie  steps  and  waa  taken  up 
ipr  dead.  The  sight  of  his  work  sobered  bin 
eHectually.  From  tba^  hour  he  has  nerer 
touched  spirits.  He  watched  over  her  unooss- 
iogly,  atui  she  recovered ;  but  she  never  blaoied 
him  by  one  word,  or  wiU  aUow  any  one  else  to 
do  so.  It  was  au  aocident  she  says.  Uer  ool/ 
wordq  a^  of  praise  and  thanksgiving,  lie  u 
a  good  workman,  and  is  fast  recovering  Um 
ground  loat  by  thoae  monlhd  of  diseipaiioo. 
They  will  .yet  be.  well  off.  Agnes  ScoU  ia  i 
true^  Christian  woman,  and  her  patient,  fo^ 
giving  love  will  yet  win  the  man  to  ibe  troo 
Ux^f,  .  I  am  glad  you  found  her  opt  and  talked 
with  her;. deft)rmed  aslLe  ia  to  look  at^sbeisi 
jewel," 

"  Yfiiv"  thought  I  within  my  heart,  "fihek 
a  jewel  beyond  price;  aod  what  if  the  casket 
ia  uQsightl^— what  matters  it^  when  the  soul  ii 
so  pure  and. sweet." 

Those  who  dwell  near  to  God,  the  source  of 
ail  beauty  and  boliaem,  can  never  seem  ds- 
£or,mtd«  The  blight  of.  poverty  and  want  can- 
not .destroy  them;  scorn  and  sneers  eigoiiy 
na«ght  to  them;  they  rqjoice  in  the  *' peace 
whiuh  pMBsv^  aU  understanding,"  and  wbicb 
the  "  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  awaj." 


Thb  great  happineas  oilk^l  Qnd,  after aU, 
(o  eoBsii^t  in  (he  regular  discharge  of  some  me- 
chanical  duty. — SehUUr, 

Pbbjxjdicx  and  self  auflSciency  Daturallf 
proceed  from  inexperience  of  the  world  tad 
ignorance  of-.mankiDd.-n4ddi8on. 


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THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 

IpITEp  BY  A  iADY. 


0 


8PKING,  55pM*ER,A^0'AtrriTlkli^;'' 

{See  Engraving.)  ^ 

.LB  age  is  the  aatamn  ot  lifp,  And  llitre  IflT  iio 
reason  why  it  should  not  t>e  as  qaiet,  as  restfii^i 
and  as  rich  in'  good  fraitsas  the  adtoihn  of  nature. 
Thai^t  is  qot  so,  is  man's  own  faalt. 

rfe  picfcBTo  we  give  this  month—^^Si'RiNi^ 
SuMVEB,  AND  AcTUMX^'^is  One  too  rarely  seen  In 
real  life.  It  is  the  exception  and  not  the.  rule* 
Why  is  it  not  the  ryle  instead  of  ^he  ezcept/on  T 
Reader,  take  this'question  to  your  heart  and  pon- 
deritwell.     "       ".  ',  *  '  *  '. ' .   . 

Are  you  a  poor  young  man  Jnst  starting  in  the 
world?  Have  you  a  wife  .hnd  Utile  children? 
Does  the  daily  bread  come  *&o'm  daily  toil,  and( 
the  week's  earnings  harely  suflSoe  for  t^e  w^k's 
needs?  Do  you  feel  discouraged  sometimes? 
Does  the  future  look  dark  ?  Though  it  is  yet  in 
the  spring  time  of  your  life,  are  the  flowers  grow- 
htg  scarce  and  losing  their  beauty  Itnd  sweetness  ? 

t  hear'the  sigh  that  answers  my  question.  \t9i 
u  talk  together  ^or  a  little  whilt-.  Let  us  con- 
lider  the  ca^e  as  it  stands.  What  a  man  pows^ 
that  shall  he  also  reap.  If  yon  put  a  thistle-seed 
into  the  ground,  you  do  not  expect'  a  radish ; .  nor, 
do  you  look  for  a  rose-bush  w^elre  yon  had'set  out 
a  bramble,  fivery  act  of  your  life  tia'  its'sp.ing 
ti&6'is  bnt'the  soiling  of  ^eed,  and  in  the  autumn 
of  yo^r  days  the  harvest  wUl  be  according  to  fhe 
tted—for  knorai  laws  are  as  unerring  in  tiieir 
operation  as  natural  laiws.  What  a  man  sows  that 
shall  he  also  reap;  sweet  and  nourishing  fruit  If 
h^  ha3  sown  good  seed — ^briers  and  thomi  if  he 
has  sown  evil  seed. 

Tutn  over  and  Idok  agftln  ^l.the  picture— at 
that  flne-faced  old  iban;  a^  his  .daughter  ^nd 
grandchild.  It  is  iiutumn  with'him,  but.a  cheer- 
ftil,  restful,  happy  attumn.'  ^He  sctw'ed  in'  his 
field  the  seeds  of  Indadtry,  economy,  temperance, 
honesty,  and  trust  in  God  j'and  now  he  eiyo^s  the 
harvest  of  his  fields.  Jnst  so  it  may^  be  with  you. 
But  there  will  have  to*  be  some,  nay,  much  self- 
denial.  IT  you  ate  fond  of  a  gla^s  of  beer  or 
(piritf,  y()U  will  have  to  give  up  that  dangerous 
and  costly  self-indulgenViej  if  you  do  not,  it  will 
^uA  your  littie  substatfccj,  disease  yoUr  body, 
disorder  your  mind,  w^aVen  your  self  cVmtrdl,  and 
^▼e  yon  briers  and  thorns  instead  of  golden  har- 
vests in  aucumn:  If  you  are  given  to  idleness, 
taking  ■  'day,  maybe  two,  e«oh  WKeklVoA  labor; 
wtoowasteftil  spenditog, ytouicannot  hope  fit  ease' 
•ad  eomfurt' in  your  old  lige.  And 'x^member, 
thai  oNT  k\^9  surely  eouM  to  all.  No  taMkttbr  how 
frMh  and  vtroo);  and  yonn^  ^o«  f<^l  to^da:^,  MWH 
Mtomh  wfir  find  you  at -last,  and  aK  yon  hare 
••WB  si)  wil^  vou  reap.  t    »•   ^/. 

IiOok  aruand  y'uu  and  see  the  old  men  that  me^t 
your  ev?<«  af  <«very  torn.  J)o  you  Wish  your  lot;  at 
•Uty,  or  sc\  cntv,  or  eighty,  to-be  like  too  many  of 


theirs  f  I  think  not  As  they  have  sown,  so  are 
they  reaping. 

l^egin  right,  and  yon  wiU/if  yon  continue  in  the 
way  yon  begin,  oome  out  right';  and  aTl  your  way 
through  life  will  be  pleasi^nter  than  if  you  began 
wrong.  Self-indu1gen6e  only  brings  a  momentary 
satisfaction,  while  it  afways  gives  hours  of  dis- 
quieiude  or  pain;  while  denial  of  appetite,  a  weak 
love  of  ease,  or  a  spirit  of  wastefulness  or  extrava- 
gance, always  b'lings  peace  of  mind  and  true  en- 
joyment 

Toung  men,' Just  beginning  life,,  oh  !  see  to  it  k^ 
you  value  your  own  best  interests, 'and  the  best 
interests  of  all  who  are  dear  to  you,  that  you  sow 
your  fields  with  the  sbeds  of  Industry,  temperance, 
Ironesty,  and  trust  in  Ood,  and  your  autumn  will 
be  fruitful  and  full  of  happiness*  and  peace. 

MARRIAGE. 

SATS  iiobert  Collyer:  Is  it  not  {Mssible  for  a 
man  and  a. woman  to  make  sure  when  th^y 
marry  that  they  are  to  be  true  husband  and  wif<s 
at  the  cost  of  the  usual  pains  and  penalties  that 
will  always  insist  on  their  own  payment,  and 
ought  never  to  be  thought  unreason a\)le?  Is  it 
nut  possible  to  make  this  natural  and  beautiful  law 
of  our  life  almost  universal,  that  for  tlie  man  there 
is  a  woman,  and  for  the  woinan  a  man^  who  will  be 
a  true  counterpart?  and  that  they  shall  know  it, 
or  else  know  they  can  never  marry,  because,  with 
that,  tlie  license  and  minister's  blessing  are  the 
merest  farce  that  ever  was  acted.  I  cannot  but 
believe  there  is  such  a  safeguard—  a  true  light  that 
lighteth  every  man  who  will  follow  it — about  this^ 
as  there  is  about  truth,  and  honesty,  and  justice, 
and  lienor.  I  believe  one  can  hardly  make  a  mis- 
take, except  we  insist  on  doing  it,  about  this  most 
eS8entia(  thing  in  our  whole  career.  When  mar- 
riage brings  misery,  as  a  rule,  it  is  not1>y  provi. 
deuce,  but  by  improvidence,  and  w'e  suffer  in  that 
for  our  sin  very  often  in  something  else. 

And  I  would  Venture  to  name  this,  as  the  first 
reason  why  troubles  come  that  never  can  be  fairly 
met,  and  Very  worthy  men  and  women  get  so  badly 
mismated — that  the  whole  habit  now  of  young  peo- 
ple, as  they  e4e  each  other  with&ay  thoughts  of  ever 
Being  husband  and  wife,  is  the  habit  of  semi- da- 
ception.  Tbey  set  themselves  to  deceive  the  v^ry 
elect,  by  always  putting  on  an  appearance,  when 
they  are  in  each  other's  company,  that  is  no  more 
true  to  thtir  nature  than  the  noble  uncle  is  true 
they  see  on  the  sta^ge,  who  flings  his  tbouoands 
libout'as  tf  his  banker's  balance  was  a  splendid 
J(^'e,  (as  it  is,)  and  then  goes  home  and  scrimps  hit 
wife  and  children  of  their  barest  needs. 

'In  the  more  simple  life  of  the  country,  where 
marriages  are  made  that  generally  turn  out  well, 
the  'man  and  woman  know  each  other  intimately. 


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d'agle 


174 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZIHE. 


Tb«y  go  to  sebooly  and  singing  school,  an^  *PV^o- 
bees,  and  hnskings,  togotber.  The  man  knows  the 
woman's  bnttor,  and  l^ead,  and  pios  by  moeh  •%- 
perienoe ;  and  the  woman  the  man's  flirpf^ ,  an4 
Bwatby  snd  seat  on  horaebaok ;  and  as,  for  temper, 
have  they  not  fallen  out  and  made  up  ever  sinqe 
they  oould  ran  alone  ? 

But  in  time  we  rise  In  life,  and  move  from  the 
farm  into  the  oity,  exchange  the  kitchen  for  the 
drawing-room,  linsey-woolsey  for  silk|  and  blue 
Jean  for  broadcloth.  The  young  gentleman  comes 
in  bis  Sanday  best,  and  takes  the  young  lady  to 
the  concert ;  walks  home  with  her  from  church  and 
stays  to  tea;  admires  her  touoh  on  the  piano,  and 
her  opinion  of  Mrs.  Browning;  and  she  his  eupe« 
rior  air,  and  whatever  beside  may  take  her  fancjr, 
including,  ve^  often,  his  report  of  the  money  he 
makes,  and  can  m^ake;  and  that  is  really  all  the;^ 
know  of  each  other— and  that.is  less  than  nothing, 
and  vanity.  Ood  forgive  them  I  It  is  a  game  of 
oards,  in  which  it  is  of  the  first  importance  to  both 
not  to  reveal  theii^bteds;  but  the  revelation  is 
made  at  last,  and  they  find  that  both  intend^  to 
dheat,  and  did  what  they  intended. 

Of  all  the  things  needed  now  to  make  a  true  and 
happy  marriage,  it  seems  to  me  that  honesty, 
reality,  and  sweet  and  simple  intimacy,  are  the 
first.  There  Is  a  conventional  prudery  about  our 
young  people  which  must  \ip^  as  bad  as  It  can  be. 
If  the  young  woman  is  making  bread  when  the 
bell  rings,  and  the  servant  says  it  is  Bllr.  Cypher, 
there  is  a  rush  to  the  dressing-room  io  put  on  a 
silk  and  a  simper]  and  Mr.  dypher  probably 
smells  of  cloves.  I  tell  you  this  is  wicked  and 
false.  I  wonder  things  are  not  worse  than  they 
are.  Tonng  men  and  women  must  eome  as  near 
as  possible,  in  all  innocent  ways,  to  that  intimacy 
with  each  other  before  they  marry  which  they, 
must  come  to  after,  or  they  have  no  right  to  ex- 
pect good  to  oome  of  their  eyil.  ,/*  Young  women 
make  nets  instead  of  cages,"  Dean  Swift  said.  I^ 
he  had  not  been  an  ingrained  villian  in  his  rela- 
tions to  women^  he  would  have  added,  **  and  young 
men  do  that  also."  ,  It  is  bad  on  both  sides..  One 
of  the  greatest  evils,  leading  to  the  .greatest  of  all, 
is  this  total  want  of  frankness  an4  honesty  each  tQ 
the  other,  in  those  that  must  one  day  be  one.    ,     . 

THE  PILLOW  FIGHT. 

AMOMENTART  lull  in  the  aquatic  exercises 
was  followed  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  pil- 
lows flying  in  all  directions,  burlbd  by'  white  gob- 
lias,  who  came  rioting  out  of  their  bedjB.  ,  The 
battle  raged  in  several  rooms^  all  dowp  tbe.nppen 
hall,  and  even  surged  at  intervals  into  the  nui;|iery^ 
when  some  hard-pressed  warrior  took  refuge  theie. 
Ko  one  seemed  to  mind  this  explosion  in  the  least; 
no  one  forbade  '\i,  or  even  looked  surprised.  Nar- 
sey  went  on  hanging  up  towels,  and  Mrs.  Bhaec 
looked  out  clean  clotheSj  as  calmly  as  if  the  most 


[,. perfect  order  reigned.  Nay  she  even  ehaaad  one 
daring  boy  out  of  the  room,  and  fired  alter  him 
the  pillow  he  had  slyly  throm  at  her. 

"Won't  they  hurt  'ekn?"  asked  Nat,  whd  lay 
langhinj  irith,all  his  might.  .  ,  , 

'fOh,  dear,  no  I   we  always  allow  one  pillow* 
fight  Saturday  night.    The  cases  are  changed  to- 
morrow ;  and  it  gets  up  a  glow  after  the  boji* 
'  bfktbv  1 10  I  rather  like  it  myself,"  said  Mra.  dlacr, 
Busy  again  among  her  dosen  pairs  of  socks. 

"Whi^t  a  very  nice  school  this  ill"  observed 
Nat,  in  a  burst  of  admiration. 

''ItTs  ai^  odi  one,"  langhed  Mn.  Bhaair;  ''bit 
yon  liee  we  don't  believe  in  making  children. mis- 
erable by  too  Miany  rales,  and  too  muob  study.  I 
forbade  night-gown  parties  at 'first;  bn^  bleas  yw^ 
it  was  of  no  use.  1  could  no  more  keep  tbois 
boy's  in  their  beds,  than  so  many  jacks  in  the  boi. 
So  I  made  an  agreement,  with  them:  I  waste 
allow  a  fifteen-minnte  pillow  fight  every  Saturday 
night;  and  they  promised  to  go  properiy  to  bed 
every  other  night.  I  tried  it,  and  it  worked  well 
If  they  don't  keep  their  word,  no  frolic ;  if  tbej 
do,  I  Just  tnra  the  glasses  round,  put  the  lamps  ia 
safe  places,  and  let  them  rampage  as  mnch  as  thej 
Uke." 

"It's  a  beantifnl  i^lan,"  said  Nat,  feeling  that 
he  should  like  to  Join  in  the  fray,  but  not  ventar- 
ing  to  propo/M  it  tho  first  night  Bo  he  lay  ea- 
Joying  the  spectaole^  whiph  certainly  was  a  lirdy 
one. 

Tommy  Bangs  led  the  assailing  |>arty,  and  Deni 
defended  his  own  room  with  a  dogged  courage  iSns 
to  see,  collecting  pillows  behind  him  as  iast  ai 
they  were  thrown,  till  the  besiegers  were  out  of 
ammunition,  when  they  would  charge  upon  him  is 
a  body  an4  recover  their  arms.  A  few  slight  ac- 
cidents oo<;urred,  But  nobody  minded,  and  cave 
an^  took  sounding  thwack^  with  perfect  good  hu- 
mor, while  pillowJ  flew„Ukfi  big  snowflakei,  till 
Mrs.  Bhaer  Rooked  at  her  watch,  and  ealled  oat: 
''Time  is  up,  boys.  Into  bed,  every  man  Jack, 
or  pay  the  forfeit !" 

«  What  is  the  forfeit  ?". asked  Nat,  sitting  op  is 
his  eagerness  to  know  what  happened  to  tkoso 
wretches  who  disobeyed  this .  most  peculiar,  bst 
public-spirited  sohoolma'am* 

"Lose  their  fun  next  time,"  answered  Kia 
Bh^r.  "  I. give  them  five  minutes  to  settle  dowi^ 
then  put  out  the  lights,  and  ei^peet  order.  Tk^ 
are  honorable  lads,  and  keep  their  word." 

7hat  was  evident^  for  the  battle  ended  as  sb- 
raptJy  as  it  began— a  parting  shot  or  twoy  a  finsl 
cheer,,  as  Demi  fired  the  seventh  pillow  at  ths  n^ 
^inng  foe,  a  fow  ehaUangas  for  next  tisu,  Um 
«rder  prevailed;  ^nd  nothing  but  an  oocafiaaal 
giggle  or  a  suppressed  whisper  broke  the  qoist 
which  followed  the  Saturday- night  frolic,  «i 
Mother  Bhaer  kissed  her  new  boy,  and  left  hioi  to 
happy  dreams  of  life  at  Plumfield.— i^rMi  **LitiU 
Mtm,"  by  LouUa  M,  AleotU 


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THE   SOME    CIRCLE. 


175 


SAVED. 

BT.    MBS.  B.  0.  JOBNSOB. 

AFBW  yean  ago,  th«  Sewing  Circle  of  Bey. 
Mr.  Baetman'B  olmrch  visited  the  Baldwin* 
PUce  Home  for  Little  WandererSy  in  Boston. 
They  passed  a  plesssnt  afternoon,  saw  the  little 
ones  put  to  bad,  and  in  the  erening  the  gentle- 
men, the  ministar  among  the  namber,  oame  in. 
IfoTiDg  aboat  amoBg  the  older  children,  Mr.  East- 
man noticed  a  tall,  and  Tory  beantifol  girl,  of  re> 
fined  and  graoaftil  manner;  supposed  she  had 
come  with  the  Sewing  Cirole,  and  was  enrprised 
that  there  should  be  one  among  his  own  people 
whom  he  did  net  leoognise.  After  awhile  he  went 
to  Mr.  Toles,  the  -saperintendent,  and  inqvired 
who  she  was. 

To  his  astonishment  he  was  answered  thas : 
"That  is  one  of  our  rescued  children.  Imagine 
a  girl  of  fifteen,  yery  tall  for  that  age,  with  fea- 
tures originally  regular,  but  pinched  by  hunger 
sad  distorted  by  sulferiag  \  not  a  hair  on  her  head; 
emaciated  most  dreadfully,  and  with  a  fever-sore 
on  her  hip ;  ragged,  sick,  orphaned — ^utterly  home- 
less and  friendless,  wandering  about  the  streets. 
Such  wsks  she  when  I  found  her.  X  brought  her 
here.  She  was  fed,  clothed,  and  nursed.  The 
fever-sore  was  finally  enxed  by  repeated  applica- 
tions of  rate,  •eraptd  Ivmtp.  With  care,  kindness 
and  physical  oomfort,  hope,  strength  and  health 
oame  to  her.  And  you  see  what  she  is— a  girl  of 
unusual  intelligence,  as  well  as  beauty." 

That  girl  remained  a  year  at  the  Home;  then, 
with  good  habits  and  good  principles,  and  what 
education  could  be  imparted  in  a  year's  time  to  a 
willing  and  ready  learner,  went  to  a  home  in  the 
West,  where  she  has  lived  as  a  dearly  loved  daugh- 
ter till  this  sammer,  when  she  becomes  the  wiie  of 
a  worthy  young  num  in  Hillsdale^  Iowa. 

What  eould  have  been  her  fate,but  for  the  help- 
ing hand  and  pitying  heart  that  found  her  in  her 
distress — so  young,  so  unprotected,  and  singu- 
larly beautifhl  ?  An  artist,  in  Boston,  who  took 
her  photograph,  has  sold  a  great  number  of  copies 
ss  a/a«cy  picture.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  insti- 
tution to  send  a  company  of  children  (say  forty 
or  more),  out  west  every  year,  and  there  find 
homes  of  adoption  for  them.  When  this  girl  went, 
s  gentleman  invited  her  to  his  house,  (I  think  the 
one  who  adopted  her,  but  am  not  positive,)  and  on 
entering  the  parlor,  her  own  picture  on  the  wall 
was  the  first  thing  that  met  her  9jtB, 

There  is  msterial  enough  in  her  strange  story 
for  an  elaborate  romance.  Here  you  have  the  un- 
Tamished  facts  of  one  case  among  thousands  of 
what  this  Home,  and  others  like  it,  are  doing  day 
hy  day  in  our  land. 

Truly  an  angel's  work;  and  where  do  we  find 
one  so  replete  with  hope  and  enoonragement  ? 
Missions  of  reform,  and  others,  are  good,  ines- 
timably good,  and  should  be  generously  aide^^ 
Bat  after  all,  what  is  the  hope  there,  compared 
VOL.  xxxvin.— 12, 


with  this?  Tou  take  these  little  children,  away 
from  bad  infiu^nces,  from  neglect,  abuse,  and 
physical  wretchedness,  and,  with  rarely  an  excep- 
tion, with  soaroely  a  limitatioB,  yoN  make  tJkem  what 
you  wiU  I  Surely,  if  the  eup  of  cold  water  given 
in  the  name  of  Christ,  to  one  of  these  little  ones, 
shall  net  fail  of  reward,  those  who  lift  them,  with 
tender  hands,  out  of  the  pi(»  snatch  them  from 
oertaifi  destruction  of  body  and  soul,  and  put 
them,  weU  trained,  into  happy  homes,  saved  for 
time  and  eternity,  are  richly  blessed  in  the 
deed. 

Mr.  Clapp,  of  Boston — a  man  whose  dear,  prac- 
tical Judgment  is  only  equalled  by  his  great, 
generous  heart— told  me  recently  that  the  longer 
he  was  connected  with  this  work  the  more  he  felt 
its  hopefulneee,  and  was  the  more  oonvinced  of* 
this  fact :  that  there  is  not  one  child  too  many 
bom  in  our  land,  but  there  are  homes  for  them 
all,  hearts  wanting  all — only  they  are  mieplaeed^ 
What  this  Home,  and  others  like  it,  strives  to  do,- 
is  to  bring  the  needy  little  ones  to  the  homes  and 
hearts  that  want  them. 

They  who  believe  Christ's  words,  that  what  is 
done  for  these  little  ones  is  done  unto  Him,  will 
gladly  aid  the  Homes,  esteeming  it  a  privilege* 
rather  than  a  burden. 


W" 


0(X)UPATION. 

'HAT  a  glorious  thbig  it  is  for  the  human  > 
heart !  Those  who  work  hard  seldom  yield, 
to  fancied  or  real  sorrow.  When  grief  sits  down,, 
folds  its  hands,  and  mourn ftiUy  feeds  upon  its  own 
tears,  weaving  the  dim  shadows,  that  a  little  exer- 
tion might  sweep  away,  into  a  funeral  pell,  the 
strong  spirit  is  shorn  of  its  might,  and  sorrow  be- 
comes our  master.  When  troubles  flow  upon  you 
dark  and  heavy,  toll  not  with  the  waves,  and  wrestle  - 
not  with  the  torrent;  rather  seek  by  occupation  to 
divert  the  dark  waters,  that  threaten  to  overwhelm 
you,  with  a  thousand  channels  which  the  duties  oV 
life  always  present  Before  you  dream  of  it,  those 
waters  will  fertilise  the  present,  and  give  birth  to 
firesh  flowers  that  will  become  pure  and  holy  in 
the  sunshine  which  penetrates  to  the  path  of  duty, 
in  spite  of  every  obstacle.  Orief,  after  all,  is  but 
a  selfish  feeling,  and  most  selfish  is  the  man  who* 
yields  himself  to  the  indulgence  of  any  passion 
which  brings  no  joy  to  his  fellow-men. 


Ths  one  serviceable,  safe,  certain,  remunera- 
tive, attainable  quality  in  every  study  and  in< 
every  pursuit  is  the  quality  of  attention.  My 
own  invention  or  imagination  would  never  have* 
served  me  as  it  has,  but  for  the  habit  of  common- 
place, humble,  patient,  daily,  tolling,  drudging: 
sttention.-^C7AaWM  JHehent. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


EVEDSriN-QS   TTITH    THE   I>OETS. 


MEHETABEL. 

BT  LVOT  LARCOV. 

MEHBTABBL'S  knitting  liei  loon  in  her  hnBd ; 
She  watches  the  gold  of  a  broken  red  brand 
That  glitters  and  flashes, 
And  falls  into  ashes. 
The  flame  that  illumines  her  face 
From  the  oaremons,  blaok  fireplace, 
Brings  ever  new  wonders  of  color  and  shade 
To  flicker  about  her,  and  shimmer,  and  fade. 
Does  any  one  guess 
Of  this  mud's  loveliness, 
That  the  lonesome  and  smokj  old  room  seems  to 
bless? 

Mehetabei's  mother  ealls  ont<«f  the  gloom. 
From  a  clatter  of  shoTel,  and  kettle,  and  broom. 

From  her  flurry  and  worry 

Of  work>a-day  hurry : 
"  Our  Hetty  sits  there  in  a  dream, 
With  her  needles  half  round  to  the  jeam; 
With  nothing  to  vex  her,  and  nothing  to  try  her ; 
But  never  will  she  set  the  river  afire." 

And  back  to  the  din 

Of  iron  and  tin 
One  shadow  flits  out,  while  another  steals  in. 

Mehetabei's  lover  through  new-fiidlen  snow 
So  softly  has  come  that  the  maid  does  not  know 
He  is  standing  behind  her 
So  happy  to  find  her 
Alone,  that  he  hardly  can  speak 
A  whisper — a  flush  on  her  cheek 
More  lovely  than  eunset's  reflection  by  far. 
**  0  Hetty,"  he  murmurs,  ''the  white  evening  star 
And  the  beaoon<lights  swim 
On  the  ocean's  blue  rim. 
But  I  see  yonr  sweet  eyes,  and  they  make  the  stars 
dim." 

.■Mehetabei's  wooer  is  stalwart  and  tall ; 
Jlis  figure  looms  dark  on  the  flame-lighted  wall. 
Outside  in  pale  shadow 
Lie  pasture  and  meadow ; 
Dim  roselight  is  on  the  white  hill; 
The  sea  glimmers  purple  and  chill. 
"  0  Hetty,  be  mine  for  the  calm  and  the  storm ; 
.Though  cold  be  the  wide  world,  my  heart's  love  is 
warm. 

Knit  me  into  your  dream. 
And  my.  rude  life  will  seem 
Like  abeautifhl  landscape,  in  June's  golden  beam." 

JtfehetabeVs  forehead  has  gathered  a  cloud ; 
A  thousand  new  thoughts  to  her  young  bosom 
crowd; 
Her  knitting  drops  lower; 
No  lover  can  show  her 
The  way  through  her  mind's  lonely  mate. 
Be  reads  no  response  in  her  gate.  * 
(176) 


(  Her  heart  is  a  snow-drift  where  foot  never  trod ; 
Love's  sun  has  not  wakened  a  bud  on  its  sod ; 

And  pure  as  the  glow 

Of  the  stars  on  the  snow 
Are  the  glances  that  up  through  her  long  lashes  go. 

Mehetabei's  fhtnre,  an  unexplored  land, 
'  Spreads  vaguely  before  her,  unpeopled  and  grand, 

lU  wild  paths  wait  lonely 
>  For  her  ibotsteps  only; 

She  must  weave  out  the  web  of  her  dream, 
Though  flimsy  and  worthlees  it  seem 
)  To  her  mother's  eye,  filled  with  the  dust- motes  of 
I  care, 

Though  it  bar  up  her  path  fh>m  the  heart  that 
beats  there 
In  the  gathering  gloom, 
Breathing  odor  and  bloom 
And  sweet  sense  of  life  through  the  dusk  of  the 
room. 

Mehetabers  dream-^you  will  guess  H  in  rain ; 
Only  half  to  herself  is  unwound  the  bright  skein. 
She  is  but  a  woman. 
As  gentle  as  human ; 
Yet  rooted  in  hearts  firesh  as  hers 
Is  the  hope  that  the  universe  stirs ; 
And  broad  be  her  thought  as  life's  measnreltss 

sone. 
Or  narrow  as  self  is,  it  still  is  her  own ; 
And  alone  she  may  dare 
What  she  never  would  share 
With  friendship  the  dearest,  or  love  the  most  rare. 

Mehetabei's  answer— it  has  not  been  told. 
To  ashes  has  fallen  the  firelight's  red  gold. 
No  mother,  no  lover. 
For  her,  the  worid  over. 
The  work-a- day  Jangle  is  still, 
The  empty  house  stands  on  the  hill, 
The  rafters  are  cobwebbed,  the  ceiling  is  bare; 
But  always  a  wraith  haunts  the  carved  oaken  chair; 
And  early  and  late 
There's  a  creak  at  the  gste. 
And  a  wind  through  the  room  like  a  soft  sigh  of 
"Wait!" 

Mehetabel— Hetty—the  dream  of  a  dream. 
The  film  of  a  snow-cloud,  a  states  broken  beam, 
Were  a  tangible  story 
To  hers;  but  the  gloiy 
Of  ages  dims  down  to  a  spark, 
And  dies  out  at  last  in  the  dark. 
Among  questions  unanswered,  unrealized  dreams. 
Still  the  beautiful  cheat  of  what  may  be  and  leems, 
Flashes  up  on  night's  brink, 
Where  the  live  embers  blink, 
And  the  tales  that  they  mntter  we  dream  that  we 
think.  Atlantic  Monthiji* 


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EVENINGS    WITH    TEE    POETS. 


177 


A  SONG  OF  A  NEST. 

BT  JEAN    IN6EL0W. 

THBRB  was  OB«e  a  A6|t  intha  w^Uow, 
Down  in  Uie  moeses  and  knot-graas^r^SM^* 
Soft  and  warm,  and  fall  to  the  brim  ; 
Vetches  leaned  over  it,  parple  and  djm, , 
With  bnttercnp.hudfl  to  follow. 

I  praj  you  hear  my  song  of  a  n«it, 

For  it  is  not  long: 
Yon  shall  never  light  in  a  ninnier  qnest,     ' 

The  imsheii  Among, 
Shall  never  light  on  a  pfoader  wittti,    - 

A  fairer  neatiyil,  ttor  ever  kno#  ' 
A  sofler  fovnd  than  their  tender' twitter, 

That  wfld-Hke  did  eome  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestfnl  onoe  of  my  ow^pi^ 

AhShappjr,  happylj 
Kight  dearly  I  lored  thdiu;  bat  whan  they  were 
grown. 

They  spre^bd  oa^  their  wings  to  fly; 
Oht  ono  alter  9|ie,  tUey  flew  away, 

l^ar  op  in  the  heavenly  bine. 
To  the  bet^erooantry,  the  upper  day,  ... 

And— I  wish  I  was  going,  too. 

t  pray  you,,  what  is  the  nest  to  me — 

My  empty  nest  7  ' 

And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  "West  ? 
Can  I  eall  that  home  where  I  anchor  not, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  T 
Can  I  can  that  home  where  my  nest  was  set, 

Now  all  its  hopes  hive  faBed? 

Nay,  hut  the  port  where  my  sailer  went. 
And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be— 

There  is  the  land  wheve  my  thoughts  are  dent, 
The  only  hope  for  me. 

OUR  BABY. 

BT   PfldEBE  OAKBT. 

WHfiN  the  morning,  half  in  shadow, 
I^an  along  the  hill  and  maadow, 
And  with  milk'-'whittf  fingers  {Parted 
Crimson  roses,  golden  hearted;    ■ 
Opening  over-  rains  hoary 
firery  purple  morning-glory, 
And  ontshaking  flrom  the  bashes 
Singing  larks  aUd  pleasant  thrushes ; 
That's  the  time  our  littie  baby, 
fitrtiyed  firom  Paradise,  it  may  be,  ' 
Came  with  eyes  like  Hearen  abote  her : 
Oh,  we  could  fliot  ehoose  but  lo^r^  heri     ' 

Not  enough  of  earth  for  sianini^ 
Always  geatloy  always  winniogp. 
Nerer  neediiig  our  reproving,.         .    . 
fiver  fively,  ever  Jevhigj 
Starry  eyes  and  sunset  tressM»    • 
White  anns,  made  for  Ught  oaresses, 
Lips^  that  knew  no  word  of  doabting^ 


Often  kissing,  never  pouting ; 
Beauty  even  in  completeness, 
OyerfuU  of  childish  sweetness; 
Tliat's  tie  way  our  little  biiby. 
Far  too  pure  for  earth,  it  may  be. 
Seemed  to  us,  who  while  about  her 
Deemed  we  could  not  do  without  her. 

When  the  morning,  half  in  shadow, 
Ban  aloag  the  hill  and  meadow. 
And  wUh  milkrwhite  fingers  parted 
Crimson  roses,  golden  hearted ; 
Opening  over  ruiz^s  houry. 
Svery  purple  morning-glory, 
And  ontshaking  from  the  bashes 
Singing  larks  and  pleasant  thrushes ; 
That's  the  time  our  little  baby. 
Pining  heroifor  Heaven,  it  may  }ie. 
Turning  from  our  bitter  weeping. 
Closed  her  eyes  as  when  in  sl^eping^ 
And  her  white  hands  on. her  bosom 
Folded  like  a  summer  blossom. 

Now  the  litter  she  doth  lie  on. 
Strewed  with  roses,  bear  fo  Zion ; 
Go,  as  past  a  pleasant  meadoW, 
Through  the  valley  of  the  shadow ; 
Take  her  softly,  holy  angels, 
Past  the  ranks  of  Qod's  evangels ; 
Past  the  saints  and  martyrs  holy, 
To  the  Karth  Born,  meek  and  lowly ; 
We  would  havs  oiir  precious  blossom 
Softly  laid  in  Jesus'  bosom. 

"CONfilDER  THE  LILIES  OF  THE  > 
FIELD." 

BT  eiRlSTUrABOSSBm. 

F  LOWERS  preach  to  Us  if  we  will  hear:  f 
The  rose  saith  in  the  dewy  mom : 
I  am  most  fair;   '  w 

Yet  aU  my  loveliness  is  bora 
Upon  a  thorn. 

The  poppy  saith  amid  the  corn: 
Let  but  my  scarlet  head  appear 
And  I  am  held  in  s^orn ; 
Yet  Juiee  of  subtle  virtue  lies 
Within  my  eup  of  curious  dyes. 
The  lilies  say :  Behold  how  we 
Preach  without  words^  of  parity^ 
The  violets  Whisper  l^om  the  shade 
WMeh  Ihislr  own  leaves  have  made  3 
Men  Seefit  our  fragranoe  on  the  air, 
Yet  take  no  h^d 
Of  humble  lessons  we  wouid  read. 

B4t  not  alone  the  fairest  towers: 

The  aia«Bst  grass 

Along  the  roadside  where  we  pass,. 

Liohen  and  moss  and  stnrdy  weed, 

Tell  of  His  love  who  sends  the  dew,. 

The  rain  and  sunshine,  too, : 

To  nourish  one  small  seed. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


HE-A-LTH   IDEP-A.RTMENT- 


ON  BEOWN  BBEAD. 

THE  following  it  {torn  the  OhHHian  Vnion.  Its 
snggeBtions  are  worthy  th«  aitontiMi  of  moth- 
9TS,  and  all  who  hare  to  do  with  the  preparation 
of  Ibod  for  children. 

Few  people,  perhaps,  are  aware,  notwithstand- 
ing the  deal  written  and  said  on  the  rahjeet,  how 
maoh  a  true  rigorous  manhood  and  womanhood 
depend  upon  the  use  of  food  as  Nature  has  giyen 
it  to  us. 

You  take  up  a  single  grain  df  wheat— ^well,  it  is 
Nature's  complete  grocery  store,  liaring  packed 
away  in  a  marrellously  small  Space,  and  in  mar- 
rellous  order,  all  the  goods  which  are  needed  by  all 
the  tenants  in  this  wonderfVil  corporation  which 
we  call  the  human  body. 

Now,  you  let  all  the  customers  come  into  this 
grocery  store;,  and  not  one  of  them  will  go  empty 
away.  The  brain  and  nerres  come,  and  find  their 
soluble  phosphates.  The  bones  and  teeth  come, 
and  find  their  insoluble  phosphates  for  the  hard 
framework.  The,  muscles  come,  and  find  their 
nitrogenous  elements  out  of  which  they  build. 
And  the  lungs  come  and  find  their  carbonaceous 
elements  to  keep  the  stores  goings  and  warm  the 
whole  household. 

But  suppose  you  are  foolish  enough  to  gire  way 
to  thafr  weak  fancy,  or  that  more  foolleh  fashion, 
which  demands  the  ''supeifine,"  and  yon  must 
hare  bread  whleh  will  /liral  the  nnsoiled  snow  in 
whiteness  1  Then  what  do  you. do  for  yourself 
and  family  f  Yo«  doprire  your,  grooer  of  a  large 
portion  of  the  best  part  of  his  stocky  and  conse- 
quently you  compel  somf  of  the  most  important 
members  of  your  Jionsehold  to  g»  hungry,  and 
stunt  their  derelopmen)^  ai^  weaken  theiv  ener- 
gies for  sheer  want  of  food. 

The  divine  member  at  the  top  is  starred,  because 
the  brain  must  hare  soloblv  phesphates  ip  work 
up  into  intellectual  Ught,  but  this  goee  out  with 
the  bran  to  feed  the  eciws  apd  horses ;  which,  how- 
CTcr,  may  aeeouat  for  the.  frequfSkt  instances,  of 
rery  knowing  cattle  W0  hear  ot  The  whole  sys- 
tem of  tliie  voal's  telegraphy  is  defnifed^  too«  of  its 
iVill  measure  of  essential  flnadsr  Aceessary  fer  sub- 
tle communication  to  and  fro|n  th«  brain. 

In  other  wordi^  the  soluble  phosphates  fised  the 
nerves ;  and  animal  spirits,  and  a  wholesome  and 
steady  flow  of  enefgy,  depend  upon  an  adequate 
supply  of  this  subtle  fluid  whM  is  ieoeted  in  the 
brain  and  fed  ont  to  th«  nerres.  t^agaAyiiM,  and 
neuralgia^  and  toothache,  with  all  theiir  dire  brood, 
are  God's  eonmentaay  eb  this  wiikedness  which 
robs  Nature's  grocer  of  »  Icrge  rikare  of  his  stock 
of  goods. 

(178) 


What  else  is  done  in  this  efi'ort  to  reach  the  **  su- 
perfine," and  the  alabaster  whiteness  ?  For  one 
thing,  it  insures  wealth  to  a  great  maHy  more  doc- 
tors, and  makes  place  for  a  great  majQ^  more 
dentists.  She  ineoinble  phosphates  tuniak  the 
fhune  to  the  building,  and  also  the  millHrtones  for 
the  mUler.  Vhe  tiUMb.  which  is  fiMind  as«>ektsd 
with  the  rery  exteiior  ef  the  graia»  geee  away  with 
the  bran,  and  we  ttsed  not  wonder»  tben,  that  oir 
cows  and  calres  bare  better  teeth  than  our  chil- 
dren. The  bones  and  the  teeth  demand  their 
share  f^om  the  gtocer,  and- they*  are  compelled,  by 
reason  of  this  false  practice,  in  most  famfliei^  to 
c«me  away  with  fatff  Mttois.  In  tkis  case.  Nature 
does  the  best  she  can,  and  just  as  the'  builder  doea 
when  he  is  cut  short  in  tittben,  aaid  has  insuf- 
ficient supply  of  plaster  and  paint-^^fae  house  it 
put  up  on  a  small  eoiile ;  th«  layers  ^f  plaster,  the 
hard  finish,  and  the  paint  are  laid  on  palnfuDy 
thin. 

Without  an  illustration^  we  aee  diminished 
figures  of  young  men  and  women  ;  the  bones  are 
stinted  of  their  needed  elements,  and  accordingly 
are  stunted  in  growth ;  the  teeth  carry  a  thin  cost- 
ing of  enwnel,  and  under  the  riolent  expanding 
and  coniractiiig  efi'ects  of  hot  and  cold  food,  soon 
erack|  then,  decay,  and  are  a  trial  when  they  come, 
a  trial  as  long  as  they  stay,  and  a  trial  when  tb«7 
go,  being  a  profit  to  no  mortal  but  the  dentist 

This  isahmiitheetate  ef  the  eaae^  the  obeerra- 
tions  of  A  distinctt^l^td'OenasA  nataralist  who  ii 
in  do«bt»Tlntiwithstaadinc^  An  •minent  Amer- 
ican physician  tells  us  of  the  case  of  a  little  girl 
whom  he  had  in  chaigaj.  ■  The  little  thing,  when 
she  was  placed  ui^^r  his  eare»  was  wellnigh  des- 
titute of  teeth ;  was  painfi^ilj  diminutire  in  form, 
pale  and  puigr. ,  Ifike  a  wise  physician  he  first  ex- 
amined ojU>i|elj  in^o  her  diet  and  habits  of  life; 
learned  tbat.yhe  had  been  £e4i  at  .her  own  sweet 
will,  upon  all  the  /Inest  preparations  of  "super- 
fine" flour  in  bread,  cake%  and  pastry;  and  had 
been  daily  indulged^.to  her  heart's  content,  in 
the  "best"  preparations  of  the  confectioner's  art. 
The  doctor  imme4iately  changed  all  thia  Be 
turned  at  once  to  the  bo—  buildtrt  and  prescribed 
plenty  of  course,  plain  food  (^ndading  natural 
bread),  and  pro^cribed^^tteriiy.all  the  noxious  pas- 
tries, etc,  and  §enther  to  live  more  in  the  open  air. 
The  result  was  precisely  what  might  hare  been 
anticipated,  fier  health  was  rerolationised.  Her 
body  began  to  grow  rapidly  beoanse  her  bones 
were  fed ;  and  what  was  oMre  deltghtlU  still»  foil- 
sixed,  healthy  teeth  begsm  %k  nake  their  appear- 
ance, and  this  fading  doU  was  handed  orer  tc  her 
anxious  mother;  a  rosy-cheeked,  rigonas  child. 
Anothsot  distinguished  pbysieiaa  of  this  country 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


S0UBEKEEPEE8'    DEPARTMENT. 


179 


has  rtmaikttdy  in  offtety  that  if  joa  want  joor 
ehildrea  to  grow  up  to  a  well-deyelopad,  Tigoroa^ 
aod  healthful  manhood  and  womanhood*  jou  mqal 
atteiMl  eqieciaUy  to.  Uio  fron*  6i»tMtt^«  daring  tim 
period  of  gvowtlu  The  lait  and  floah  ^an-  ho  p«t 
on  aftofward,  bnl  nol  the  knAdfedth  part  of  an 
laeKoan  tho  bon^  hor mado  to  tolia  on»  aAer  the 
•Mion  of  growtk.  hM  oomo  to  an  ond. 

Boana,  barlaj  i^d  oatmoal  h*To  ahfrat  time 
timea  more  of  the  bone  building  and  toeth-foedbig 
eleoeato  thai)  tbe  beat  bee^ateak,  and  aa  the  laat- 
aaaied  of  the  tbrao  ia  general^^  tbe  beat  liked*  it 
is  espeoiaUy  nxoeUent  to  giro  to  ohiidren.  Let 
tbe  Canadian  onto  be  aeleotedy  well  cloaned  by  the 
smntt  macbine,  ground  coar»€f  and  then  not  boiled 
so  long  aa  to  deatroy  tbe  distinot  grains,  or  to 
transform  it  into  a  starchj  mass.  Then  let  it  be 
esten  warm  wltb  milk,  a  little  granulated  sugar 
added,  if  preferred ;  and  we  renture  to  say  it  will 
beeome  a  daily  faTorHe  in  any  boaaehold  where  it 
is  tried  $  and  any  family  will  And  themaelrea  a 
thonaand-lbld  oompensated  for  the  experiment  by 
the  bettor  derelopment  and  bettor  health  of  tbe 
ehildrea,  and  an  improvement  in  alL 

When  the  writer  was  in  fidinburgh,.  the  oele- 
hrated  Dr.  Qaihrie  oalled  hia  apeeial  attenUon  to 


tbe  sise  of  the  Sootoh  people,  and  to  tbe  fact  that 
the  arerage  slse  of  their  heads  was  greater  than 
that  of  any  other  nation  in  the  world,  not  except- 
ing even  the  English ;  and  when  asked  bow  be  ac^ 
oonnted  Jfor  this,  he  replied  that  he  thought  it  was 
owing  largely  to  their  uniTeraal  devotion  to  oat- 


Indeed,  tbe  writer  observed  that  the  national 
dish  was  found  upon  the  Uble  at  almost  every 
meal,  in  the  bouses  of  the  rieh  as  well  as  the  poor. 
In  the  morning  oame  the  mosh^  and  in  the  even- 
ing the  traditional  cake,  about  the  size  of  the 
orown  of  a  hat,  and  a  little  harder  than  a  sun- 
dried  brick. 

For  further  confirmation  on  this  important 
question,  let  tbe  waiter  add  that  he  has  found  a 
great  advantage  to  follow  the  daily  use  of  (honest) 
brown  bread  and  oatmeal  in  bis  own  family. 
A  child  whose  first  toeth  came  through  in  a  starved 
oondition,  so  they  began,  to  decay  at  once  and 
cause  much  sufiering,  is  now  blessed  with  as 
fine  a  set  of  second  cuttors  as  any  one  could  ask, 
while  the  general  health  of  all  has  improved. 
In  (act  we  ail  voto  that  we  must  daily  have 
our  brown  bread  and  Its  twin-sister  dish  of  oat- 
meaL 


HOXJSEKEEPEBS'  DEPj^RTMENT. 


PUTTING  THINGS  AWAY. 

DO  men  ever  think,  asks  an  exchange,  bow 
much  time  women  spend  in  picking  up  and  put- 
ting things  away  ?  Of  eourse  we  do  not  mean  to 
btimato  that  it  is  wasted,  or  that  all  this  labor  is 
done  unneoessarily.  Women  have  a  vast  amowU 
of  SQcb  work  to  perform,  and  few  men  realise  its 
extent,  or  ito  neoeeaity,  nntil  some  aoeident  or 
eircumstanoe  brings  it  borne  to  them. 

A  married  man  said  once,  that  he  never  realked 
the  amount  of  work  done  in  bringing  .things  out 
and  putting  them  away,  nntU  he  happened  to  sit 
idly,  watobing  the  operation,  of  setting  the  tabl^, 
''getting  toa,"  as  it  was  oalled,  at  a  neighbor's 
house,  washing  the  dishes,  and  clearing  them 
AVfty.  It  sti^ok  him,  for  the  iirst  time,  how  much 
vmI  labor  had  to  be  done  in  lifting  and  carrying, 
between  table  and  pantry,  and  pantry  and  kitohen, 
uid  he  determined  to  lessen  such  labor  in  bis 
bouse,  as  much  as  possible,  by  constructing  a 
kitohen  in  bis  house  with  every  facility  and  obtt- 
vn&sneeu  He  tbon^t,  with  a  sort  of  eonstena- 
tien,  if  one  ''tea"  requires  tiiat  amowit  of  laboi, 
what  mi|st  the  work.ef  a  house  fox  a  Ulb-time 
amount  to?_a  very  pretty  problem  wbiob  ve 
■bottld  Uke  to  see  answered. 

It  is  a  fifiet,  however,  that  "putting  things 
away  "  becomes  a  sort  of  mania  with  some  seat 


housewives,  and  not  only  gives  them  a  vast  amonnt 
of  trouble,  but  sours  t^heir  temper,  and  is  a  source 
of  annoyance  to  every  member  of  the  family. 
Frem  a  habit,  probably,  of  being  upon  one  spot 
all  the  time,  etemally  seeing  and  doing  the  same 
things^  it  becomes  a  sort  of  mania,  and  is,  in  faot, 
a  symptom  of  disease.  We  think  a  good  plan,  in 
sneh  a  case,  would  be,  for  tbe  husband  to  insist 
on  bis  wife  teking  a  journey,  making  a  visit  bome, 
or  spending  a  couple  of  weeks  at  a  watoring-place. 
Tbe  change  of  seene,  tbe  breaking  op  of  the  mo- 
notony of  her  life,  would  do  her  a  world  of  good. 
Her  ideas  would  beeome  enlarged ;  her  thoughts 
travel  out  of  their  accustomed  routine ;  and  when 
she  returned  she  would  Uke  up  life  less  as  a  bur- 
den, and  more  as  a  basket  of  flowers,  from  which 
it  is  possible  to  extract  b^uty  and  Amgranoe. 


A  NEGLECTED  DU^Y. 

.-  Tbfe  desire  of  an  enargetie-bonsekfeper  to  havfs 
berwork do^  at  an  early  hour  in  tbe  morning, 
eanaes  her  to  leave  one  of  the  moat  important 
items  of  neatness  undpne*  The  most  effectual 
purifying  of  bed  and  bed-clothes  cannot  take 
place  if  the  proper  time  is  not  allowed  for  the  free 
oiroulation  of  pure  air  to  remove  aUbnman  impur- 
Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


180 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S'  HOME   MAGAZINE. 


ities  which  have  oolleeted  during  the  honfs  of 
iblambeT.  At  least  two  or  three  hotirt  should  he 
allowed  for  the  complete  remeral  of  atoms' of  in- 
Sensible  pertipiration  which  are  absorbed  by  the 
bed.  Eyery  day  this  airing  should  be  done;  and 
occasionally,  bidding  oonstantly  used  should  be 
carried  into  the  open  air,  and  when  praotietl^ 
ble,  left  exposed  tO  the  sun  and  wind  for  half  a 
day. 

CLEANSE  AND  VENTILATE  YOUR 
CELLARS. 

Most  cellars  contain  a  large  amount  of  decom- 
posing vegetable  matter  in  the  form  of  decaying 
fruits  and  vegetables,  which  give  off  their  foul  and 
poisonous  gases  during  the  proeess  of  decay. 
Then,  again,  they  are  usually  damp,  close,  un- 
ventilated,  and  unsunned.  Air  which  is  kept  con- 
fined and  without  the  purifying  influence  of  sun- 
light, soon  becomes  impure  and  unfit  to  breathe, 
and  if  to  this  we  add  the  dampness  and  constantly 
escaping  gases  of  decomposing  vegetation,  we 
have  the  condition  of  the  atmosphere  of  cellar^. 
This  atmosphere  is  constantly  finding  its  way 
into  the  dwelling  above,  often  causing  danger- 
ous fevers,  and  always  impairing  the  health  of  its 
occupants. 

/      .   CHLOBIDE  OF  LIME. 

Comparatively  few  people  know  the  value  of 
chloride  of  lime.  II  is  only  ezoeUed  by  oarbolio 
acid  in  preventing  deoomposition  of  animal  and 
vegetable  ma;tter,  and  in  removing  impure  odoirs. 
It  is  a  good  protection  against  all  malarious  din- 
eases,  and  a  small  quantity  should  be  kept  in  a 
room  in  an  open  dish  through  the  warm  weather, 
when  such  diseases  are  most  prevalent  Cellars 
where  vegetables  are  kept  should  always  be  sttp- 
'plied  with  it.  It  also  drives  away  vermin*  Some 
■caution  is  needed  in  its  use,  as  it  rusts  steel  and 
destroys  gUt  articles  if  placed*  near' them.  It  is 
an  excellent  bleaching  agent,  but'  clothes  bleached 
with  it  should  be  well  and  thoroughly  rinsed,  or 
it  will  injure  them. 


WABFIELiyS  COLD-WATER  SELF- 
WASHING  SOAP. 

It  is  less  than  a  year  since  this  laundry  Soap 
oame  intonxs^,  ahd  already  large  amounts  of  capi- 
tal have  been  invested  in  its  manufacture  in  Bos- 
ton, New  York,  Philadelphia,  Pittsburgh, '  Bt 
Louis,  Wheeling,''  Chicago,  Albany;  and  mimy 
other  places.  Its  sale  increases  rapidly  from  day 
^0  day,  and  many  <^f  the  maiiiifaoturers  have  found 
it  almost  impossible  to  keep  pace  with  the  demand. 
As  a  laundi^'sotttyit  has  no  equal;  is  by  its  own 
action  it  releases  dirt  and  grease;  thue  doing  away 


with  boBing,  rubbing,  and  half  the  time  and  labor 
usually  spent  in  washing  There  is  nothing  in  11 
to  iiijure  the  clothes,  which  wear  twiee  as  long  ai 
when  tteated  in  the  old  hard  way.  All  that  is 
requli^d  in  itvus^  is  that  this  suds  be  strong,  and  : 
fbe  bloChes  be  permitted  to  soak  in  it  for  a  short 
time^-siiiy  from  ten  to  thirty  misnite»^whin  the 
dirt  can  be  squeesed  out  easily,  and  with  little  cr 
wf  mbbilngi  Thorough  rinsing  in  two  or  tkne 
waters  cdmplstes  tiM  work. 

The  oossfort,  eoenomy,  and  savtaig  of  wear  tai 
tear  in  garments  gained  by  use  of  ibis  soap  is  n 
great,  that  no  intelligent  housekeeper  who  bai 
onoe  given  it  a  fair  trial  will  ever  have  any  other.  { 


iioft^So* 


CONTRIBUTED  RECEIPTS. 

f  BOSBX  CtJSTAKD^— Boil  tfpo  quarts  oC  riofa  milt 
Beat  eight  eggs  and  a  teaeupftil  of  sugar  togetker, 
and  after  the  mUk  has  boUed,  pour  it  over  Ike 
eggs  and  sngais,  stirring  all  the  while.  Pour  tkt 
whole  mixture  into  your  kettle,  and  let  it  some  iQ 
a  boil,  stioing  it  oeAKtaatly.  Then  take  it  off  the 
fixe,  and  let  it  heoome  cold.  Flavor  it  with  what- 
ever essence  you  prefer.    Then  freexe  it 

OARBiOAir  CuSTABD. — Procuro  an  ounce  of  etr- 
rlgan  moss,  and  divide  it  into  four  parts;  one  part 
is  anffioiefit  for  one  mess.  Put  the  moss  into  water, 
and  let  it  remain  until  it  swells ;  then  dnun  it,  aad 
put  it  into  two  pints  and  a  half  of  mUk,  and  plaee 
it  over  the  fire;  ,let  it  boil  twenty  minutes,  stirriBg 
it  oontifidally;  then  strain  it,  sweeten  it  with  loaf 
Bu||ar,  put  it  into  oups,  and  grate  nutmeg  over  the 
tops  ^f  them. 

Whippbd  .ORBAx.^Sweeton  a  pint  of  swtet 
eream,  adding  some  essenoe  oC  lemon.  Then  beat 
up  the.  whites  of  fonr  eggs  tery  light,  add  them  to 
the  eream,  and  whip  up  both  together;  s«  ^ 
froth  risesy  skim  it  oft  put  it  in  glasses,  and  sod- 
tinue  until  they  are  flUed. 

FLOArmo  1st  AND.— Beat  the  whitbi  of  «▼•  egg* 
to  a  stiff  froth;  then  add  a  pint  of  currant  jeHj; 
and  oontinue  beating  until  it  is  as  light  as  it  eaa 
be  made.  If  it  does  not  rise  well,  add  a  little 
pondered' sugar.  ' 

A  Cheap,  Suoab  Cak^.— Ingredients:  V^ 
eggs;  quarter  of  a  pound  of  butter;  one  pound  of 
sugar;  one  teacupful  of  sour  oream;  andatM- 
spooful  of  soda;  use  just  enough  fiour  to  make  the 
dough  of  a  oonsistenoy  to  roll  it  out.  flavor  wit& 
nntfneg. 

•OoIup.8tarch  CAKS.-^akn  a  quarter  of  a  poM^ 
each  of  flour,  oorn-starehi  and  butter;  the  whitei* 
well  beaten,  of  eight  eggs;  half  a  poand  of 
sugar;  a'  teas^oonfltl  of  eream  of  ttftar;  half* 
teaspoonfol  of  soda;  and  flavor  with  the  extrifl* 
of  almondk  .  Add  in,  last  of  all^  the  whitei  of  the 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


FRUIT   OUr.TU]RE   FOR   LADIES. 

BY  THB  AUTHOR  OF  '*OARDEKINO  FOB  LADIES.'' 


WORK  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

Picking  Fruit.— One  of  the  important  duties 
of  the  fruit  grower  is  the  picking  of'  fruit  and 
preparing  it  for  marlcet    All  good  fruit  should  be 
hand  piclced,  and  all  fruit  that  shows  bruises, 
worm  holes,  or  decayed  spots  should  be  rct|eeted. 
Autumn  varieties  should  be  picked  when  fblly 
mature,  but  before  thej  show  signs  of  softening, 
so  that  they  will  reach  the  market  before  they  are  [ 
in  eating  condition.    In  preparing  line  fruits,  such  i 
as  pears,  for  market,  it  is  well  to  claasify  them, 
rejecting  all  the  small  and  knotty  specimens,  put«  | 
ting  the  ar«;rage  specimens  in  one  class,  and  fhe  , 
largest  and  finest  in  another.    By  this  means  the 
b«)t  will  secure  an  extra  price,  while,  if  mixed 
with  the  others,  they  only  bring  the  average  price. 
It  does  not  pay  to  send  poor  fVuit  to  market. 
Apples  may  be  g^und  and  pressed  for  vinegar, 
and  pears  may  hare  the  sound  portions  out  out 
and  dried. 

Srsds. — Peach  and  other  stone  fruit  are  to  be 
mixed  with  earth  and  exposed  to  frost  during  the 
winter.  Peaeh<stones  are  usually  strewn  thickly 
upon  a  bed  and  spaded  in. 

Transplanting. — Transplanting  may  be  done 
this  month  for  ttnii  trees,  with  the  exception  of 
stone  fruits.  There  is  usually  more  time  than  In 
the  spring,  and  the  work  is  consequently  done 
more  thoroughly. 

Blackberries. — As  soon  as  the  crop  is  off,  the 
old  canes  may  be  remered.  It  is  not  absolutely 
essential  that  this  should  be  done  at  once ;  but  if 
delayed,  the  winter  may  prove  too  severe  for  out- 
door work,  and  there  is  little  time  in  the  spring. 
The  new  canes  should  be  pinched  off  to  about  five 
feet,  if  not  already  done,  and  these  should  be  tied 
to  stakes,  or  confined  within  a  ftrame  work.  Our 
own  ezperienoe  proves  the  latter  way  the  most 
preferable.  Three  or  four  eanes  to  a  stool  are 
sufficient,  and  all  others  should  be  kept  down. 

Raspberries. — All  superfluous  suckers  should 
be  kept  down,  and  the  canes  tied  to  stakes,  or  to 
trellises.  Blaok-caps  maj  be  propagated,  ijf  de- 
sired, by  throwing  a  little  earth  on  the  overhang- 
ing tips,  which  will  soon  take  root. 

Stbawbrbriss. —  Strawberries  may  be  planted 
any  time  now  until  frost.  We  believe  the  pref- 
erence is  usually  given  to  spring  planting,  but  in 
our  experience  tJiose  planted  in  the  fall  have  done 
quite  as  well  if  not  better  than  those  set  out  at 
any  other  time  of  the  year.  Pinch  off  the  runners 
of  those  newly  set,  and  keep  the  b;eds  clear  of 
weeds. 


Currants  and  €k>08RBRRRiB8.--Make  cuttings 
of  currants  and  gooseberries  as  soon  as  the  wood 
Is  fUly  ripened,  and  set  them  out  with  a  view  to 
an  increase  of  stock.  Prune  down  the  new  wood 
of  gooseberries  to  about  the  third  bud.  This  must 
not,  however,  be  done  too  early  in  the  season,  for 
if  the  weather  should  be  mild,  it  will  Induce  a 
pushing  of  leaves  and  blossoms  which  will  mate- 
rially injure  the  next  year's  crop. 

APPLE-TREE  BORERS. 

By  September  the  grub  or  larva  of  the  apple-tree 
borer  will  have  cut  its  way  through  the  bark,  and 
may  be  found  between  the  bark  and  the  sap  wood.  A 
little  hole  or  a  speck  upon  the  bark,  resembling  very 
fine  sawdust,  will,  on  removal,  reveal  the  burrow  of 
the  grub.  With  a  sharp-pointed  knife  out  through 
the  bark,  and  take  it  out  If  it  has  burrowed  into 
the  wood,  it  must  be  removed  by  a  flexible  wire.  The 
entrance  of  this  grub  into  the  tree  is  almost  inva- 
riably an  inch  below  the  ground.  It  is  best  to  care- 
fully remove  the  dirt  f^om  around  the  tree  for  three 
or  four  inches.  To  be  sure  of  success,  leave  the 
earth  away  from  the  tree,  and  repeat  theliunt  in  the 
course  of  a  week  or  two.  Trees  may  be  infested 
by  this  borer  for  a  year  or  two  before  giving  evi- 
dence of  its  presence.  The  first  Indications  are  a 
feeble  growth  and  yellowish  east  of  the  leaves. 

ASHES  FOR  PEACH-TREES. 

In  several  of  our  exchanges,  Dr.  Oeorge  B. 
Wood,  President  of  the  American  Philosophical 
Society,  is  credited  with  having  discovered  that 
ashes  are  a  sovereign  remedy  for  all  the  diseases 
that  attack  the  peach-tree.  This  certainly  cannot 
be  called  a  new  discovery,  because  ashes  have  been 
used  as  a  fertiliser  for  peach-trees  ever  since  the 
introduction  of  this  fruit  into  America.^ 

The  want  of  a  sufficient  amount  of  potash  in 
the  soil  has  been  one  of  the  principal  causes  of 
failure  in  nearly  all  of  the  old  and  long  cultivated 
lands  in  the  Eastern  States;  but  where  are  the 
ashes  to  come  from  to  enable  us  to  remedy  the 
evil  ?  We  may  apply  a  few  bushels  per  acre,  but 
this  will  scarcely  be  a  drop  in  the  bucket,  when 
compared  with  the  amount  left  upon  the  soil  at  the 
time  of  burning  the  original  forests.  Ashes  are 
good  for  peach-trees,  and  we  would  advise  every 
grower  pf  this  fruit  to  use  all  he  can  get ;  but  new 
lands,  will  always  be  preferable  to  old,  because 
they  contain  more  potash,  in  addition  to  other 
important  materials. — Beartk  and  Home. 

Digitized  by  CjOlt^QlC 


ISTEW^   PTJBLIO^TIOISrS. 


ORA270K  Blossoms,  Fush  avs  Fadd.    B7  T.  S.  Author. 

PhUadelphU:  J,  M.  Stoddart  i»  Cb.   Kew  York :  Wm, 

Gibson,  Jr,    Boston:  Ow.  MaeUan.   Price  12.60. 

In  hii  prefaee  tfi  this  etogant  rolume  of  over  four 
hundred  pages,  the  aati&or,  referring  to  the  title  of 
his  book,  says : 

''If  they  would  nerer  fad»— these  pure  and 
fragrant  blossoms  I  If  the  little  foxes  woold  nerer 
spoil  the  Tines  1  Thej  do  not  always  fade,  nor 
are  the  tender  grapes  always  spoiled.  There  are 
many  brows  on  whieh  the  orange  blossoms  are  as 
fresh  to-day  as  when  placed  there  by  loving  hands 
in  years  long  past  They  will  always  be  fresh  and 
fragrant    Time  has  no  power  oyer  them. 

**  But  they  fade— alas  how  qniokly— on  so  many, 
many  brows.  Te  keep  them  fresh— to  bring  back 
their  sweetness  when  faded— is  the  loTing  mission 
of  our  book.  It  is  a  book  of  life-pictures.  It  takes 
you  into  other  homes,  and  makes  you  familiar  with 
other  experiences  than  your  own.  It  shows  you 
where  others  hare  erred ;  what  pain  and  loss  have 
followed,  and  how  Iotc,  self-denial,  and  reason 
haTe  turned  sorrow  into  joy,  and  threatened  dis- 
aster into  permanent  safety." 

"  Orange  Blossoms,"  which  is  sold  only  by  sub- 
scription, has  a  fine  steel  portrait  of  the  author, 
and  is  charmingly  illustrated  by  Lauderbach  from 
original  designs  by  Sohussele  and  Bensell.  In 
typography  and  binding  it  is  equal  to  the  best 
specimens  of  book-making. 

Thi  Liri  iHAV  Now  Is.    Sermons  by  Robert  Collyer. 

Boston :  Boraee  B.  FuUer. 

To  a  large  class,  sermons  are  looked  upon  as  dry 
reading,  and  the  impresaion  is  true  in  regard  to 
too  many  books  of^  sermons  that  are  issued  from 
the  press.  But  in  these  discourses  of  Mr.  OoUyer 
there  is  a  peculiar  charm  and  freshness,  and  such 
a  tender  sympathy  with  all  that  is  truly  human, 
that  the  dullest  reader  cannot  fail  to  be  interested. 
They  are  full  of  suggestions  to  right  liviog;  of 
comfort  in  trial  and  sorrow ;  and  of  wise  counsel 
to  those  who  are  in  doubt  and  trouble.  The  dis- 
course in  this  volume,  to  which  the  title  of  **  Ten- 
der, Trusty,  and  True"  is  given,  was  preached  to 
children,  and  is  beyond  all  comparison  the  best  of 
its  kind  we  have  ever  read.  No  child  could  fail 
to  be  interested  in  every  sentence;  and  the  im- 
pression made  would  be  lasting. 

Robert  Collyer  is  one  of  the  remarkable  men  of 
the  day.  Few  public  speakers  have  such  magnetic 
power  over  their  audiences.  His  compositions  ard 
distinguished  for  grace,  and  strength,  and  rich- 
ness, while  his  insight  Into  human  nature  marks 
him  as  a  man  of  close  observation  and  profound 
thought  He  is  pastor  of  Unity  Church,  Chicago, 
the  congregation  of  which  have  built  f^agnfflcent 
edifice,  said  to  be  the  largest  Protestant  church  in 
the  North-west  And  yet  a  little  over  ten  years 
(182) 


ago  he  was  working  at  his  trade  as  a  blacksmith 
in  Shoemakertown,  Pa.,  whither  he  came  from 
England,  in  1850.  Speaking  of  the  man  and  his 
style  of  preaching,  one  who  has  had  large  oppor- 
tunity to  hear  him,  says : 

"Sir.  CoUyer  is  in  no  sense  a  sensaUonsl 
preacher  J  but  the  bare  announcement  that  he  is  to 
speak  in  any  place  fills  the  house  to  its  utmost 
capacity;  and  audiences  iamUiar  with  the  eloque&t 
oratory  of  a  Beeoher  or  a  Chapin,  reckon  it  a 
privilege  to  look  into  the  beaming  face  and  listra 
to  the  earnest  words  of  the  blacksmith  preacher. 

"  He  stands  before  an  audience  with  his  stordj 
English  frame,  and  in  simple  Saxon  phrase  speab 
such  brave,  true  words,  with  such  a  strength  tad 
pathos,  that  the  hearts  of  all  who  listen  are  thrilled 
by' his  eloquence.  The  secret  of  his  power  lies  in 
this:  He  is  ftree  from  the  formality  of  the  school 
independent  of  all  dogmas  and  creeds,  and  hsi 
none  of  that  cold  intellectuality  so  often  charged 
upon  his  denomination.  He  does  not  deliver  hit 
sermons,  but  they  seem  to  utter  themselves,  as  the 
overflowing  of  his  love  for  his  fellow-men  and  bii 
trust  in  God ;  and  for  each  listener  there  always 
seem  to  be  special  words  of  encouragement  or  cob- 
solation." 

LiTTtK  Mi»;  Life  at  Plamfleld  with  Jo's  Boys.  By 

Louisa  M.Alcott,  author  of  "LitUe  Women,"  elc. 

Boston:  EoberU Brothers. 

No  one  who  read  "  Moods,"  one  of  Miss  Alcott*i 
earlier  works,  would  have  dreamed  its  author 
capable  of  books  such  as  she  has  since  produced. 
That  was  morbid  in  tone  and  pernicious  in  sesti- 
ment  But  in  "  Little  Women,"  and  the  works 
that  followed  after  it,  she  has  shown  herself  capa- 
ble of  something  far  better.  She  has,  indeed, 
proved  herself  par  exeellenee  the  delineator  of 
American  home  life,  and  especially  of  Amerieao 
children.  The  simple  domestic  stories  hare  csnsed 
a  sensation  such  as  few  novels  have  produced,  ind 
have  won  admiration  from  all  because  of  their 
simplicity  and  truthfulness. 

Sonbner's  Monthly  for  August  says  of  "LitUe 
Men :"  '<  It  is  not  possible  for  any  earnest  aJid 
loving  mother  of  boys  to  read  the  story  of  Jo'i 
family  without  having  her  work  made  easier  for 
the  rest  of  her  life.    It  is  one  of  the  best  of  the 
many  good  points  in  Miss  Alcott's  writing)  this 
teaching  fathers  and  mothers  by  winning  the  chil- 
dren first    Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings she  perfects  her  lessons,  and  so  subtly  thst 
nobody  suspects  he  Is  being  instructed.    T>SA»^ 
would  be  the  last  adjeotire  ever  applied  to  her 
stories.    People  often  resent  even  the  word  'lo- 
struetive,'  used  in  description  of  them.  It  is  better 
so.    The  beautiful  healing  will  sfaik  deeper  fst 
being  undetected.    If  the  titles  had  read,  *UV^ 
Women;  or,  How  to  Make  Home  Happy/  •I'd 
Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS, 


183 


'  Littie  Men ;  or,  How  to  Bring  up  Boys/  the  pride 
of  the  Natara]  Man  and  the  Natural  Woman  would 
have  taken  fire  instantlji  and  haw  rejeot^d  the 
grataitons  advioe.  But  no  one  who  loTes  and 
oomprehende  ohildren,  and  (therefore)  grieves 
over  the  sad  failure  of  the  average  parent,  the 
average  home,  ean  read  these  stories  ekrefally 
without  seeing  that  they  are  brimful  of  cure  for 
the  oommon  evils  and  mistakes  in  family  manage- 
ment" 

Zbcb  Thboop*s  SxpnxKBrT.  By  Mrs.  A.  IX  T.  Whit- 
ney, author  of  "  Hitherto/*  et«.  Boston :  Loring, 
Next  to  Mies  Alcott,  Mrs.  Whitney  ranks  aa  ft 
writer  for  the  young,  or  rather  aa  a  writer  whose 
stories  are  alike  weloome  to  young  and  old.  There 
is  a  freshness  and  vigor  in  her  style,  and  an 
originality  in  thought  and  expression,  whioh 
itrikes  the  reader  pleasantly.  ''Zerub  Throop's 
Sxperiment"  variea  somewhat  from  her  prerieus 
works  in  having  less  of  the  juvenile  element  in  it. 
It  is  an  amusing  and  not  uninstruetive  story,. teU* 
ing  how  Zerah  Throop  left  certain  affairs  to  Provi- 
dsDce,  and  how  Providence  disposed  of  them  euri- 
onsly  but  satisfaotorily. 

Daist  Wabd'8  Work.  By  Mary  W.  McLaIn,  author  of 
*"  Lifting  the  Veil,"  etc.  Boston :  Loring. 
All  works  whioh  are  written  with  a  view  toward 
ths  instruction  and  improvement  of  mankind,  and 
especially  tbose  which  aim  to  show  to  women  some 
other  path  t«  independence  besides  the  old  tracks 
trodden  so  long,  and  so  overcrowded,  should  be 
welcome  books  to  the  reading  public,  especiaJly 
when  they  unite  with  their  didactic  character  fkir 
literary  merit  and  average  interest  as  a  story. 
"Daisy  Ward's  Work"  is  a  story  of  this  class,  tell- 
ing in  a  pleasing  and  entertaining  manner  the  as- 
pirations, ambitidns,  difficulties,  struggles,  efforts, 
and  final  triumphs  of  a  young  girl  in  an  art  career. 
The  moral  of  the  story  ii  not  so  prominent  as  to 
make  it  tiresome,  and  the  book  is  well  worth  read- 
lag.    For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  Porter  A  Goates. 

Up  tmi  BALtic;  or,  Young  America  in  Norway,  Sweden, 

and  Denmark.    A  Story  of  Travel  and  Adventure. 

By  William  T.  Adams  (Oliver  Optic). 

This  is  the  first  volume  of  the  second  series  of 

''Toung  America  Abroad,"  an  entertaining  and 

instructive  series  of  works,  impressing  upon  the 

youthful  mind  in  the  form  of  narrative  various 

S««graphical  facU.    Por  sale  in  Philadelphia  by 

J>  B.  Lippinoott  A  Co. 

Thi  Touvo  Dkuvtaxu  or  Pliasakt  Covi.  By  El^ah 
Kellogg.  Illustrated.  Boston:  £«0«ifi%epard. 
This  is  the  second  rolume  of  the  "Pleasant  Cove 
fieries,"  In  whioh  the  author  attempts  to  ineul^U 
hi  his  youthful  readers  ^courage  to  dare,  ifbrtitnde 
to  endure,  enterprise  to  aoeumulate,  and  prudence 
to  retain,*'  softened  by  the  more  generous  njmptk^ 
titles  which  ennoble  the  chariMter  and  link  hn. 
^uiUy  together.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J. 
B.  Lippincott  A  Co. 


Jkwish  CooKEaT  Boos.  By  Mrs.  Esther  Levy.  Phila- 
delphia; W.  S.  Turner. 

This  receipt  book  ii  adapted  to  the  needs  of 
Jewish  housekeepers,  and  is  based  on  principles 
of  economy,  and  is  undertaken  "  with  the  view  of 
proving  that,  without  violating  the  precepts  of  the 
Jewish  religion,  a  table  can  be  spread  which  will 
satisfy  the  appetites  of  the  most  fkstidious." 

Ths  Boston  Dip.  And  other  Verses.  By  Fred.  W. 
Loring.    Boston:  Loring, 

The  Boston  correspondent  of  the  Kew  Tork 
2W6MNe,  in  speaking  of  the  poems  which  this  little 
volume  contains,  remarks  that  they  are  noticeable 
as  <' celebrating  young  love  with  a  tenderness, 
fiavored  with  a  certain  cool  humor,  which  might 
have  been  done  by  Thackeray  in  that  fresh,  earn- 
est, enthusiastic  stage  of  his  literary  career,  which 
he  depicts  in  Arthur  Pepdennis." 

Qoon  SxLicnoNS,  zb  Feosx  asp  Possst.  By  W.  M.  Jel- 
liffe,  Teacher  of  Elocution.  New  York :  /.  W,  Scher- 
merhomii  Co. 

A  collection  of  short  articles  and  extracts  in 
prose  and  poetry  f^om  the  best  English  and  Amer- 
ican sources,  and  designed  for  use  in  schools  and 
academies,  home  and  church  sociables,  lyceums 
and  literary  societies. 

SoHooL  MATsaiAi.  New  Tork :  J.  W.  Sehtrmnrham  d  Co. , 
PubUsh^rs  and  Manufaoturers* 

This  book  gives  a  comi^te  illustrated  list  of 
desks,  benches,  seats^  chairs,  gymnastic  apparatus, 
globes,  charts,  maps,  Uaokboards,  bells,  indexes, 
and  all  the  rarions  neoessary,  eonvenient  and  de- 
sirable paraphernalia  of  the  school-room.  This 
pamphlet  should  be  in  the  hands  of  all  prinoipals, 
superintendents,  and  direetors  of  schools.  Address 
J.  W.  Schermerhom,  14  Bond  Street,  New  York, 
P.  0.  Box  3445. 

Tn  QxTAisTT  KoiTANei  or  Wiuiax  Wrack,  a  most  ex- 
emplary TouDg  Drake,  that  by  his  Life,  Eitploite, 
and  End  showed  what  high  Plighte  a  Dock  can  take. 
By  Burgoo  Zao.  Cincinnati :  Printed  by  the  Author. 

RiposT  or  rai  GBKcaAi  ComorrD  or  the  Cincixsati  Ix- 
vusniAL  Ezposinoir.  Cincinnati :  Published  by  (he 
General  Committee. 

This  exposition  was  held  in  Cincinnati,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Ohio  Mechanics'  Institute, 
Board  of  Trade,  and  (Chamber  of  Commerce,  trtim 
September  21st  to  October  23d,  1870.  Accom- 
panying this  pamphlet  is  a  circular  announcing  a 
similar  exposition  to  be  held  fVom  September  6th 
to  October  7th  of  the  present  year. 

Tax  Ltosum  Maoaxivb.  Edited  by  the  Boston  Lyceum 

Burean,  and  containing  its  Third  Annual  List,  for 

the  season  of  1871-1872.    Boston :  Redpaih  ^  FtiiL 

'  We  have  reoeired  the  July  number  of  this  maga- 

siue,  containing,    beside   the    list   of  lecturers, 

readers,  etc.,  articles  f^om  proniinent  publications 

and  from  well-known  writers,  relating  to  lecturers 

and  lecturing,  and  containing  much  information 

of  ralue  to  lyceum  associations  and  to  the  lyceum- 

going  public  generally.  ^ 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


EDITORS'   DEPARTMKN-T. 


GAIJL  HAMILTON'S    ««iifDBPENDBNT'> 
ARTICIiSS. 

Gail  Hamilton,  Jadging  from  her  »crimonioii0^ 
articles  in  the  New  Y,ork  Independent  is  eyidently 
desirious  of  emulating  the  writer  of  the  Saturdmy 
Revieio,  who  for  so  long  a  time  has  plied  a  pitiless 
lash  over  the  baolis  of  her  sex.  There  is,  how- 
ever, one  attribute  of  the  trflns-Atlantio  writer 
which  is  wanting  in  Gail  Hamilton.  The  former 
has  consideration  enough  to  divide  her  victims 
Into  classes,  and  by  this  means  the  flagellation 
which  each  receives  individnallj  is  oomparativelj 
light. 

Gail,  on  the  contrary,  charges  all  women  with 
all  manner  of  offenoes  and  misdoings.  There  is, 
according  to  her  statement,  no  sin  so  black  bat 
all  women  are  capable  of  committing  it;  no  error 
so  venial  but  they  are  all  subject  to  it. 

Will  a  man  cheat  yon  in  a  business  way  ?  Then 
a  woman  will  steal  and  tell  falsehoods  in  a  most 
ttnbnsiBess-like  manner,  and  with  a  straightfor- 
wardness and  matter-of-course  air  that  actually 
almost  serves  as  its  owti  palliation.  Men  are 
sometimes  guilty  of  saying  commonplace  things 
f^om  the  lyccfum  platform ;  but  women  tAlk  arrant 
nonsense  with  the  air  of  ennneiating  the  pro- 
foundest  wisdom.  I^he  modern  Jenkins  enters 
your  parlor  and  takes  «  note  of  your  persooal 
ai4>earance,  together  with  an  inventory  of  yoiir 
fumitore  and  a  list  of  yonr  guests.  But  Mrs. 
Jenkins  does  not  scruple^  if  we  are  to  believe  this 
piquant  writer,  to  listen-  at  keyholes  and  from  be- 
hind curtains;  not  only  to  detail  your  oatward 
appearance,  but  actually  to  lift  the  bem  of  your 
robe,  that  she  may  take  note  of  the  garments 
beneath,  and  edify  the  public  by  a  description  of 
them ;  to  pry  into  the  most  secluded  apartments, 
and  spread  abroad  the  most  private  affairs.  And 
so  on,  through  the  whole  list  of  human  offences. 
.  Gail  Hamilton  makes  no  distinction.  All  women 
do,  or  are  capable  of  doing  all  these  things ;  and 
she  has  taken  it  upon  herself  to  call  them  pub* 
licly  to  account  for  it  And  all  women  must  re- 
ceive a  share  of  her  openly  inflicted  punishmeAt, 
whether  guilty  or  not. 

**  There  I  see  what  one  of  your  own  sex  thinks  of 
you ;  and  hold  up  your  heads  in  the  future,  and 
talk  about  your  '  rights'  if  you  can  !"  That  is  the 
cry  of  the  triumphant  male  spectators. 

Never  mind.  No  doubt  their  turn  will  come 
next,  when  the  women  shall  be.  sufficiently  bom- 
bled. 

We  do  not  claim  that  society  has  reached  that 
millennial  state  in  which  women  are  all  angels, 
and  no  doubt  there  are  certain  g;rounds  for  Gail 
Hamilton's  fault-finding.  Bu(  there  are  two  ways 
of  pointing  out  error  and  administering  reproof. 
(184) 


One  way  is  pursaed  in  a  spirit  of  love,  gentleness 
and  forbearance,  that  spares  all  nnneoessary  paio, 
and  does  not  hold  up  the  culprit  to  the  gate  and 
taunts  of  the  onrioos  public.  The  other  way  is 
pursaed  not  for  the  g^od  of  the  victim,  but  for  the 
purpose  of  displaying  the  superiority  of  the  men- 
tor. That  way  !s  obid,  brilliant,  heartless  and 
egotistical,  devoid  of  judgment  and  untempered 
by  mercy. 

Which  way  Gail  Hamilton  has  chosen  let  those 
jadge  who  hare  read  her  Indtpendent  aitioles. 

TUB  VKW  CASTOBR  CURB. 

A  South  American  Indian  woihian  whose  hus- 
band was  vnffering  flrom  an  ha  tern  al  eancer,  de- 
oided,  as  an  act  of  merfiy,  to  put  him  out  of  his 
misery  by  admlnlste'ring  poison  to  him.  Knowioi; 
the  frvAi  of  the  cundurango  tree  to  be  an  aetire 
poison,  as  she  oonld  not  get  the  flrait  itself,  she 
resolved  to  try  a  deooction  of  the  wood.  But  the 
first  dose,  instead  of  killing  the  mail,  seemed  to 
give  him  relief;  so  she  continued  the  canduraago 
from  day  to  day,  until,  to  her  aatonlshment  and 
joy,  he  reached  complete  recovery. 

The  matter  was  investigated  l^  physicians,  who 
declared  the  cundurango  to  be  a  specific  in  oases 
of  cancer  and  dieeases  of  a  like  nature. 

Our  minister  to  Equador,  Hon..K.  Rumsey  Wing, 
sent  on  to  the  State  Department  at  1¥a8hi'ngton  a 
package  of  the  wood,  accompanied  by  a  letter 
stating  the  above  facts. 

D.  W.  Bliss,  M.  D.,  in  whose  hands  a  quantity 
of  the  cundurango  bark  was  placed  for  experiment 
and  trial,  writes  to  the  editor  of  Home  and  Health 
that  he.  has  administered  it  to  Mrs.  G.  W.  Mat- 
thews, the  mother  of  the  Vice- President,  who  bsi 
cancer  of  the  breast,  typical  in  appearance,  and 
far  advanoed  in  its  course.  After  the  remedy  had 
been  administered  for  twenty  days,  all  the  typical 
symptoms  of  the  blood  poison  had  subsided,  and 
her  health  had  rapidly  improved.  Other  cases 
qaite  as  severe  and  well  marked  are  under  treat- 
ment, and  promptly  progressing  to  recovery.  Br- 
Bliss  expresses  himself  as  quite  "confident  that 
the  cundurango  is  quite 'as  reliable  a  specific  in 
cancer,  scrofula,  and  other  blood  diseases,  as  chin- 
chona  and  its  alkaloid  have  proved  to  be  in 
Zymotic  disease*." 

Dr.  P.  F.  Keene  sailed  in  May  for  Bquador  for 
the  purp^ose  of  obtaining  a  supply  qf  the  bark,  tf 
it  is  b.ut  UtUe  known,  and  not  yet  an  article  of 
commorqe.  By  the  1st  of  August  ,an  inroice  is 
expected  to  arrive,  when ,  physicians  can  be  sbP* 
plied  with  directions  for  its  use. 

If  this  remedy  prove  to  be  all  that  is  oUimw 
for  it,  it  is  one  of  the  most  fortunate  discoveries 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


ED  I  TOE  8'    DEPARTMENT. 


185 


of  the  age.  It  ia  to  be  hoped  that  In  its  use  by  the' 
profession,  greed  of  gain  wQl  not  be  allowed  to 
orerbalanoe  philanthropy,  so  that  lill  sufferers,  the 
poor  as  well  aa  the  rich»  may  rebeire  its  benefits. 
There  is,  of  oonrse,  diffionlty  and  expense  in  ob- 
taining cnndurango  bark  now,  but  if  its  merits 
should  be  fully  established/  it  wOl  in  time  be  Im- 
ported regularly,  at  no  greater  oost  than  Perurian 
bark  and  other  foreign  medioinal  substances. 


I<IP  ORHAlilBSTS. 

The  following  quotation,  from  the  seeond  TolimM 
of  Darwin's  "  Bescent  of  Man,''  is  aarairing,  and  at 
the  same  time  oontalns  a  moral  for  those  who  are 
clear-sighted  enough  to  see  it: 

"In  Central  Afrioa  the  women  perlbrate  the 
lower  lip  and  wear  a  crystal,  which,  from  the 
movement  of  the  tongue>  has  a  wtiggling  motion 
indescribably  ludicrous-  during  conrersaAion.  The 
wife  of  the  chief  of  Latooka  told  Sir  S.  Baker  that 
lU  wife  would  be  much  improved  if  she  would  ex- 
tract her  fonr  fionX  teeth  f^om  the  lower  jaw,  and 
wear  the  long-)>o!nted,  polished  crystal  in  her 
under  lip.  Tarther  south,  with  the  Makalolo,  the 
upper  lip  ifl  perforated,  and  a  large  metal  and 
bamboo  ring,  called  a  ptUU,  is  worn  in  the  hole. 
This  caused  the  lip,  in  one  ease,  to  project  two 
inches  beyond  the  tip  of  the  nose ;  and  when  the 
lady  smiled,  the  eontraotien  of  the  musolee  ele- 
Tated  it  ower  the  eyes.  '  'Why  do  women  wear 
these  things?'  the  renerable  chief,  Ohinsurdi,>was 
uked.  Ewidently  surprised  at  such  a  stupid  ques- 
tion, he  replied  i '  For  beauty !  They  are  the  only 
beautiful  tilings  women  have.  Men  hare  beards, 
women  have  none.  What  kind  of  a  person  would 
she  be  without  the  ptleUf  She  would  not  be  a 
woman  at  all,  with  a  mouth  like  a  man  and  no 
beard.'" 

Is  not  the  moral  obvious?  There  are  a  certain 
class  of  people,  not  so  -remote  as  the  Makalolos, 
who,  upon  principle  dwa:^  and  deform  women, 
physically,  morally,  and  intellectualfy.  When  re- 
monstrated with,  and  told  that  God  and  nature 
know  best  what  womanly  attributes  and  womanly 
capabUities  really  are,  ^ey  cannot  be  convinced, 
but  persist  in  hedging  them  in  on  every  side  by 
arbitrary  restraints,  by  publio  opinion,  and  by 
prejudice.  Like  the  negro  chief,  they  reply  when 
questioned :  "  Delicacy  of  health,  a  charming  ignor- 
ance, and  a  blind  reliance  in  the  wisdom  and  good- 
ness of  her  master,  are  the  greatest  attractions  a 
woman  can  have.  What  kind  of  a  person  would 
ihe  be  without  these  fetnlnine  attributes?  Men 
have  brains,  women  have  none.  She  weuld  not'  be 
&  woman  at  all  with  intelleot  like »  man  and  no 
beard."  Only  some  of  tbem  wbvm  to  be  Afraid  that 
if  women  were  allowed  the  same  opportunities  for 
development  aa  men  this  beard  woitld  oertainly 
Stow.  And  then,  it  is.  evident,  there  would  be 
only  men,  and  the  end  of  the  world  would  come. 


Demore9t^9  Monthly  hM  some  exceedingly  sensi- 
ble remarks  on  the  subject  of  sham  jewelry,  which 
it  would  be  well  for  every  one  to  read  and  remem- 
ber. We  have,  before  now,  expressed  our  opinion 
on  the  same  subject,  and  to  still  further  impress 
the  matter  upon  the  minds  of  our  readers,  we 
quote  (torn  that  monthly : 

''Brass  is  always  ttimingvp  in  some  form  or 
other  as  pure  gold,  and,  by  deceiving  unwary  and 
credulous  people,  puts  real  money  into  its  own 
purse.  There  is  only  one  kind  of  gold,  and  every 
one  knows  it.  They  know  that  it  is  a  standard 
article,  and  that  it  costs  just  so  much  to  get  it. 
They  know  that,  so  highly  is  it  valued,  that  it 
takes  one  hundred  and  twelve  dollars  in  green- 
backs to  puTthase  one  hundred  dollars  in  gold ; 
and  yet  they  can  be  made  ttf  believe  that  there  is 
gold,  just  as  good  as  the  real  article,  which  can  be 
almost  picked  up  in  the  streets,  and  which  can  be 
bought  for  a  song,  the  sellers  being  animated  by 
foelings  of  the  purest  philanthropy  in  bringing  the 
valuable  metal  before  the  public. 

""The  fact  that  people  can  be  fooled  in  this  way 
one  time  after  another, -showrf  that  they  rather 
Hke  it,  and  affords  in  itself  the  strongest  encour- 
agement to  larger  experiments  of  the  same  hind. 
One  time  it  is  'dollar  jewelry;'  another  time  it  is 
'Abyssinian'  gold;  aaika  thiol  time  a'display  line 
in  lead^g  papers,  advertising  .the  merits  of  'Mil- 
ton', gold.  Now,  aU  this  stuff  is  utterly  worth- 
li^s — it  has  not  a  particle  of  value  in  such  a  small 
quantity,  except  what  may  attach  to  the  workman- 
ship. To  buy  it  is  simply  to  throw  money  away 
upon  it,  which  might  be  put  to.  good  use.  There 
is  nothing  so  poor,  so  tawdry,  so  destitute  of  all 
value,  so  despised  by  respectable  people,  as  brass 
jewelry.  It  may  take  any  name  it  pleases^  the 
brass  sticks  out  unmistakably. 

"Do  not  be  misled  by  large-sounding  adver- 
tisements ;  do  not  waste  money  on  such  a  miser- 
able attempt  at  display.  The  absence  of  jewelry 
will  not  be  noticed ;  in  fact,  there  are  people  worth 
millions  of  money  who  c^uld  not  be  induced  to 
wear  it ;  but  the  presence  of  a  sham  will  at  once 
set  >ou  down  as  a  pretender,  as  a  fraud,  in  a  cer- 
tain sense,  and  we  advise  o\ir  young  readers,  espe- 
cially, to  have  none  of  it.  If  you  are  fond  of 
Jfewelry,  wait  until  you  can  afford  a  purchase  of 
real  value,  be  it  ever  so  small ;  but  do  not  misrep- 
resent your  taste,  and  your  love  of  truth,  by 
parading '  Brummagen.'" 

SriRit  is  now  a  veny  fashionable  word.  To  aot 
wHk  spirit,  to  speak  wkh  spirit,  means  only  to  aot 
rashly,  to  talk  indiscreetly.  An  able  man  shows 
his  spirit  by  gentle  words  and  resolute  actions. 
He  ia  neither  hot  nor  timid. 


Hi  who  murmurs  at  his  lot  is  like  one  baring 
hie  feet  to  tread  upon  thorns. 

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186 


ARTHUR'S   LADT'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


RICHARD  GRAKT  WMITR  AS  A  BIOV- 
BLiIST. 

W«  subjoin  the  following,  whioh  we  cut  from 
one  of  oar  ezchAngee,  m  an  amseing  iUnitration 
of  what  a  slight  error  in  punctaation  wlU  do  in 
altering  the  sense.  We  oopj  the  panctvation  ez- 
aotly  as  found  in  the  eiohangej 

**  Richard  Grant  White>r  aeys  Seotk»  thoogh  the 
most  vivid,  imaginative  and  creative  of  novelists, 
is  one  of  the  most  ineorreot  of  writers ;  hardlj  a 
page  of  his  work  is  withoat  some  error  of  fact,  or 
in  the  nse  of  words,  or  in  the  eoastruotlon  of  sen- 
tenoea." 

We  think  Mr.  Rwhard  Grant  White  himself,  no 
less  than  his  friends  and  admirers,  will  be  aston- 
ished to  find  him  set  down  as  a  "  vivid,  imaginative 
and  creative  novelist,"  and  will  wonder  whether 
the  work  of  fiction  whioh  has  earned  him  this 
reputation,  can  be  his  "  Words  and  their  Uses." 
The  most  ludicrous  part,  in  consideration  of  Mr. 
White's  £avorite  hobbj,  as  exemplified  in  his  writ- 
ings, is  the  criticism  appended,  in  which  he  is 
accused  of  constant  ^  error  of  fact,  or  in  the  use 
of  wordsy  or  in  the  construction  of  sentences." 
Omit  the  first  eomma,  and  insert  a  colon  after 
*'  says,"  and  the  real  reading  of  the  sentence  will 
be  made  clear. 

A  I^OtT  ART  RROAIVBD. 

Madame  Andri  Bersani,  a  poor  YenetiaB  work- 
woman, has  discovered  the  stitch  of  the  old  Vene- 
tian point  lace,  which  has  been  lost  since  the 
thirteenth  century.  This  woman  earned  her  living 
by  mending  old  lace.  After  many  trials  in  pick- 
ing to  pieces  bits  of  the  ancient  fabric,  she  found 
the  lost  stitch,  and  immediately  she  began  to  put 
it  into  practice,  first  In  her  mending,  and  after- 
wards in  making  new  pieces  of  the  precious  stuff* 
For  the  patterns  she  went  to  various  artists,  but 
none  of  them  could  assist  her  in  imitating  old  de- 
signs ,*  and  alone  and  unaided,  by  infinite  perse- 
verance, she  at  last  succeeded  in  drawing  the 
ancient  patterns  for  herself.  The  Italian  govern- 
ment has  granted  her  the  exclusive  right  of  work- 
ing in  her  discovery  for  fifteen  years. 

THB  HBLPING   HAND. 

'*  The  Helping  Hand  of  Brooklyn"  is  the  name 
of  a  new  philanthropic  institution  Just  organized 
under  the  laws  of  the  State  of  New  York.  These 
are  among  its  specific  objects:  To  instruct  women 
in  the  various  useful  pursuits  open  to  female  labor; 
to  give  or  procure  for  them  employment  so  far  as 
possible,  and,  when  necessary,  to  care  (br  their 
children  when  they  ge  out  to  days'  labor;  to  offer 
temporary  relief  in  cases  of  urgent  need;  to  in- 
vestigate all  cases  of  apparent  need ;  fnd  to  aid  or 
send  where  aid  may  he  more  property  given ;  to 
establish  an  industoial  school  for  the  teaching  of 
those  who  cannot  go  to  etker  schools ;  also  even- 
ing schools.    The  tmstees  are  Stephen  BaUard, 


Colin  Campbell,  J.  T.  I>urye%  Eiohard  B.  Dnane, 
James  H.  Elwell,  H.  H.  Lamport,  Curtis  L.  North, 
B.  B.  BolUns,  J.  L.  SUphens,  Edward  Titos,  WU- 
liam  H.  Smith,  and  Henr^  A«  Eiohardson.  It  is 
in  contemplation  to  purohaae  or  opnstruct  a  build- 
ing without  delay. 

We  note  with  pleaanre  this  new  Christian  char- 
ity,-and  hope  to  see  its  extension  into  all  our  large 
ciUes, 

l¥OMB»  AND  1¥AR. 

iScnftner'f  ifoiiMily  for  Jnly,  among  several  other 
e^naUy  wise  remaarka  on  the  '<  Woman  Questioa," 
askes  aa  folleva  io  relation  to  wommi  and  war : 

<<  Wottld  alaek  of  all  personal  risk  and  respon- 
sibility,  on  the  part  of  those  delegated  to  establish 
and  pr<»noanoe  the  policy  of  a  natioui  lend  to 
pnideskt  eoanaela  and  careful  decisions  V* 

Have  mother^  wive%  sisters,  and  daughters  no 
peivonal  intereat  in  war,  even  if,  atricUy  speak- 
hig,  (hey  run  no  "peieenal  riak,"  or  feel  no  *'  per- 
sonal reaponaibUityr  What  wifb  or  mother 
would  not  rather  go  with  or  for  her  husband  or 
sens  than  remain  at  home  and  endnre  the  erael 
anapenae  and  agony  of  grief  whieh  must  be  heri? 
Read  the  following  extract  from  the  ''Blockade 
of  Phalsborg,"  by  Brekmann-Chatrian.  In  it  ii 
given  a  dearer  laaight  into  woman  nature  than 
Dn  Holland  seeasa  to  poaaeaa : 

**  At  evening,  when  we  aat  at  supper  around  the 
lamp  with  its  aeven  bumera,  their  mother  would 
aemetimea  cover  her  faee  and  aay :  <  My  pow  ehil- 
drenl  my  poor  ehildieal  When  I  think  that  the 
time  ia  near  when  yen  will  go  in  the  midst  of 
musket  and  bayonet  flre-^in  the  midat  of  thunder 
and  lightning— oh,  how  dreadful !" 

Yet,  because  this  woman  had  no  '*  personal  risk 
and  responsibility,"  Br.  Holland  would  not  dare 
trust  her  to  give  ''prudent  oounsels  and  careful 
decisions." 


A  €K>OD  PRBCBDIBNT. 

A  man  recently  died  at  Ironton,  Ohio,  of  deliri- 
um tremens,  and  his  ^idow  brought  suit  against 
the  rumseller  who  had  supplied  her  husband  with 
liquor.  The  court  awarded  her  $5,000  damages. 
If  rumsellers  had  to  pay  a  fine  of  $5,000  for  each 
death  caused,  directly  or  indirectly,  by  the  drink- 
ing of  the  liquors  they  sell,  they  would  disappear 
like  dew  before  the  sun,  and  seek  a  more  useAiI 
calling.  May  this  good  example  be  followed  by 
the  wives  and  widows  of  dru9kards  generally. 

Takb  eare  always  to  form  your  eatablishaMnt 
BO  much  within  yonr  laeome  as  to  leave  a  snifi- 
cieat  itand  fbr  vnexpeeted  eontingeootes,  and  a 
prudent  liberality.  There  ia  hardly  a  year  to 
any  man's  life  in  which  a  small  sum  of  ready 
money  may  not  be  employed  to  great  advan- 
tage. 

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A  VISIT  TO  THE  ARMORER. 


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No.  1.— THE  EFFIE  SUIT. 


No.  2.-THE  ROLAND  SUIT. 


1 

the  4 

BOdf 

U«  T«To.  1.— A  design  that  will  retain  its  rogue  throughout  the  season  as  ft  is  simple,  stylish,  and  easily  p 
hesTjed.  It  is  suitable  for  all  but  rery  thin  materials,  washing  goods  to  be  trimmed  with  bias  bands,  and  hesner 
pnatg  withrelret  or  silk  ones.  The  suit  illustrated  is  in  gray  French  poplin,  trimmed  with  blue  ribbon  re  Wet 
<o.  2.— For  boys  firom  throe  to  five  years  of  age,  the  kilt  suit  is  always  a  favorite  design.  The  on^.^^Jt 
d  is  in  white  Marseilles,  the  edges  bound  with  black  mohair  braid,  and  the  waist  and  skirt  fastened  vitb 
)  black  buttons.  The  suit  consists  of  a  skirt  laid  in  kilt  plaits,  all  but  a  narrow  space  in  froi^  \?)''i 
ghtsacque  reaching  a  little  below  the  waist,  and  a  plain  waist,  over  which  the  broad  belt  of  the  skutv 
3d.    The  same  design  is  very  pretty  made  in  cashmere. 


No.  3.— JESSIE  APRON.  No.  4.~ULLIE  APRON. 

No.  a*— No  more  reallv  serviceable  style  of  aprMi,  for  children  from  two  to  six  years  of  age,  can  be  deaiw^ 
I  the  one  illustrated  above.  For  general  wear,  it  is  most  appropriatdly  made  in  brown  linen,  trimmed  with 
•ow  scarlet  or  black  braid.  It  can  be  made  to  appear  very  dressy  in  white  goods,  with  a  garniture  of  Itoe 
mbroidered  edging. 

No.  4.— A  neat,  serviceable  style  of  apron  for  little  girls.  It  makes  up  prettiest  in  a  wssbing  material,  wiU) 
ppropriate  trimming,  although  the  design  is  not  unsuitable  for  alpaca  or  silk. 


by  sa 

the  si 


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BRAIDING  PATTKllN. 


inA.SE[IO]Sr   DEPA.IlTM:E]SrT. 

FASHIONS  FOR  OCTOBER. 

Bonnets  are  ih owing  a  change  in  stjle  and  sbape,  though  there  is  still,  we  are  happy-to  say,  an 
endicM  variety  from  which  to  choose,  instead  of  every  one  being  obliged  to  wear  a  bonnet  like  every- 
body else.  Some  of  them  are  made  with  high  crowns,  towering  above  the  head,  the  brim  resting  upon 
the  hair  above  the  forehead,  rounded  off  at  the  sides,  and  a  small  curtain  added  at  the  back.  Others 
have  the  crowns  rather  square  and  brim  narrow,  and  the  trimming  placed  all  on  the  top.  Bonnets  must 
itiU  match  the  costume,  the  ribbons  and  feathers  matching  the  dress,  and  shaded  like  the  trimmings  of 
the  toilet 

Jackets  will  be  much  worn  the  present  season,  both  for  in  and  out  of  doors.  These  jackets  will  be 
Bsde  of  cashmere  and  flannel  of  various  color;!,  the  white  ones  trimmed  with  black  lace,  fringe  or  em» 
broidery,  being  the  most  stylish;  while  velvet  jackets  in  different  colors  will  be  fashionable  embroidered 
or  braided  with  gold.  White  embroidery  upon  black  cashmere  is  very  effective.  The  design  for  indoor 
tnd  outdoor  jackets  are  the  same;  both  are  cut  close  sacjc  shape,  with  small  flowing  sleeves. 

Braiding  will  be  very  extensively  used  on  cashmere  garments  for  autumn  wear.  Th^  designs  are 
Teiy  elaborate,  and  are  executed  in  the  finest  silk  toutacke. 

Plain  waists  have  almost  entirely  disappeared,  and  the  basque  and  fitted  jacket  taken  their  place. 
The  ''Marguerite"  waist,  or  "Margot"  waist,  as  it  is  sometimes  called,  has  also  been  revived,  and 
promises  to  have  a  success,  especially  for  elegant  dinner  toilets.  The  Margot  waist  is  shaped  to  the 
loriD,  over  the  hips,  and  absolutely  requires  an  elegant  figure  or  a  well-shaped  corset  The  spring  is 
trnuged,  sometimes,  to  form  deep  points;  but  more  generally  it  is  cut  plain,  rounding  off  deeper  at  the 
back  than  upon  the  sides  or  in  front.  Scarf  sashes  are  worn  with  these  waists,  knotted  carelessly,  the 
csdj  falling  at  the  side ;  or  one  in  front,  the  other  at  the  back. 

A  new  method  of  making  evening  and  dinner  dresses  of  striped  Chambery  gauze,  is  specially  adapted 
to  young  ladies.  It  is,  to  alternate  narrow  flounces  of  the  gauze,  cut  straight  with  narrow  flounces  of 
rilk,  the  color  of  the  stripe,  pinked  out  upon  the  edge.  The  gauze  flounces  may  be  hemmed  or  edged 
with  Tom  Thamb  fringe.  In  white  gauze,  striped  with  white  silk,  the  effect  is  particularly  soft  and 
delicate. 

Flounces  are  disappearing  from  the  walking-skirts,  and  flat  bands  are  taking  their  place.  In  fact, 
ITS  should  not  advise  any  one  to  make  new  dresses,  for  street  wear,  with  flounces,  as  theX^^lready  look 
old  style  by  the  side  of  other  and  more  recent  methods. 

The  long  pelwe,  with  cape,  will  be  revived  during  the  coming  season ;  the  Scotch  cloak,  with  cape, 
will  also  be  in  vogue.  A  Russian  Polonaise,  double-breasted,  with  pelerine,  the  whole  trimmed  with 
otrrow  bands  of  fur,  will  be  a  novelty. 

The  Polonaise  is  divided  into  two  syles,  one  of  which  is  confined  round  the  waist  with  a  sash,  and 
with,  or  without  a  belt  of  its  own,  the  other  has  a  basque  at  the  back,  which  does  away  with  the  necessity 
for  a  sash.  Withal  very  light,  that  is  thin,  and  white  materials,  sashes  are  now  broad  as  ever,  but  not 
▼ery  long,  and  very  handsome,  being  embroidered  or  fringed  upon  the  ends,  or  composed  of  very  wide 
Komao  scarfs,  which,  however,  are  reserved  principally  for  wear  with  black  or  white  dresses.  These 
tearfs  are  of  soft,  glace  silk,  are  three  yards,  in  order  to  form  large  hanging  loops  as  well  as  ends. 

For  dress  goods,  pale  tints — delicate  pinks,  blues,  greens,  and  bnffs — will  be  worn  in  the  plaoe  of 
Bore  decided  colors. 

A  pretty  necktie  is  made  of  sheer  white  lawn,  folded  around  the  neck  with  a  sailor-knot  in  front, 
hned  with  pink  or  blue  silk,  and  edged  with  Valenciennes.  Pretty,  square  cravats  of  India  silk  are 
naeh  worn  on  oool  days,  tied  loosely  around  the  throat 


AUTUMN  STYLES. 

{See  double-page  Engraving.) 

Fio.  1. — A  unique  toilet  in  ashes-of-roses  pouh  de  eoie,  (nrnamented  with  bands  and  bindings  of 
▼elyet  of  the  same  shade  and  bows  of  gros-grain  ribbon  to  match.  The  oasaque  is  an  entirely  new 
design,  the  fronts  cut  like  a  rounded  basque,  below  which  is  attached  a  deep  flounce,  festooned  at  the 
■idee,  the  side  forms  of  the  back  cut  in  a  rounded  shape,  and  the  back  falling  square,  with  one  deep 
pl&it  in  the  centre,  over  a  second  skirt  square  in  the  back,  with  a  deep  festoon  on  the  side  to  match  the 
flonnoe  on  the  front.  That  which  appears  to  be  the  apron  is  simply  a  deep  flounce  sewn  to  the  basque 
fronts.  This  costume  is  exceedingly  dressy  and  stylish,  made  in  poplin,  or  silk,  trimmed  with  bands 
either  of  velvet  or  a  darker  shade  of  the  material. 

Fjio.  2. — A  dietingui  house  dress  in  rich  black  silk,  trimmed  with  bias  bands  of  black  velvet  The 
design  of  the  garniture,  which  can  be  easily  copied,  is  very  simple  yet  effective,  the  skirt,  overskirt,  and 
flowing  sleeves  being  trimmed  to  match.  The  overskirt,  very  full  and  bouffant  in  the  back,  has  a  broad, 
pltm  apron,  and  the  basque,  open  to  the  waist  and  pointed  in  front,  with  the  pointed  trimming,  reversed, 
extending  up  the  fronts  and  around  the  neck,  has  the  back  ent'urely  without  garniture  and  looped  in  the 
luie  style  as  the  overskirt,  the  necessary  fulness  being  given  by  deep  boz-plaits  laid  nnder  at  the  side 
forms  and  back  seams.  It  is  slashed  to  the  waist  on  the  hips,  the  fronts  being  somewhat  shorter  than 
we  back.  Simple  coiffure  of  braids  and  puffs,  with  jet  ornaments, 
^ou  xxxvui.— 13.  (1^) 

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LADY'S  PLAIN  POLONAISE. 

The  Polonaise  is  always  a  favorite  outer  garment,  as  it  is  adapted  to  ever^  clfl«s  of  goods  and  all  season* 
of  ih^"  year.  The  one  iUustrated  above  is  the  simplest  style  worn.  It  is  not  tight-fitting,  having  but  one  dart 
in  fneh  front,  and  has  the  requisite  fulness  in  the  skirt  formed  by  deep  double  plaits,  laid  in  the  back  seams, 
at  the  waist.  The  style  of  looping  is  a  matter  of  taste,  and  is  omitted  altogether  for  travelling  blouses.  It  may 
be  worn  either  with  or  without  a  sash,  and  the  trimming  should  be  in  consonance  with  the  material. 


FELICIA  BASQUE. 

A  muoh  longer  stvle  of  basque  than  any  heretofore  illustrated,  very  dktingiUy  and  destined  to  become  a 
leading  design.  It  will  be  noticed  that  the  back  is  much  longer  than  the  front,  quite  brood,  and  continued 
plain  for  a  short  distance  billow  the  waist,  when  deep  box-plaits  are  laid  at  each  seam,  imparting  the  eflfect  of » 

nOStillion        T^^'^  *^i*v>m>«*»  illnafva^^J    ;.    i\>^  ,^^^*    ^^^-^^Ji^i.^  ^ ;ii_  .    r..: I.. -J    ._    _._.j;«A   with 

nne  effect, 


postillion.    The  trimming  illustrated  is  the  most  appropriate  for  silk;  fringe  may  be*  used  on  grenadine  witl» 
3t,  and  Hamburg  embroidery  with  black  velvet  will  be  the  best  for  piqu6  or  linen. 


ftOG) 


NAME  FOR  MARKING. 


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ARTHUR'S  LADY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


OCTOBER,    1871. 


GOING  HOME. 


BY  HBBTXB  A.  BISTESICT. 


TT'OU  are  going  first,  0  sivtor  swMt; 
X   To  our  beautiful  horn*  in  the  land  diriae  ] 
I  tell  by  your  tired,  trembling  feet. 

And  yonr  white  hand  dropping  a-loofe  from 
minej 
And  I  knoir  bj  7 oar  blue  eyes  grown  too  bright. 

And  the  far-off  look  that  your  face  puts  on, 
I  shall  waken  from  slumber  some  moonfnl  night 

Crying  out  for  your  kisses — and  find  you — 
gone  ! 

Let  me  linger  awhile  ere  I  bid  yoa  adien — 

The  monaing  may  find  us  divided,  you  know. 
And  I've  naessages  many  to  send  by  yon 

To  the  loTed  who  went  from  us  long  ago. 
&  long  1    Jih,  darling !  my  heart  is  aged 

Sinoe  they  went  away — and  I  oan't  tell  why 
If  one  of  us  goes,  like  a  bird  uncaged. 

To  our  Father's  mansion — it  itn't  I. 

¥or,  freighted  with  sweetness,  and  flooded  with 
song. 

Your  life  sweeps  royally  out  of  its  June, 
And  your  feet,  with  the  soft,  rose  sandals  on. 

Are  turning  away  from  the  earth  too  soon ! 
For  me^my  path  lies  far  from  the  dew, 

Wherever  the  darkllest  shadows  be; 
And  the  messenger,  waiting,  my  lore,  for  you. 

Hath  never  a  token  of  pity  for  me. 

Orer  my  bosom  your  hyacinth  hair. 

Like  sheen  of  the  sea-weed,  flutters  and  floats. 
And  your  pale  lips,  chiding  my  dumb  despair, 

Stir  to  the  swell  of  triumphal  notes. 
0  darling !  out  to  the  great  Unknown 

My  thoughts  are  drifting  like  wrecks  at  sea, 
And  m^sad  lips  break  with  a  bitter  moan, 

For  my  dead  are  nearer  to  you  than  to  me. 


Yoa  will  go  to  them  soon.    There  is  one, 
know, 

Who  called  me  sister — who  calls  me  still, 
Though  over  his  grave-coueh,  year?  ago, 

The  wild  birds  chattered  and  sung  at  will ; 


you 


You  will  sny  to  him,  sweet,  that  I  sit  8ometime«, 
In  the  deep  wild  forests  we  loved  of  old, 

And  weave  his  bright  name  into  my  rhymes, 
With  voice  grown  sadder  a  thousand  fold. 

And  she  whese  footsteps  were  feeble  and  slow. 

Whose  life  was  a  long,  long  day  of  toil, 
Yet  full  of  Ood's  goodness,  and  lifted  so 

From  the  mire  of  earth  that  it  could  not  soil 
Her  pure,  white  soul,  you  will  find  her  there ; 

But  how  you  will  know  her  I  cannot  say. 
If  the  silver  is  lost  from  her  shining  hair, 

And  the  furrows  washed  from  her  face  away. 

And  there  is  another — my  voice  breaks  here 

Like  a  wave  on  the  rockiest  reach  of  land, 
And  a  mist  is  before  me !    I  can't  see  clear — 

Though  I  know  it  is  near  me — the  Infinite  land. 
And  I  can't  tell  why,  when  there  bloomed  but  one, 

One  blossom  alone  for  my  love  and  me. 
It  was  lifted  out  of  the  dew  and  the  sun 

To  the  fair  green  height  of  eternity. 

0  hearts  that  forever  in  darkness  dwell ! 

0  lonesome  hearth  by  the  lonesome  sea ! 
0  love !  that  the  angels  loved  too  well, 

And  fairer  than  ever  the  angels  be ! 
Toll  her  that,  wounded,  we  weep  and  wait, 

Watching  for  aye  from  the  drear  earth-land     ■ 
For  the  inward  swing  of  the  golden  gate, 

And  the  outward  reaoh  ef  her  beckoning  hand. 

And  say  to  the  Father  who  loveth  us  all, 
Though  you  are  this  moment  most  surely  his 
own. 
That  I  wait  for  His  angels — and  list  for  Uis  call — 
For  the  sun  has  gone  down — and  I  want  to  go 
home! 
Good -night,  dear !    The  threads  of  your  hyacinth 
hair 
Drop  from  my  bosom,  and  slumber  is  nigh ; 
Maybe  yen  will  wake  where  our  beautiful  are, 
And  my  kisses  will  miss  you !  good-night— and 
good-by ! 


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>8i 


0 


WAIF. 

BY  J03EPHIKB  FDIXER. 

VEB  the  torrent  the  Bunset  hrooded.    It  )  chained  all  mj  frcnlties.    How  long  I  re- 

rested  on  the  leafless  trees  and  crimson  (  mained  thus,  I  know  not    I  was  aroused  from 

bushes  in  the  yallej  beside.    A  few  paces  on-  >  my  revery  by  the  light  touch  of  a  soft  hand 

ward  it  lit  up  a  ledge  of  rocks,  which  seemed  \  and  the  sound  of  a  low,  sweet  voice, 

the  hue  of  chromic  yellow.  \      "  See,  sister,  this  stream  is  rising ;  there  will 

The  skies  were  flamy  with  yivid  light,  which  S  be  a  freshet  before  morning,  which  will  destroj 

was  reflected  in  rainbow  colors  by  the  running  (  the  crops  of  many  a  poor  man." 

waters,  before  they  were  dashed  on  the  stones,  ^      "  How  can  you  think  of  such  a  trifling  ci^ 

many  feet  below.  .  cumstance  as    that^  now,  Irene,"  I  replied, 

Then,   when  past  the  descent,   the  white-  (  vexed  at  her  interruption.    "  But  look,''  I  snd- 

crested  waves  rose  up  all  surging  with  sorrow  [  denly  added,  indicating  the  direction  with  mj 

and  warning,  as  if  they  would  stay  the  hurry-  )  hand,  "there  is  a  large  piece  of  ice  reaching 

ing  of  the  impetuous  tide.    Only  for  a  moment,  (  from  shore  to  shore,  and  coming  this  way !" 

however,  they  tottered  full  of  terror  and  com-  ^       We  watched  it  gradually  advance,  slowly  at 

motion,  the  next  they  were  seetliing,  bubbling  (  first,  then  faster  as  it  neared  the  cascade,  grace- 
adown  the  impatient  river.  fully  half-rounding  its  course  in  the  billows, 

I,  sitting  on  the  bank  with  my  sister,  lis-  (  then  for  an  instant  pausing,  wavering,  again 

tened  mutely,  as  if  bound  by  a  spell,  to  the  S  gliding  forward,  until  at  last  it  hesitated  on  the 

deep,  mystic  roar  of  the  mighty  elements.  ^  edge  of  the  fall,  then  was  dashed  into  foam  on 

Their  many  blended  voiced,  all  weird  and  (  the  ambushed  rocks  below,  whilst  there  arose  a 

indistinct,  were  soothing  to  my  restless  spirit,  )  confused  murmur  of  triumph  like  the  exulting 

for  outward  calm  seemed  to  mock  and  reprove  )  voices  of  cruel  men  when   a  human  life  is 

its  waywardness.     But  here  were  answering  S  wrecked. 

expressions  that  held  it  quiet,  whilst  I  endea-  (j       "  What  can  be  a  better  symbol  of  power,"  I 

vored  to  understand  their  meaning.    In  the  <  exclaimed,  "than  the  manner  in  which  dkat 

effort,  my  soul  went  out  to  the  spirit  of  the  \  fragment  of  ice  was  impelled  to  its  destruc- 

waters,  and  said :  <  tion  ?" 

"Why  dost  thou  feel  such  unrest?     The  ^      "A  tempted  human  soul,"  replied  Irene, 

solemn  night  is  not  yet  upon  the  earth,  nor  (  << because  it  may  go  to  the  very  brink  of  ruin, 

does  the  cold,  clammy  snow  hush  all  its  pulses,  ^  and  then  return  to  the  port  of  safety." 

but  here  and  there  the  ground  is  bare,  and  the  )      •*  Doubtless  such  a  spirit  may  be  very  good," 

white  drifts  are  lying,  like  sheep,  at  the  bottom  (  I  rejoined,  disdainfully,  for  my  mind  was  full 

of  the  bushes.  ^  of  the  deceitful  lesson  taught  by  the  waters, 

"  Dost  thou  long  for  the  warm,  radiant  at-  (  "  but  it  is  really  greater  to  follow  the  bent  of 

mosphere  of  the  heavenly  city  ?    Dost  thou  \  its  own  strong,  wild  inclinations." 

sigh  for  refined  and  tender  sympathy,  or  yearn  [      "  And  at  last  become  like  the  foul,  muddy 

for  a  love  too  pure  and  perfect  to  exist  in  this  (  stream,  that  this  will  be  to-morrow,  with  waete 

gross,  changeable  world  ?"  \  and  desolation  on  every  side,"  said  my  sister, 

"  Not  for  these,"  was  the  answer  that  came  (  in  a  grave,  censuring  tone, 

back  from  the  spirit  of  the  waves ;  "  not  for  any  )      "  I  am  not   speaking   of  goodness,  but  of 

of  these  things  care  we,  but  we  hate  all  re-  )  greatness,"  I  answered,  impetuously.    "It  i* 

straint.    We  believe  that  impulses  were  given  s  one  thing  to  possess  superior  mental  faculties, 

to  be  freely  followed,  so  we  hurry  recklessly  ;  another  to  do  right ;"  and  to  illustrate  vaj 

onward,  angry  at  the  barriers  that  whisper  to  (  meaning,  I  instanced  an  immoral  poet,  and 

us  of  limitation."  )  one  or  two  other  reprehensible  geniuses. 

My  breatti  grew  thick  and  heavy  with  be-  (      "  But,"  objected  Irene,  "  an  individual  must 

wildering  ecstasy,  as  I  listened  to  this  pleasing  \  have  fair  natural  abilities,  improved  by  study, 

sophism.    I  almost  forgot  my  own  existence  )  reflection  and  observation,  to  be  enabled  to 

in  the  absorption  of  the  place.    A  delicious  in-  (  treat  with  uniform  kindness  his  fellow-crea- 

toxication,    a    half-dreamy    unconsciousness,  S  tures.    Indeed,  Celia,"   she  continued,  "who 

mingled  with  sensations  of  profound  awe,  en-  )  ever  knew  a  man  possessed  of  a  narrow  and 


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FOLLY.  109 

contracted  undentanding  who  was  very  moral?  )  bors,  bnt  they  talked  on  a  grand,  htimanizinpj 
Does  not  such  a  person's  piety  usually  degene-  )  scheme,  in  which  both  were  deeply  interested. 
rate  into  bigotry  ?  Is  he  not  harsh  and  unmer-  ^  How  the  elder  lady's  face  brightened  as  her 
ciftd  in  his  judgments?  Does  he  not  often — ig-  '  discourse  flowed  in  harmoniously  modulated 
norantly  perhaps — sin  against  those  bound  to  ^  tones  I  What  a  noble  spirit  fluttered  in  her 
him  by  the  most  sacred  obligations  ?  One  \  countenance,  lighting  up  her  features  with  a 
really  needs  a  clear  and  comprehensive  Intel-  )  beauty  that  was  far  superior  to  the  perfection 
lect  to  enable  him  to  act  with  justice  towards  I  of  dimples,  freshness,  or  mere  regularity  of 
God  and  all  his  creatures."  To  support  her  S  profile,  when  intellect  is  wanting. 
asBertion,  she  mentioned  a  shining  array  of  )  How  inspiring  to  me  were  her  words  I  How 
names  of  the  most  noble  and  gifted  among  ■;  Ilongedtobepurer,  better,  more  self-sacrificing 
men  and  women,  both  in  ancient  and  modem  )  as  I  listened  I 

times;  for  she  had  read  much  and  thought  ^  '^  Surely,"  I  soliloquized,  "how  much  nobler, 
much,  whilst  I  had  contented  myself  with  >  fairer,  are  the  manifestations  of  a  strong,  well- 
skimming  over  the  surface  of  a  little  knowledge.  }  trained,  well-meaning  human  soul,  than  any 

"But  will  you  not  admit,"  I  rejoined,  some-  )  forms  of  physical  grandeur  or  loveliness !" 
what  abashed,  "that  the  few  I  have  named  dis-  ^       After  we  had  left  the  widow's  presence,  be- 
played  unoommon  talents  in  some  directions?"  I  fore  we  separated  for  our  respective  dwellings, 

"Certainly  I  will,"  she  returned;  "and  I  da  )  I  said  to  Irene,  ''I  am  going  to  take  off  my 
not  think  that  they  would  have  been  moral  ^  mantle  of  selfishness,  control  my  wrong  im- 
dwarfs,  ha<l  they  possessed  sufficient  strength  )  pulses,  and  learn  to  look  beneath  the  surface  of 
of  character  to  have  kept  themselves  from  being  )  things,  that  I  too  may  grow  to  be  good  and 
drawn  into  the  mire  that  was  so  deep  all  \  beautiful! like  Mrs.  Leonard." 
around  them."  )       And  my  sister's  face  beamed  with  prideful 

"  I  believe  that  you  are  right,"  I  thought-  ?  tenderness,  as  she  answered :  "  If  you  do  all 
ftilly  replied,  as  we  prepared  to  retrace  our  \  these,  you  will  be  really  greater  than  any  mere 
steps  homewards,  for  the  night  had  already  )  selfish  person  that  ever  existed." 
come,  and  the  moon  and  stars  were  looking  \  —  e^^^ 

from  the  heavens.  )  FOLLY. 

On  our  return,  we"  were  to  pass  by  Mrs.  \  bt  mart  b.  xachillait. 

Leonard's  cottage.    We  did  not  need  to  hasten  J.  Ho  gave  me  a  ring,  the  other  night, 
hack,  fdr  my  sister,  being  unmarried,  had  no  )       A  gem  that  but  seldom  sees  its  peer; 
fiunily  cares,  whilst  my  kind  husband  had  pro-  (   As  I  watched  it  gleam,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
mised  me  that  he  would  take  charge  of  our  ;       It  seemed  like  a  wretched  maiden's  tear. 
children  in  my  absence.  ;   As  I  felt  it  slip,  on  my  finger  thin, 

Qlimpees  of  the  cheerful  light  struggling  ^      When  he  held  for  a  moment,  in  his,  my  hand, 
through  the  curtained  windows,  allured  us  into  (  It  seemed  as  tho'  something  had  clinched  my  heart, 
Ae  widow's  oosey  apartment.     Her  household  v       And  bound  it  fast  with  an  iron  band, 
equipments  were  very  plain,  but  arranged  with  ;   Oh,  the  anguish  I  suffered,  yet  dared  not  speak, 
80  much  taste  and  neatness,  that  they  might  (       As  I  felt  the  press  of  that  iron  band.' 
have  shamed  more  costly  furniture.  (  ^^^**  loathing  I  felt  for  my  own  false  life, 

Mrs.  Leonard,  who  was  very  aged  and  sickly,  \      ^»  ^  ^"•'^  **  *^«  "°«  "P°°  "^^  ^«'**^ ' 
was  sitting,  propped  upwith  pillows,  in  a  rock-  >  ToU  and  poverty  have  I  known 
ing  chair.     She  wore  a  loose,  purple,  worsted  )    .  No  Pleasures  of  Fortune  have  e'er  been  mine, 
dress,  and  her  soft,   white  hair  was  combed  {  And  I  know  that  the  gem  I  look  at  now 
down  on  each  side  of  her  wrinkled  forehead.  Holdsapoormau'swealthmits  gleam  and  shme. 

Her  eyes  were  dim,  but  foil  of  kindlmess,  ?  ^^*  J'^  cast  it  afar,  to  the  four  high  winds, 

«d  her  pale,  withered  lips  looked  attractive,  ^  ^  'T^  V'  V"        TJl  "^  ^^"^  a 

•    _  ^  ,         .,j  ,  »     .  I   For  a  glance  from  the  eyes  that  to  me  are  dear— 

in  consequence  of  the  mild,  benevolent  expres-  /      p^,  ^  ^j,,  f,^^  ^^^  ,.p,  ^^^^  ^  ^^  „^  ^^^^ 

"''AU^?i?''V^r'  ^     u  V,  All  words  and  folly!    The  deed  was  done, 

Altogether,  I  thought  her  a  very  agreeable  )       ^he  deed  was  done  and  I  did  not  speak. 

J»gare,as  she  gave  us  a  glad,  warm  welcome,  ?  Fools  have  sold  their  hearts  before, 

and  shortly  afterwards  engaged  in  conversation  (      Diamond,  have  purchased  the  false  and  weak, 

with  my  sister ;  for  the  two  women,  one  in  mid-  «  jt  might  have  beefi !»  ah,  wild,  sad  words  1 

m<^  and  the  other  old,  were  devoted  friends.  (       There  gleams  a  diamond  on  my  hand  I 

-Hiey  were  too  true  and  earnest  to  waste  their  )  The  heart  that  once  beat  high  with  hope, 

Ptecioaa.  time  in  silly  gossip  about  their  neigh-  )       Now  dies  in  the  grasp  of  an  iron  band. 


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OTHER  PEOPLE'S  WINDOWS. 

BY  PIPSiaSIWAY  POTTS. 

No.  VIII. 

WHILE  I  am  speaking  of  other  people's  S  I  hare  one  memento  now.    We  did  not  trj  to 

windows,  and  of  the  houses  in  which  we  )  keep  the  moss,  because  we  knew  in  our  annual 

Uye,  and  the  yery  rooms  that  are  symbols  of  )  October  picnic  among  the -Clear  Creek  hills  we 

our  characters,  that  hold  up,  auctioneer-like,  )  could  lay  in  a  winter  supply,  fresh  and  new, 

our  peculiarities,  I  must  tell  you  of  a  little  k  and  odorous  of  woods,  and  fallen  leayes,  and 

thing  that  rejoices  me  every  day ;  for  daily  do  )  the  spiciness  that  fills  the  autumn  air  in  an 

my  glad  fingers  run  over  and  caress  it,  and  ^  evergreen  wild. 

bring  forth  new  beauties.  Ida  and  Lily  call  it  )  So,  in  October,  a  wagon-load  of  us  resolred 
"  Pipsey's  £urm  of  0  acres,''  and  they  always  ^  that  we  would  follow  Clear  Creek  five  miles,  in 
like  to  have  me  tell  *'  what  I  know  of  farming."  \  which  there  was  no  road.  Every  girl  was  will- 
Always  in  the  Junes  and  Octobers,  to  humor  ')  ing  for  the  adventure,  although  we  did  not 
a  childish  whim  of  mine,  the  deacon  tells  Beu-  f  know  how  it  would  terminate.  One  bank  wu 
ben  or  Jonathan  that  they  may  take  the  team  )  bluff,  and  steep,  and  rocky,  and  dark  with  hem* 
and  let  the  girls  have  a  day  out  among  the  )  lock  and  pine,  all  broken  in  gashes  and  gloomy 
hills.  Then  we  invite  our  special  girl  friends,  S  with  cavernous  places.  The  other  bank  was 
and  with  calico  dresses,  and  good  shoes,  and  )  not  steep,  but  level  b&ck  about  ten  rods;  then 
baskets  full  of  lunch  and  table  ware,  we  are  all  I  it  rose  a  bold,  rugged,  broken  wall.  In  this 
ready.  In  the  same  sack  with  the  com  for  the  )  level  space  we  sUrted  in  at  the  Pine  Grove 
horses  we  put  our  garden  trowels,  a  teakettle  '  Mills,  and  followed  down  the  stream.  It  was 
and  some  kindlings,  and  go  prepared  to  have  ^  superbly  sublime,  and  grand,  and  picturesque. 
a  real  good  time,  which  we  always  do.  At  ;  Some  places  we  would  almost  have  to  lie  down 
noon  we  select  the  prettiest  spot,  and  spread  I  in  the  wagon  to  keep  from  being  whipped  oat 
our  table-cloth  on  the  ground,  and  while  one  ^  by  the  low  branches;  again  we  would  have  to 
brings  out  the  roast  chicken,  and  bread,  and  S  pile  up  all  in  one  side  to  save  tipping  over, 
butter,  and  fruit,  and  pies,  and  cakes,  and  (  Three  of  the  girls  could  sketch,  and  they  found 
jellies,  and  pickles,  another  hangs  the  tea-  (  glorious  pictures  of  wild,  tumbled  together 
kettle,  starts  a  fire,  and  makes  the  cofifee  in  the  ')  rocks,  trees,  water,  vines,  gnarled  roots,  rode 
kettle.  The  tea  is  steeped  in  a  pitcher.  The  (  cots,  and  everything  requisite  in  a  perfect  pic- 
cream  is  corked  up  tightly  in  a  bottle,  and  )  ture.  Sometimes  we  would  be  compelled  to 
everything  is  nice  and  good,  and  our  appetites  )  drive  for  forty  rods  in  the  bed  of  the  stream, 
are  sharpened.  (  shut  in  on  either  side  by  the  two  .walls,  ezn- 
After  dinner  we  start  out  among  the  rocks,  y  berant  in  all  things  grand  and  beautiful,  and 
and  ravines,  and  ferny  dells,  and  waterfalls,  (  green  and  gray. 

and  dark  mossy  places  where  never  shone  the  S  The  very  horses,  Charlie  and  Kate,  became 
sun.  Of  course  we  are  noisy  and  happy,  and  )  enthusiastic,  and  tossed  their  manes  and  dis- 
we  help  each  other  as  we  climb  dizzy  steeps,  s  tended  their  nostrils,  and  snorted,  and  stepped 
and  stand  poised  on  jagged  rocks,  and  study  )  lightly  and  friskily  as  playful  kittens.  The 
fine  views,  and  creep  into  dark  dripping  caves,  (  girls  were  not  aware  that  poor  Jonathan's  ten- 
and  under  overhanging  clifis,  and  behind  S  der  student-hands  were  blistered  and  raw  in 
sheets  of  water,  and  walk  sideways  through  )  the  palms  and  betvTecn  lii.s  finger*  from  hold- 
long,  narrow  aisles,  with  walls  of  cleft  rocks  ^  ing  the  lines  and  curbing  the  excited  horses, 
on  either  side,  and  interlacing  boughs  of  hem-  (  Poor  fellow  I  he  said  he  was  well  recompensed, 
lock  and  pine  overhead.  (  though,  in  listening  to  a  wagon  load  of  women 
Nothing  mars  the  perfect  freedom  of  speech  ^  talk;  but  it  was  harder  than  any  problem  in 
and  limb,  except  the  thought  that  even  the  (  trigonometry  to  understand  them  intelligibly 
longest  June  days  will  end  in  June  nights.  In  {  when  they  all  talked  cross-fire  at  once, 
such  places  we  always  fin4  the  rarest  mosses,  ^  We  followed  the  stream,  sometimes  on  one 
and  the  freshest  and  most  beautiful.  Last  (  side  and  sometimes  on  the  other,  or  in  the 
June  I  brought  home  the  big  basket  full.  That  S  middle  of  it,  down  to  where  it  is  joined  by  an- 
was  seven  months  ago,  and  of  that  glorious  day  )  other  of  the  same  size,  and  the  two  form  one  of 
(200)  ^ 


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OTHER    PEOPLE'S    WIJTDOWS. 


201 


the  principal  tributaries  of  the  MuskiDgum 
River,  which  is  one  of  the  large  branches  of 
the  Ohio.  We  took  a  diflerent  route  home, 
stopping  to  dine  on  Little  Pine  Ban,  one  of 
the  prettiest  little  evergreen,  mossy  hiding 
places  I  ever  did  see. 

We  filled  our  teakettle  out  of  a  deep,  quiet 
woodland  spring  -with  green  banks ;  the  water 
had  that  soft  blue  color  that  it  has  in  the 
winter  time.  A  brook  close  up  under  the 
overhanging  banks  of  a  piney  ridge  rippled  and 
tinkled  along,  while  little  spouts  of  water  gur- 
gled out  from  crevices  among  the  rocks,  and 
wriggled  their  winding  little  ways  in  and  out 
among  the  dead  leaves,  and  the  patches  of 
moss,  and  the  sweet-smelling  pine  needles  that 
lay  on  the  ground  on  that  hazy,  soft  October 
day. 

We  laid  our  cloth  under  a  wide-spreading 
beech-tree,  when  we  dined.  We  were  all 
hungry — we  had  lived  so  fast,  and  hard,  and 
gloriously,  that  we  were  like  machines  that 
had  been  run  their  very  hardest  without  ceas- 
ing a  minute  to  cool  off  or  rest.  We  thought 
dear  Cousin  Fanny  made  the  best  coffee  in  the 
world,  while  she  laughed  heartily,  and  said  it 
made  itself,  the  teakettle  holding  just  so  mauy. 
pints,  and  the  paper  of  coffee  was  put  into  her 
hands  already  ground.  We  ate,  and  laughed, 
and  told  stories,  and  said  funny  things,  and  the 
gray  old  rocks  never  heard  such  laughter  and 
merriment  before.  We  all  look  back  upon  that 
autumn  day  as  the  crowning  day  of  the  whole 
year.  With  such  richly  tinted  pictures  hang- 
ing on  our  walls,  the  bare,  white  winters  with 
their  cruel  snows  will  be  shorn  of  half  their 
dreariness. 

After  dinner  was  over  I  spread  the  table- 
cioth  on  the  ground,  and  took  the  trowel,  and 
with  the  help  of  Ida  and  Lily  gathered  mosses 
of  all  kinds,  the  greenest  and  rarest  I  ever  saw, 
and  laid  them  compactly  together  to  retain 
their  dampness,  and  filled  the  cloth  as  full  as 
it  could  be  and  fasten  at  the  corners.  The 
lunch-basket  we  filled  with  green  growing 
things — ^fems,  and  vines,  and  clusters  of  grow- 
ing leaves — for  our  winter  store— my  ferm  of  0 
acres. 

The  ride  home  was  delightful.  We  stopped 
on  Pine  Bidge,  and  stayed  as  long  as  we  dared, 
and  reach  home  before  dark. 

The  next  day  I  took  the  old  square  table 
that  was  my  mother's  when  she  began  house- 
keeping forty  yean  ago,  and  nailed  an  edge 
about  four  inches  wide  all  around  it ;  then  the 
girls  and  I  went  to  the  woods  near  the  house 
&nd  gathered  a  tubfol  of  old  leaf  manure  and 


rotten  wood,  with  a  trifle  of  sand,  and  I  wet  it 
and  put  it  on  the  table  in  hills,  and  ravines, 
and  steep  places,  and  covered  it  with  the  moss, 
and  made  it  look  like  a  wild  bit  of  landscape. 

It  is  beside  me  now  in  the  winter,  while  the 
snows  are  making  the  earth  desolate^  and  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  beautiful  it  is,  or  how  sweetly, 
and  cheerfully,  and  fully  it  ministers  to  this 
one  loving  need  of  my  woman's  nature.  It 
satisfies  me,  as  no  other  pretty  thing  ever  did 
before.  And  the  girls  call  it  "Pipsey's  farm 
of  0  acres." 

At  the  foot  of  my  highest  hill  I  sunk  a  piece 
of  broken  mirror,  and  it  looks  just  like  water 
reflecting  the  vines  that  grow  on  ite  green 
bankfl ;  broken  bits  down  in  among  the  moas 
look  like  a  winding  brook. 

Growing  all  over  the  farm  I  have  those  wild- 
wood  things  that  live  all  winter  close  down  to 
the  ground,  such  as  pipsissiway,  ptitty  root, 
pysola,  crow  foot,  checkerberry  vines  with  tke 
ruby  berries  growing  redly  on  the  green  moss, 
door-yard  ivy,  ferns,  tufts  of  rank  meadow 
grass,  little  cedars  and  hemlocks,  cactus,  wan- 
dering jew,  honseleeks,  wild  strawberries,  win- 
tergreens,  geraniums,  and  all  kinds  of  lo^- 
growing  leaves  that  I  find  in  my  path  across 
the  meadow  when  I  am  going  to  the  office. 

In  a  shallow  earthen  dish,  sunken  under  the 
moss  in  one  corner,  is  a  little  mat  of  pale-green, 
thick-barred  leaves  that  we  got  at  Hemlock 
Falls  last  June.  I  have  kept  them  ever  since 
easily ;  they  seem  to  have  as  many  lives  as  a 
cat.  I  will  send  a  leaf  to  the  "  knowing  man" 
and  find  out  the  name  of  the  plant.  Whenever 
I  ask  grandma,  or  any  old  lady  who  would  be 
likely  to  know,  they  invariably  reply:  "Law- 
ful sakes,  I  don't  know  the  name  of  it  at  all, 
but  my  grand'ther  used  to  say  it  was  a  sure 
cure  for  snake  bite." 

I  water  my  farm  gently  every  other  day  with 
a  watering-pot,  and  as  it  stands  beside  a  sunny 
south  window,  it  may  remain  with  me  all 
winter,  an  equivalent  to  the  cruel  snow  that 
hides  away  all  beautiful  things.  One  of  those 
gray  excrescences  that  grow  on  old  logs  is 
sunken  in  the  moss  beside  my  pond  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  and  a  funny  old  man  clad  in  seedy 
velvet,  with  his  head  made  from  a  hickory 
nut,  sits  on  the  shelving  rock  fishing  for  trout. 
He  wears  a  tile,  and  his  hair  is  long  and  car- 
rotty.  Sometimes  he  is  sedate,  and  his  head 
is  hent  down  in  meditation.  Again,  and  his 
eyes  are  in  a  "  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  and  he  sits 
on  the  old  bowlder  and  looks  upward  at  the 
beauties  of  nature  and  the  marvellous  creations 
of  the  inanimate  world. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


202  ARTHUR'S    LABT8    HOME    MAGAZINE. 

We  make  banging-baBkets  out  of  tboee  wire  )  in  earneBt,  and  as  thoiigh  the  subject  was  one 
baskets  that  farmers  wear  on  their  horses,  when  \  of  vast  importance. 

they  are  ploughing  corn,  to  keep  them  from  \  I  came  yery  near  making  sister  Bodkin  angtr 
nipping  the  tender  blades.  Line  Uiem  first  {  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^e^^  yesterday.  The  doctor 
with  firm,  green  moss,  then  take  any  broken,  S  ^j^^  ^^^^^  j^^  ^^^g  gn^^fl•  ^j.  j^^  catarrh,  and 
spongy  kinds,  and  cram  them  full,  with  no  ;  gent  it  up  by  his  wife.  I  coaxed  her  to  sUt 
earth  except  that  which  attaches  to  the  mosses,  <  ^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^  ^j^ed  over  our  church  aflab, 
pack  in  closely  to  hide  the  wires,  and  set  out  \  ^nd  the  financial  sUte  of  the  Bible  Union  So- 
ferns,  or  iyy,  or  myrtle;  press  the  baskete  into  v  cig^y,  and  the  Home  Mission  Society,  and  sll 
a  better  shape,  say,  flattened  somewhat,  and  /  ^^^^^  things  that  concern  us. 
they  are  ready  to  hang  up.  By  sinking  them  :  g^j^  was  telUng  me  about  visiting  one  dw 
every  three  days  into  a  pail  of  water,  they  will  )^  ^Hst  week,  out  at  Judge  Harding's,  on  the  Na- 
keep  all  winter.  When  my  ferns  become  ,  tional  Boad,  and  what  nice  jellies  the  judge's 
broken  or  diogy,  if  they  do  at  aU,  as  I  fear  they  y  ^jf^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^l^^t  long  trails  the  judges 
will,  I  will  try  planting  oats,  or  wheat,  or  grass  ^  ^j^  ^^^^  ^^d  about  tiie  judge's  wife's  jew- 
seed  down  in  among  the  damp  moss.  .  ^j^^  ^^  fiirs,  and  false  hair,  and  padding,  and 

,^  corsets,  and  fine  table  ware,   and  at  last  I 

I  was  very  much  pleased  with  a  suggestion  .  couldn't  hold  in  any  longer,  and  I  just  broke 
the  deacon  made  last  night,  when  I  said  I  had  (  ^ght  out  with:  "Sister  Bodkin,  I'm  goingto 
so  many  valuable  papers  and  manuscripte  that  ,  „^  ^^^  ^  f^j^  question,  and  I  want  a  fiiir  as- 
I  would  like  to  save,  only  I  had  no  good  way  ,  ^^^'  y^^^^  ^^  j^^^^  y^^  ^^  ^i^^.  ^^  j^^ 
of  keepmg  them.  Both  my  portfolios  were  ;,  Harding's  so  frfquentiy?  They're  not  mem- 
filled  long  ago  witii  extracts,  and  essays,  and  <  ^ers  of  any  church,  and  Oiey're  not  chuith- 
orations,  and  papers  valuable  only  to  myself.  ^^       .  j^  ^^  ^j^     ^de  out  Sabbath  dajs 

He  said,  take  a  sheet  of  pasteboard,  double  it  ^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^        ^^  I  j^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^ 
in  the  middle  tie  the  ends  witii  a  bit  of  rib-  ;  ^^^  fo,  ^^  ,^^^te  witii;  and 

bon,  and  let  it  be  open  like  a  big  pocket,  into  ;  ^^^  ^^^  ^h^  j^^^^  ^  1^^  „ 

which  I  could  slip  whole  sheets  easily,  and  al-  ^,  g^e  got  as  red,  and  Uien  turned  aa  purpleis 
most  an  armful  of  them.  I  made  one  imme-  ^^  a  pansy^l>ut  she  rallied  and  said:  «Pi{««. 
diately,  and  I  am  delighted  wiOi  it,  and  hope  (  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^  t^^j^^l  ^^^^  ^^^^ 
students  and  those  who  need  places  to  put  ^  member  of  Pottsville  Baptist  Church,  in  gocd 
things  will  also  be  benefited  by  it.  ^  standing,  am  not  going  to  dodge  Uie  trath. 

)  Sometimes  I  get  so  tired  at  home,  with  jkA- 

I  was  pleased,  too,  with  a  littie  bit  of  Lily's  '\  j^g^  ^nd  cooking,  and  worrying,  tiiat  Iiwsd 
ingenuity.  She  wears  number  four  shoes,  her  ^est,  and  I  go  out  tiiere  to  get  something  good 
foot  is  long  and  narrow,  and  I  said,  as  I  saw  ;;  t^  eat.  They  have  everytiiing  to  eal^  when 
her  warming  her  feet,  "There's  something  want-  ;  they  have  company,  that  you  could  mention, 
ingaboutyourgaiters— your  foot  seems  to  have  ^  ^ndthe  last  time  I  was  tiiere  they  had  thi« 
such  a  long,  eely  look,  as  tiiough  something  ^^^^  ^^  ^^.^  ^^  f^^  tinds  of  cake^  and 
was  lost  or  lacking."  ^^^  ^^  ^^  tj^^  ,.^1^^^ „ 

"It  is  easy  to  see  what  is  wanted,"  said  she,  uq^^^^  Bodkin,"  said  I,  "hold  on  I  I  don't 

twisting  her  head  around  as  though  she  would  ^^nt  to  hear  anotiier  word,  nor  I  won't  hearit 
look^at  her  foot,  the  same  as  another  person  ^^^^  according  to  your  own  words,  you're » 
would ;  I  can  tell  you-it  needs  a  great  ro-  ^e-bibber,  and  a  glutton,  and  a  remarkabl; 
sette,  or  ribbon,  with  a  buckle  in  the  middle  of  J  ^^^^  g^rt  of  a  sister;  wines  and  cakee,  and 
it  J  it  requires  that  to  relieve  it  of  the  bare,  ^  corsets  and  trails.  I  don't  want  to  hear 
naked,  snaky  look  it  has.  Just  the  same  as  (  another  word,  for  reaUy,  I  am  afraid  I  wont 
MissSomer's  long,  thin  neck  should  be  relieved  ;  i^^  ^^^  ^^^y  well,  hereafter." 
by  her  hair  worn  low,  or  a  hanging  curl  or  two,  u  j  ^^>^  ^elp  it,"  said  she ;"  J  am  an  hoooi 

or  a  wide,  full  frill,  or  ruche,  or  somethiug  else  c,  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^ 
than  a  close,  plain,  trim  band  of  linen.  Her  \  y^^  g^t  it,  and  I'm  not  to  blame  if  you  don't 
gloves  too,  need  a  fall  of  la^,  or  ribbon,  or  ^  ^^  the  whole  trutii ;  I'm  sure  I  took  yon  at 
something  about  the  wrists.    I  do  wish,  when  S  own  word;"  and  she  flipped  her  shairl 

women  can  as  we  1  as  not,  that  they  would  tiy      ^^,,  j^er  head,  and  was  gone  b^ie  I  could  »7 
to  hide  a  deformity,  and  make  themselves  look  ^  "Jack  Bobinson  " 
their  very  sweetest,  and  prettiest ;"  and  Lily  \ 

rocked  her  cha|r  as  though  she  was  very  much  (      Ida  said,  "  What  shall  we  have  for  dinner  to- 
Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


OTHER    PEOPLE'S    WINDOWS. 


203 


day  V  It  is  an  old  question  asked  in  homes 
all  over  the  land  every  day  in  which  we  live, 
by  tired  women  whose  hands  hang  down 
wearily. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  as  I  tossed  the  deacon's  mit- 
tens, which  I  had  just  faced,  aside  into  the 
work-hasket,  "  let  ns  have  the  best  the  house 
affords — something  that  will  be  new  and  please 
fetherl" 

So  she  concluded  to  make  a  big  apple-pie  in 

the  round  baking-pan ;  and  it  was  so  nioe  I  will 

tell  you  just  how  she  made  it.    She  mixed  up 

a  good  rich  pie  crust,  buttered  her  deep  pan, 

and  rolled  the  under  crust  quite  thick,  then 

sliced  tart  apples  and  covered  well  the  bottom, 

then  cut  some  of  her  thinly  rolled  crust  in 

small  bits  and  laid  around  over  the  apples. 

Then  she  sliced  in  more  fruit,  and  had  it  a 

little  the  highest  in  the  middle,  rolled  out  an 

upper  crust  thicker  than  for  common  pie,  cut 

two  little  holes  in  it,  and  fitted  it  on  smoothly, 

without  nicking|pr  making  pretty  the  edges. 

When  it  was  r^dy  to  place  in  the  hot  oven, 

she  poured  in  about  four  spoonfuls  of  boiling 

water  through  the  holes  in  the  crust,  and  it 

was  ready  to  bake.  It  was  done  in  half  an  hour. 

Then  she  laid  oflf  the  upper  crust — which 

oould  easily  be  done,  because  it  was  not  nicked 

round  the  edges — and  put  in  butter  and  sugar, 

and  stirred  them  in  thoroughly,  and  put  the 

cover  on  again.    This,  with  milk,  made  a  very 

good  dinner,  and  was  a  change  from  beef  and 

pork,  and  beans  and  boiled  vegetables. 

We  killed  our  hogs  last  week,  and  the  weather 
was  80  changeable,  and  ray  asthma  so  bad,  that 
I  suggested  to  the  deacon  that  we  let  a  good 
I     neighbor  of  ours,  who  has  a  large,  healthy 
family,  take  all  the  offal  and  surplus  and  make 
it  up  into  sausage  and  head  cheese,  and  allow 
us  one-third.    Both  deacon  and  neighbor  were 
willing,  and  it  was  nicely  done,  and  the  one- 
third  even  is  more  than  we  shall  use  at  home. 
The  deacon  cleaned  the  feet — he  is  a  Yankee, 
and  that  accounts  for  his  being  so  ready  and 
handy  to  do  woman's  work — and  I  used  them 
up  differently  from  any  previoua  way  I  had 
ever  tried.     I  boiled  them  until   the  bones 
would  almost  drop  out,  then  cut  the  meat  up 
into  smaller  pieces  with  a  knife,  and  poured  it 
back  into  the  kettle  with  the  water  in  which 
they  had  been  boiled.    I  boiled  all  together 
about  fifteen  minutes,  added  salt  and  pepper, 
and  then  .poured  out  into  crocks.    When  cold 
it  is  firm,  and  will  cut  in  slices  like  boiled 
ham.    It  will  save  a  whole  year  by  putting  in 
brine,  and  the  salt  cannot  penetrate,  either.    I 
VOL.  xxxvui.— 14. 


shall  set  the  crocks  in  a  cool  corner  of  the 
cellar,  and  pour  brine  on  top.  It  is  hardly  the 
food  for  pale  women  with  asthma,  and  catarrhs, 
and  neuralgia,  but  it  is  fine  for  toiling  men  and 
boys.  The  school  ma'am  told  me  this — bless 
the  girl,  what  a  wife  she'll  make  for  somebody  ! 
She  says  they  cut  it  in  slices  and  pour  vinegar 
over  in  the  spring  for  the  men's  dinners ;  and 
I  add,  let  there  be  grated  horseradish  in  the 
vinegar,  for  the  stomach's  sake,  at  that  debili- 
tating season  of  the  year. 

Oh,  I  was  touched  to  tears  I  I  couldn't  help 
it!  The  deacon  had  more  horses  than  he 
wanted  to  use  or  winter  over,  and  he  sold  a 
little  brown  mare  last  summer  that  we  galled 
Pearl,  to  a  man  living  about  ten  miles  distant. 
Pearl  was  a  headstrong  little  thing,  especially 
when  the  gu'ls  or  I  tried  to  drive  her  in  the 
top  carriage,  and  her  colt  wouldn't  keep  up- 
beside  her. 

Dear  me  I  I've  had,  before  now,  to  go  chirck- 
ing!  chircking!  along  the  public  rjad  for 
miles,  clicking  klong  like  an  old  shaky  spin- 
ning-wheel  with  a  big  knot  in  the  band,  and' 
all  the  time  her  head  would  be  turned  round 
sideways,  and  she  would  be  whinneying  and 
saying :  "  Come,  darling,  here's  your  ma — oome- 
along,  dearl" 

We  used  to  wish  that  father  would  sell  hev.;: 
but  when  he  did,  and  a  great  stout  man  lode- 
her  away  on  a  brisk  trot,  we  felt  sorry  to  pact 
with  Pearly. 

A  few  days  ago,  one  chill,  bleak  eveaing,. 
some  one  of  the  family  chanced  to  look  down 
the  winding  road  to  Pottsville,  and  they  said : 
"  Why  there's  a  little  brown  beast  trotting 
along  that  has  the  very  motion  of  our  P<^rly 
that  we  sold  to  Granny  Greenstreet's  brother- 
in-law." 

Father  came  and  looked  out,  and  said:  ''Why 
it. has  the  very  jog  of  our  Pearl,  and  the  very 
swing  of  her  long  black  tail." 

We  all  stood  and  looked  until  ii  came  up  to- 
the  gate,  and,  sure  enough,  it  was  our  poor, 
little,  dusty,  tired  Pearly  t  As  she  passed  the 
gate  she  never  slackened  her  trot,  .but  merely 
turned  her  head  toward  the  house  and  laughed, 
out  in  a  real  horsey,  half-human  kind  of  a 
way:  "Oh-ha-harhal  oh-ha-hahati"  and  she 
swung  her  tail,  because  it  was  the  best  expres- 
sion she  could  give,  as  horses  do  not  wear  hats. 
She  increased  her  speed,  her  laugh  rolling  off 
into  a  satisfied  kind  of  a  chuckle,  and  paused 
not  until  she  reached  the  big  gate  that  leads 
,  into  the  barn-yard. 
\      Speaking  from  experience,  Ldo  believe  even. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


204 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


in  case  of  a  fire,  a  man  would  say,  "Wait  until  I 
get  mj  hat ;"  but  not  one  of  the  Pottses  thought 
of  the  all -important  hat — they  all  started  off 
to  the  barn-yard  almost  running  over  each 
other.  They  felt  of  Pearly,  smoothed  her  back, 
and  slipped  her  satiny  ears  through  their  hands 
caressingly,  lifted  her  feet  to  see  if  she  had 
been  shod  by  a  bungler,  looked  into  her  mouth 
to  try  and  detect  signs  of  her  having  been  ill- 
fed,  pinched  up  wrinkles  of  skin  to  see  how  deep 
a  layer  of  fat  was  likely  to  be  there,  and  Bube 
stood  back  and  drew  down  his  brows  and 
tried  to  discover  signs  of  her  having  been  sub- 
jected to  the  cruel  lash,  and  he  declared  if 
any  man  had  abused  our  poor  Pearly  he 
would  sue  him,  and  thrash  him,  and  prosecute 
him,  and  tell  good  Middy  Morgan  about  him, 
and,  backed  up  by  her,  ne'd  make  one  man  the 
less  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  that  he  would. 

So,  Pearly  was  put  in  the  stable  and  fed,  and 
her  mother— old  gray — peeped  through  the 
cracks  at  her,  and  inquired  about  her  associ- 
ates, and  the  state  of  society,  and  the  oats 
crop,  and  conversed  with  her  on  general 
topics. 

Kate  and  Charlie  sniffed  up  their  noses,  and 
said  she  was  a  great  home-sick  baby  that 
couldn't  stay  away  from  her  mammy  one 
short  year.  Charlie  said  he  had  lived  with 
the  gypsies,  and  travelled  days  and  nights, 
and  slept  out  in  the  dark  woods,  among  squir- 
rels and  garter-snakes,  and  never  thought  of 
his  mammy,  or  shed  a  tear  for  her. 

Pearly  sighed  and  ate  her  oats,  and  picked 
up  the  crumbs  and  crusts,  and  never  retorted 
unkindly,  or  even  gave  one  neigh  of  indigna- 
tion. They  were  silenced  by  her  meekness, 
and  Kate  whispered  to  Charlie :  "  Poor  thing — 
maybe  she  has  a  secret  sorrow ;  a  grief  she'll 
ne'er  impart"  Then  they  felt  a  little  ashamed 
of  themselves. 

The  next  morning  when  Babe  went  to  the 
barn  early  to  feed  the  horses,  he  peeped  over 
into  Pearl's  stable,  and  he  heard  her  snicker 
faintly  and  modestly,  and  she  held  her  head 
down  as  though  she  were  whispering  to  some- 
thing beside  her.  He  spoke  to  her,  saying : 
**  Poor  Pearly  I"  and  looked  in,  and  there  close 
up  snugly  beside  her  stood  the  dearest  little 
brown  ooltie  in  the  world. 

She  felt  very  proud  of  it,  and  told  It  to  step 
out  and  let  its  Uncle  Beuben  see  it,  and  it  did, 
and  she  laughed  all  the  time  in  her  satisfied, 
dhuckling  way,  just  as  if  she  thought  of  all 
mothers  she  was  the  crowned  one. 

She  told  Bube  to  pat  it  very  gently,  as  it 
had  no  experience  in  the  ways  of  the  world 


yet,  and  might  think,  instead  of  feeling  friendly 
he  just  wanted  to  fight. 

He  gave  her  to  understand  that  he  thought 
it  was  a  remarkable  fine  colt,  and  by  judicious 
training  would  be  an  honor  to  the  &mily. 

In  a  few  days  the  owner  came  for  Pearl,  and 
he  said,  in  answer  to  the  bristling  questions 
that  met  him  like  pointed  bayonets,  that  be 
never  had  a  better  ''creetur"  on  his  place, 
that  he  was  kind  to  her,  and  always  treated 
her  well ;  but  he  supported,  on  that  special  oc- 
casion, she  preferred  to  be  under  the  old  roof 
where  she  was  bom,  and  he  was  very  glad  her 
wish  had  been  gratified. 

He  offered  to  pay  the  deacon  for  all  she  had 
eaten  during  her  visit,  but  we  were  amply  re- 
warded in  getting  to  see  Pearly,  and  to  know 
that  she  cherished  such  tender  and  pleasant 
memories  of  her  own  old  home,  and  of  the 
kind  hands  that  had  patted  and  caressed  her 
from  very  colthood  up  to  riper  years. 

So  if  my  woman's  eyes  |^ew  a  little  mi9t7 
from  a  touch  of  genuine,  teMer  feeling,  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at.  I  told  the  children  when 
they  saw  me  wiping  my  eyes  on  my  red  silk 
handkerchief,  a  match  to  the  deacon's,  that  it 
did  seem,  by  spells,  as  if  that  painful  catarrh 
would  burst  the  head  of  me  f 

Poor  father- deacon — he  tried  my  temper 
yesterday.  He  got  a  little  mad,  in  the  early 
morning,  at  Bodkin's  hogs  rooting  down  the 
big  gate,  and  getting  into  the  orchard  and 
doing  considerable  mischief,  and  his  temper 
didn't  become  sweetened  all  day.  Everything 
went  wrong.  He  said  it  d;d  seem  as  if  "  Sa- 
tan" himself  was  in  the  hogs.  I  quoted  Scrip- 
ture, but  it  did  no  good,  so  I  let  him  fight  it 
out  with  the  weak  side  of  the  deacon. 

At  dinner  he  complained  that  the  biscaits 
were  hard,  then  the  steak  was  as  dry  as  a  chip— 
the  coffee  had  a  queer,  insipid  taste,  and  finaUj) 
when  I  passed  the  butter  for  grandma,  he  said, 
^'Bon't  pass  the  butter  at  all ;  it  is  not  fit  to  eat 
— it  is  kind  of  fresh  and  lardy." 

That  was  a  little  more  than  I  could  stand ; 
I  felt  the  tide  of  tears  rising,  I  felt  the  snap 
come  into  my  eyes,  but  I  kept  the  lashes  down 
so  as  to  hide  the  flash— I  tried  to  swallow,  bat 
I  couldn't;  I  said  to  myself;  "Now,PipBcr 
Potts,  be  a  woman ;  come,  now,  I  know  it  hurts 
and  that  it  is  hard  to  bear,  but  don't  say  a 
word;  remember,  *He  that  ruleth  his  own 
spirit,'  etc.,  and,  *  A  soft  answer  tumcth  sway 
wrath.'  Come,  now,  that's  a  lady;  Pipseyl" 
and  I  went  to  the  pantry  and  got  a  good  cold 
drink  of  water,  and  <elt  better  right  o?  and 
did  not  speak  the  unkind  word  that  burned  to 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


OTSEB    FSOFLE'8    WINDOWS. 


205 


bespoken.  like  a  feeble  spark  of  fire  it  bad 
died  out^  and  no  hurt  was  dooe^  no  freeh  wound 
opened  to  bleed,  no  scar  left  to  remain  for  all 
time* 

When  I  became  calm,  and  looked  this  all 
over,  I  saw  the  deaoon  stood  blameless.  He  is 
afflicted  with  dyspepsia,  and  that  itself  will 
cover  a  **  mnltitude  of  sins ;"  and  we  women 
should  never  lose  sight  of  that  Uttct  when  we 
are  stabbed  by  unkind  words  from  those  we 
love. 

He  had  been  hulling  doyer  seed,  and  the 
poisonous  dusfc  which  he  had  inhaled  made  him 
feel  mieerable,  and  gloomy,  and  badly  out  of 
tune.  It  is  very  rarely  that  the  friend  who 
speaks  unkindly  to  us  is  the  aggressor.  It  is 
the  poor,  hnoian  man,  or  woman,  the  other  and 
weaker  self,  not  the  dear  relatire  or  friend  at 
alL  Very  frequently  the  unkind  word  that 
cots  like  a  knife,  owes  its  sharp  edge  to  the 
boiled  dumplings  in  the  afternoon,  or,  to  a  late, 
hearty  supper  at  night,  or,  lunch  Just  belbre 
goutg  to  bed,  or,  a  light  covering  in  the  night, 
when  the  weather  changed  from  a  soft,  south 
wind,  to  a  bleak  aor'wester.  Bemember,  chari- 
tably, that  there  u  a  cause,  and  lay  not  up,  to 
grieve  over  in  despondent  hours,  the  harsh 
word  hastily  spoken. 

A  kind  physician — I  bless  him,  whoever  he 
is-^says  that  woman  is  so  "perilously  fash- 
ioned," that  her  frame  of  mind  is  not  exactly 
the  same  two  days  in  a  whole  year — her  health 
is  80  variable,  her  mechamsm  so<  fine,  and  so 
intricate. 

I  was  present  onoe  when  the  only  and  be- 
loved child  of  a  physician  lay  balancing  be- 
tween life  asd  death.  The  distracted  wife  ven- 
tured to  say  that  perhaps  they  had  better  call 
in  another  physician.  Her  husband  turned  to 
her,  and  the  few  words  he  spoke  were  sharper 
than  any  two-edged  sword. 

She  sank  under  them,  and  going  to  another 
ix>om,  wept  bitterly.  In  a  few  moments  her 
husband  followed  her,  and  folding  her  to  his 
bosom,  his  vdoe  broken  with  emotion,  he 
said :  **  Mary,  my  dear  wife,  you  must  remem- 
ber that  it  was  hot  the  husband  who  spoke  to 
yon  unkindly,  it  was  the  physician." 

We  were  all  seated  round  the  fire,  when  Jon* 
athan  came  in  with  Ills  pocket  full  of  news. 
He  had  papers,  and  magaeines,  and  something 
for  all  of  us.  He  tossed  a  letter  into  my  lap, 
saying:  ''From  your  beloved  Oousin  Amdar- 
etto.*' 

I  glanced  it  through,  and  handed  it  to  Ida, 
saying:  "When  the  May  time  comes,  Etta 


is  coming  out  to  the  dear,  delightful  country, 
to  bore  us  with  her  silly,  superficial  ways.  I 
am  sure  we  cannot  find  room  for  her ;  if  there 
is  anything  I  do  dislike,  it  is  an  insipid,  dty 
girl,  mincing  around  with  her  vapory  talk  about 
the  delights  of  the  city  ;  afraid  of  a  lamb,  or  a 
fiish  worm,  or  an  old,  setting  hen;  afraid  of 
horses,  and  cows,  and  sheep,  and  who  thinks  of 
ferocious  snails,  or  poisonous  garter-snakes,  or 
monstrous  lady-bugs,  when  she  is  upon  a  pin- 
nacle of  wild  rocks,  with  all  the  glory  of  the 
blue  heavens  above  her,  and  the  grandeur  of 
nature  in  her  mildest  moods  lying  at  her 
feet. 

"  Let  us  write.  Sissy,  and  tell  her  we  have 
no  room  to  spare  her;  for  indeed  we  have  not 
I  cannot  spare  mine,  and  you  will  not,  and  Lily 
shall  not,  and  the  brothers  must  not,  and  she 
dare  not  crowd  poor  old  trembling  grandma, 
and  our  good  Deacon  Potts ;"  and  I  set  my 
rocking-chair  a-going  vehemently,  backwards 
and  forwards,  as  though  I  meant  what  I  had 
laid. 

"  Pipsissiway  Potts  t  now  aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself;  you're  rale  stingy,  and  are  setting 
a  bad  example  before  these  growing  girls  o* 
yonr'n,"  said  grandma,  very  earnestly.  **  No 
room  to  spare,  in  this  great,  big,  roomy  housen 
of  your  fothers  ?  Times  ain't  like  they  used  to 
be.  Now,  I  was  brought  up  in  a  log  cabin,  six- 
teen by  eighteen  feet,  and  we  always  had  room 
to  spare.  At  times  of  assodational  meetings, 
and  such,  we  used  to  accommodate  a  dreadftd 
sight  of  fcdks.  O  darter,"  said  she,  the  old 
darling,  in  her  eighty-eighth  year— and  there 
seemed  a  way*  off  dreaminess  in  the  dick  of  her 
knitting-needles,  and  the  singing  creak  of  the 
old  rockers,  and  the  wavy  flow  of  her  full- 
frilled  cap-border,  as  she  slowly  swayed  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  her  rocking^hair— "  you 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  hampered  for 
room. 

**  Law !  that  reminds  me  of  the  time  the  first 
Baptist  'sociation  met  in  this  county.  Your 
old  grand'ther  was  church  dark,  and  deacon, 
and  trustee,  and  we  lived  nearest  to  the  school- 
house  where  the  'sociation  met  in  the  year 
1820. 

''  I  allotted  on  a  good  deal  of  company,  and 
had  baked  three  barrels  of  bread—- one  of  com, 
one  wheat,  and  one  rye.  We  had  one  barrel 
full  of  beef,  and  some  pork,  and  a  wash-tub 
full  of  nice  wild  honey,  besides  vegetables,  and 
berries,  and  green  com,  and  everything  that  a 
new  country  afiR)rded  at  that  season  of  the  year. 
We  had  no  cellar,  just  a  hole  under  the  floor, 
in  which  we  could  keep  our  bre^d,  meat  and 

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ARTEUB'8   LADTS   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


vegetables.    We  lifted  a  board,  or  pancheon, 
when  we  wanted  to  go  down  into  the  hole. 

''The  day  before  the  meeting  commenced, 
the  ox  teams  began  to  driye  ap  loaded  with 
delegates  from  a  distance  of  siztf  miles.  I  re- 
member old  Thomas  Bigdon — who  became  a 
leader  among  the  Mormons  afterwurds-^oame 
riding  ap  on  horsebaclc  ahead  of  three  or  four 
ox  wagons,  and  waring  his  rye-straw  hat  above 
his  head,  called  out:  'Here's  your  Baptist 
tavern  I  Only  supper  for  fifty  I'  He  threw  off  j 
his  homemade,  butternut-colored  coat,  and  went 
to  work  to  make  a  place,  where  the  brook  below 
the  house  was  the  widest,  in  which  the  tired, 
dusty,  jolted  delegation  could  go  and  wash. 

''And  here  they  came,  bronzed,  broad-shoul* 
dered  men  and  ftill-boflomed,  healthy  matrons, 
with  cheeks  like  blossoms,  wearing  homemade 
clothes  and  pasteboard  snnbonnets,  with  an 
occasional  Sunday  bonnet  that  had  done  ser^ 
vice  for  ten  years.  Some  of  the  mothers 
brought  their  hearty,  romping,  nut-brown 
babies  with  them,  and  the  more  thoughtful 
ones  brought  bedclothes  and  provisions. 

"  We  women  took  possession  of  the  house,  and 
the  men  of  the  big  double  log  bam,  which  was 
roomy  and  comfortable.  Our  square  log  house 
had  one  room  below  and  a  loft  above,  in  which 
one  could  not  stand  up  straight  The  loft  was 
reached  by  a  ladder  that  stood  in  one  corner 
at  the  side  of  the  fireplace.  It  had  no  floor, 
just  split  clapboards  that  overlapped  each 
other. 

"And  now,  Pipsey,  yon  haven't  room  for 
your  one  little  Cousin  Amouretta !  Your  old 
grand'ther  and  grandma'm,  fifty  years  ago, 
found  room  and  entertainment  in  their  little 
log  house  and  bam  for  from  sixty  to  one  hun- 
dred and  three.  All  the  time  that  the  meet- 
ing lasted  we  had  no  less  than  sixty  nor  more 
than  one  hundred  and  three. 

"  The  men  ate  out  doors  on  the  ground  and  on 
logs,  and  the  preachers  ate  off  the  wagon  boxes. 
They  all  slept  in  the  haymows,  and  there  was 
not  an  hour  all  through  the  nights  in  which 
could  not  be  heard  strong  voices  uprising  in 
prayer  and  praise.  The  very  angels  seemed 
*  encamped  round  about  them.' 

"  The  women  and  children  slept  in  the  house 
on  the  floor  as  thickly  as  we  could  lie,  and  on 
the  loose,  rattling  clapboards  overhead. 

"I  remember  poor  old  Brother  Baymond, 
from  Huron  county,  had  the  toothache,  and 
stayed  in  the  house,  and  sat  all  night  long  with 
his  badk  up  against  the  jamb-stone  and  bis 
aching  jaw  turned  toward  the  fire.  When  the 
pain  at  one  time  got  so  he  could  hardly  stand 


it,  he  relieved  it  .by  singing,  in  a  stentorian 
voice,  that  sweet  old  hymn  commencing: 
*  It  Is  the  Lord  enthroned  in  light' 

"  I  sat  all  that  long  night,  too,  with  Urier— 
he  was  the  baby  then — in  my  arms  and  my 
back  up  against  the  other  jamb.  I  snatched  a 
little  sleep,  and  might  have  rested  very  well, 
but  I  thought  it  was  only  good  manners  for  me 
to  stay  awake  so  as  to  be  company  ibr  poor 
Brother  Baymond. 

"  Well,  our  house  was  stripped  of  everything 
eatable ;  but  we  didn't  suffer,  because  we  had 
plenty  of  pumpkins  and  squashes,  beans,  po- 
tatoes, milk,  butter,  honey,  maple  sugar,  wild 
grapes,  and  dried  plums  and  cherries.  But, 
with  all,  your  poor  hard-workin'  old  grand'ther 
almost  starved  for  pork.  Wild  ducks,  and 
deer,  and  squirrels^  and  such  like,  wouldn't 
touch  the  hungry,  'hankerin'  place  in  liii 
stomach,  he  said ;  so  when  the  wbrst  came  to 
the  worst,  he  got  some  of  his  neighbors  to* 
gether  and  went  down  to  the  creek  bottoms, 
and  they  shot  a  ferocious  wild  hog,  whose  thids 
skin  in  some  places  was  bullet-proof.  Oh,  hii 
fangs  were  enough  longer  than  my  middle  fin- 
gers, and  stood  out  at  the  sides  of  his  fierce  face, 
gleaming  white,  like  two  props  or  posts  I  Well, 
he  made  tolerable  like  pork  for  hard-workin', 
industrious  men  folks  who  needed  strong  feed." 

Oh,  I  stood  rebuked  when  I  heard  my  poor 
old  grandmother's  bit  of  experience  in  haTing 
"  company,"  and  I  thought  if  Cousin  Amon^ 
etta  (she  had  studied  French,  and  this  was  why 
her  simple  name  of  Annetta  was  so  fukcifttliy 
changed,)  did  comC)  I  could  find  plenty  of  room 
for  her,  and  treat  her  kindly,  too. 

Just  as  we  were  talking  of  going  to  bed,  the 
dog  barked  in  an  ominous  way— -a  shufiling  of 
feet  that  were  determined  to  be  dean  before 
they  came  in  upon  the  carpet,  sounded  on  the 
porch,  and  t)^en  came  a  soft,  hesitating  raj^ 
and  who  should  come  in— mufiied,  and  mife- 
tened,  and  bundled  up  all  over  his  ears — hot 
Deacon  Skiles,  the  lone  lorn  widower  wiUi  the 
family  of  seven  little  bereft  vegetarians ! 

Father  shook  him  heartily  and  honestly,  as  I 
would  shake  the  dust  out  of  a  rug-;  grandma 
simpered,  and  courteeied,  and  smiled,  and  was 
flatteringly  kind  and  gracious  in  her  reception 
of  the  well-to-do  "  provider"  with  his  departed 
consort ;  while  I  felt  my  cheeks  glow  and  blos- 
som out  like  the  reddest  of  red-clover  blossomi^ 
and  my  eyes  sparkle  and  snap  as  he  reached 
out  his  broad,  honest  hand,  enveloped  in  the 
woolliest  of  winter  mittens,  and  shaking  mine, 
said :  "  Good-evenin',  Miss  Pipsey,  how's  times 
with  ye?" 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


ALEXIA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THEBE  are  times  when  it  is  very  terrible  to 
be  alone,  and  old — not  because  of  any  vain 
hunger  after  past  enjoyments,  never  to  be 
known  again,  nor  for  the  appalling  shortness 
of  that  interval  that  lies  between  the  aged  and 
the  grave,  bnt  because  lonely  age,  without  hope 
in  the  future,  or  interest  in  the  present,  can 
interpose  no  barrier  between  it  and  the  haunt^ 
ing  memories  of  people  and  of  things  that  have 
no  longer  any  living  place  in  the  world — can- 
not banish  from  within  the  eyelids  the  dear 
dead  faces^  nor  from  the  heart  that  throbs  no 
longer  with  any  passion  of  its  own,  the  remem- 
bered sympathy  which  we  once  felt  for  strug- 
gles, agonies,  and  contests,  which  have  long 
since  terminated  ip  complete  disaster,  or  in 
lasting  peace. 

It  is  a  wet  evening,  and  the  wind  that  sighs 
among  the  trees  about  the  house  makes  shift- 
ing hills  and  hollows  in  the  carpet  at  my  feet 
Tbomwood  is  not  very  near  the  coast ;  but  on 
nights  like  this — nights  with  an  uncertain 
moon  in  a  wild  sky — I  always  think  that  I  can 
hear  the  fall  and  swell  of  many  waves,*  not  as 
when  they  beat  upon  the  shore,  but  as  they 
sink  and  rise,  and  gather  and  roll  onward,  un- 
hindered and  unheeding,  in  the  open  sea.  And 
ever  with  this  sound  of  water  in  my  ears  two 
dead  faces  rise  out  of  the  dimness  of  the  disr 
tant  time,  and  bear  me  company  in  the  twilight 
— the  faces  of  a  man  and  a  girl.  This  breast 
was  a  pillow  for  them  both — the  dear,  dear 
faces,  unseen  save  as  I  see  them  now,  through 
many  lonely  years.  They  lay  here,  one  at  the 
beginning,  the  other  at  the  end  of  life — ^the 
iaces  of  Hallam  Thomwood  and  Alexia  Beed. 
Long  ago  I  was  living,  as  I  am  living  now, 
quite  alone  at  Thomwood.  My  husband  was 
dead,  and  my  son,  Hallam  Thornwood,  had 
left  England  fourteen  years  before.  Then,  as 
now,  I  found  it  hard  to  live  alone.  There  had 
been  that  in  my  life — especially  in  the  circum- 
stances of  my  parting  with  my  son — that  had 
tried  my  nerves.  My  solitude  oppressed  me. 
I  had  some  cause  for  fear,  and  my  fears  were 
apt  to  grow  too  many  and  too  powerful  for  my 
peace. 

Nevertheless  I  had  endured  my  loneliness 
ever  since  my  husband's  death,  comforting 
myself  as  I  best  could  with  Hallam's  letters 
from  abroad,  trying  to  find  in  them  sufficient 


«i 


interest  to  make  life  bearable;  for  I  was 
younger  then  than  I  am  now,  and  had  not 
learned  how^^  can  live  on  without  interest, 
fear,  or  hopc^V 

But  in  that  summer  when  I  first  saw  Alexia 
Beed,  this,  my  only  comfort,  failed  me :  my 
letters  did  not  come.  Then  it  was  that  I  felt 
I  could  not  live  alone. 

"  I  envy  you,"  I  said  to  a  woman  of  my  ac- 
quaintance— a  woman  with  a  husband  and 
many  children.  "  You  never  know  what  it  is 
to  wander  from  one  room  to  another,  and  find 
them  all  empty — to  spend  hours  without  hear- 
ing a  voice  or  a  step.  I  do  not  wonder  that 
criminals  in  solitary  confinement  so  often  be- 
come mad.  I,  though  I  have  my  freedom, 
wonder  sometimes  how,  solitary  as  I  am,  I 
keep  my  reason  from  day  to  day." 

''My  dear,"  answered  this  woman,  whose 
experience  was  so  difierent  from  mine,  "  while 
you  are  envying  me,  I  often  envy  you.  Empty 
rooms  I  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have 
them  full  to  overflowing !  And  no  voices,  no 
steps  I  If  you  only  knew  what  I  would  give 
sometimes  for  silence,  for  peace,  for  a  little 
rest  I  I  am  always  in  trouble;  somehow  or 
other,  always;  and  so  is  everybody  with  a 
large  family,  I  believe." 

I  knew  at  any  rate  that  she  always  thought 
herself  in  trouble,  and  resigned  myself  to  ask 
the  expected  question,  perceiving  how  it  was 
that  so  much  questioning,  such  unfailing  sym- 
pathy in  her  troubles,  was  always  expected 
of  me.  Of  course  I  had  no  troubles  of  my 
own. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  7"  I  said.  "  The 
children  seem  all  well,  and  you  told  me  that 
you  had  excellent  news  of  Edward.  Is  it  any- 
thing with  the  servants  ?" 

"  Well,  yes — or  rather  not  the  servants,  for 
of  course  she  isn't  a  servant ;  but  I  have  had 
palmed  off  upon  me  tlie  most  incompetent 
creature  you  can  conceive  as  governess  for  the 
younger  ones.  The  fact  is,  I  hate  all  gover- 
nesses ;  they  have  been  so  much  written  about 
lately — ^I  should  like  some  one  to  take  up  the 
other  side  of  the  question.  But  this  is  the 
most  silly,  childish  little  thing.  Indeed  she 
is  but  a  child,  and  if  she  had  come  under  my 
notice  in  any  other  way  I  should  have  been 
very  fond  of  her,  Fve  no  doubt  But  for  her 
to  be  here  pretending  to  teach,  while  the  chil- 
/  ^     (2071 

^Google 


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>8i 


ARTHUR'S   LADTB   MO  MR   MAGAZINE. 


(Iren  are  simply  forgettiDg  day  by  day  what- 
ever they  have  learned  I  It  is  all  very  well  to 
call  it  a  charity — that  was  how  I  was  persuaded 
to  take  her ;  but  charity  begins  at  home,  and 
.people  who  have  ten  children  of  their  own 
cannot  do  much  for  the  orphans  of  other  peo- 
ple. I  would  with  all  my  heart  if  I  could,  but 
I  can't  now,  can  I  ?"  fk  ^ 

Plainly  not.  I  8ympathize!^ith  her,  find- 
ing Rhe  had  a  real  grievance  for  once. 

"  Tm  obliged  to  send  her  away,"  she  con- 
tinued, sorrowfully;  "and  it  is  very  hard; 
for  I  don't  believe  she  has  anywhere  to 
go  to." 

"  I  hope  she  isn't  pretty,"  I  said ;  and  that 
wish — one  is  so  accustomed  to  hear  about  gor- 
erness — was  all  the  sympathy  I  had  then  for 
Alexia  Beed. 

"  She  is  rather  pretty,"  auBwered  my  friend  ; 
"  but  not  dangerously  beautiful,  if  you  mean 
that." 

I  saw  her  half  an  hour  after,  and  thought 
her  the  loveliest  little  thing  I  had  ever  seen  in 
my  life.  That  she  was  childish,  incompetent — 
that  it  heavily  weighed  upon  her  to  find  her-, 
self  unable  to  teach  what  she  had  never  learned, 
was  evident  at  a  glance.  My  taste  may  be 
peculiar,  but  that  she  was  beautifhl  was  quite 
as  evident  to  me.  The  golden  hair,  and  the 
gray  eyes  that  I  have  never  since  foi^tten, 
surpassed  any  I  have  ever  seen  in  beauty. 

Yet  I  hope  it  was  not  her  loveliness  only 
that  interested  me.  I  think  it  must  have  been 
her  sweet  innocent  way,  and  the  gentlenef>s  of  i 
her  looks,  or  perhaps  it  was  my  iate,  working 
unawares.  But  before  I  went  home  I  had  said 
to  Alexia  Beed,  "  I  hear  that  you  are  going  to 
leave  Mrs.  Foster,  and  that  your  plans  are  not 
quite  settled.  You  shall  come  and  stay  with 
me  for  a  little  while  if  you  like." 

It  seemed  that  she  did  like,  though  at  first 
she  looked  rather  frightened,  for  she  came,  and 
the  weeks  of  her  stay  grew  many ;  yet  there 
was  no  word  said  of  her  departure.  She  was 
too  childish  to  be  uneasy,  lest  her  presence 
might  come  to  be  considered  a  burden ;  and  I, 
who  found  society  a  domfort  after  my  long  soli- 
tude, and  in  my  anxiety  at  the  non-arrival  of 
Hallam's  ordinary  letter,  dreaded  nothing  so 
much  as  that  she  should  take  it  into  her  head 
to  go. 

In  the  beginning  of  July,  however,  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  my  son.  He  wrote  from 
Liverpool,  where  he  had  landed  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  and  the  silence  that  had  alarmed 
me  BO  had  been  occasioned  by  this  unexpected 
return. 


It  was  well  for  me  that  this  letter  had  been 
brought  to  me  in  my  own  room,  for  though  to 
most  mothers,  widowed  and  alone,  such  tidings 
should  have  brought  only  joy,  yet  fate  had 
been  hard  upon  me ;  so  that  my  first  feeling, 
when  I  learned  that  Hallam  was  coming  back, 
was  less  like  happiness  than  fear.  I  remem- 
bered a  sudden,  hurried,  almost  secret  parting, 
I  thought  of  a  terror  nursed  through  many 
years.  • 

After  awhile,  however,  a  longing  to  see  my 
son  again,  my  first-born  and  only  one,  grew 
stronger  than  all  misgivings  founded  upon 
things  that  had  happened  long  ago.  I  called 
to  mind  the  fourteen  years  that  had  gone  by 
harmless ;  I  tried  to  trust  in  the  mercy  of  a 
forgiving  Ood.  At  least  he  was  come  back. 
Though  I  might  persuade^  I  could  not  send 
him  away.  I  resolved  to  hope;  and  when  I 
had  made  the  resolve  I  became  glad. 

When  this  change  had  taken  place — ^when  I 
had  read  and  digested  my  letter,  full  of  ten- 
derness, as  it  was,  for  me,  and  had  determined 
that  its  tidings  were  to  affect  me  with  pleasure 
rather  than  alarm,  I  went  into  the  room  where 
I  had  left  Alexia  Reed.  It  was  an  up-staire 
sitting-room,  where  we  spent  most  of  our  time, 
finding  it  more  comfortable  than  the  larger 
apartments  below. 

On  this  evening  I  had  had  a  fire  lit,  for 
though  the  month  of  July,  the  weather  had 
that  day  been  wet  and  cliilly.  Alexia  had 
thrown  herself  down  upon  the  hearth  rug,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  flames,  and  as  I  en- 
tered I  saw  a  certain  shade,  which  was  apt  at 
times  to  extinguish  her  ordinary  childish  gay- 
ety,  heavy  upon  her  fiice.  Sitting  down  in  my 
chair  beside  the  fire  I  lost  no  time  in  endeav- 
oring to  divert  her  thoughts.  I  felt  assured 
that  I  could  easily  efi^ct  this  by  means  of  the 
news  I  had  to  tell. 

"Alex,  my  bird,"  (she  was  one  of  those 
pretty,  soft  creatures  that  can  never  be  ap- 
proached without  an  instantaneous  impulse  to 
efiTnsive  tenderness  and  caressing  speech,) 
"leave  off  studying  the  coals,  and  look  at  me; 
I  have  got  something  for  yo\i  to  hear." 

Her  large  eyes  were  turned  to  me  slowly 
and  in  silence.  Obedience  was  habitual  to  her, 
but  it  was  mechanical  obedience  only  that  she 
rendered  now. 

''  I  have  had  a  letter  to-day.  You  are  in 
the  clouds,  dear,  and  don't  listen." 

"Oh,  I  am  listening,"  she  answered,  rousing 
herself  to  a  display  of  forced  interest.  "Yes, 
a  letter.    I  heard.    Who  is  it  from  ?" 

**From  my  BOD,  Hallam,"  I  replied.    **He 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ALEXIA. 


209 


bas  returned  qnite  anexpectedly  from  Brazil. 
He  will  be  with  me  to-morrow  night." 

"Will  he  indeed?"  she  said.  "How  very 
pleasant  it  will  be  for  jou  I    I  am  so  glad  I" 

But  there  was  no  interest,  no  curiosity — none 
of  the  questions  I  had  expected,  as  to  what  he 
vas  like,  or  how  long  he  would  stay.  She 
turned  to  the  fire  again,  sitting  still  on  the  rug 
at  my  feet,  with  her  hands  lying  clasped  in  her 
lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  flames.  I 
bare  said  they  were  gray  ones,  but  they  grew 
dark  in  certain  lights. 

"  What  is  it,  my  sweet  one?"  I  asked,  atoning 
by  outward  gentleness  for  some  impatience 
which  I  felt ;  for  whether  Halkm's  return  was 
to  be  a  joyous  event  or  not,  it  was  to  be  for 
me  an  event  of  infinite  importance — I  knew 
that. 

Alexia  moved  closer  to  me,  drawing  my 
hand  down,  and  leaning  her  cheek  against  the 
palm. 

**  I  am  thinking  of  my  father,"  she  said,  in 
a  tone  of  voice  that  was  not  usual  with  her — 
an  awe-struck,  whispering  tone.  "Did  you 
ever  hear  how  he  died?  He  was  mur- 
dered!" 

I  knew  nothing  of  Alexia's  family  history, 
except  that  her  mother,  and  last  living  rela- 
tion, after  many  years  of  widowhood,  had  lately 
died  in  France ;  but  under  some  circumstances 
the  action  of  the  mind  is  marvellously  quick. 
1  started,  with  a  hundred  crowding  thoughts* 
Alexia  felt  the  start,  and  looked  up.  "He 
was  indeed,"  she  said,  gravely. 

What  was  it  to  me,  except  as  demanding 
that  sympathy  which  is  easily  accorded  to  all 
tragedies?  The  name — nothing  more;  and 
were  there  not  hundreds  who  bore  that  name? 
and  among  the  difi^erent  fates  of  all  these  hun- 
dreds might  there  not  be  two  found  alike? 

"My  dear,  how  horrible  I"  I  said,  at  last, 
before  she,  in  her  preoccupation,  had  taken 
notice  of  my  pause ;  "  who  did  it  ?  How  did 
it  happen  ?" 

"We  have  never  found  out  who  it  was — 
what  was  his  name,  I  mean — never,  though 
every  means  was  tried." 

One  more  coincidence.  "How  strange  1"  I 
>ud,  with  that  stupidity  which  equally  be- 
tokens in  the  speaker  an  awful  interest  or  the 
absence  of  any  interest  at  all.  "  W^as  not  any 
one  even  suspected?" 

"  We  knew  who  did  it,"  she  said,  then,  "but 
hot  his  name,  or  anything  to  trace  him  by  ex- 
cept his  appearance;  and  only  my  mother 
oould  have  recognized  him,  for  no  one  saw  him 
^cept  her.    We  were  then  living  near  Guild- 


ford in  Surrey,  in  a  little  house  that  stood  apart 
from  any  other." 

I  knew  Alexia  was  going  to  tell  me  the 
whole  story,  and  hesitated  whether  I  should 
stop  her  or  suffer  her  to  go  on.  What  she  was 
about  to  say  might  set  my  mind  at  rest  from 
an  ugly  fear  that  had  entered  into  it,  or  else — 
Well,  even  then,  would  it  not  be  better  to 
know  ?  So  I  said, "  Yes  7"  questioningly ;  and 
she,  full  to  the  lips  of  this  tragedy  that  had 
darkened  her  youth,  needed  no  other  encour- 
agement to  go  on. 

"The  nearest  way  to  the  town  was  through 
a  copse  of  trees,"  she  said,  "at  the  back  of  the 
cottage,  and  along  some  very  lonely  fields. 
Papa  went  up  to  London  very  often,  and  then 
mamma  and  I  and  Martha — that  was  the  ser- 
vant— were  alone  together.  I  don't  know  what 
he  went  to  London  for.  Mamma  didn't  know 
either.  He  used  to  say  women  never  under- 
stood business,  and  she  never  asked  about  any- 
thing. I  think,  though  she  was  so  fond  of 
him,  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  him,  too ;  only  I 
wasn't  afraid  of  him;  he  was  never  cross 
to  me. 

"However,  that  night — the  night  he  was 
murdered — he  was  with  us.  He  and  mamma 
were  alone  in  the  house  down  stairs,  for  Mar- 
tha was  out,  and  I  had  been  sent  to  bed.  I 
was  about  five  years  old  then ;  I  had  something 
the  matter  with  me,  I  think,  but  I  don't  re- 
member what. 

"Between  seven  and  eight  o'clock  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door ;  I  heard  the  knock 
as  I  lay  up  stairs  in  bed,  and  recollect  hearing  ' 
it  quite  well.  Papa  went  to  the  door.  Pres- 
ently he  came  back  into  the  room  where  mamma 
was,  bringing  another  man  with  him.  He  was  a 
very  young  man,  tall  and  dark.  They  talked 
together  for  some  minutes,  and  mamma  thought 
it  was  about  money,  but  she  did  not  under- 
stand all  they  said.  The  young  man  seemed 
very  angry,  and  she  was  afraid  papa  would 
get  angry,  too,  for  he  used  to  be  very  passion- 
ate sometimes. 

"  Presently  papa  seemed  to  see  she  was  there. 
He  turned  to  his  friend  and  introduced  him. 
He  said  to  mamma,  '  My  dear,  this  is  my  friend. 
Smith;'  but  she  noticed  that  before  he  said 
^  Smith,'  he  paused,  and  that  they  looked  at 
each  other,  and  something  put  it  into  her  head 
that  that  was  not  his  real  name.  Once  or 
twice  papa  called  him  something  else — 'Hal,' 
it  was  he  called  him.  Mamma  could  see  he 
was  trying  to  make  (fiends  with  him ;  but  the 
other  would  not  make  friends. 

"  At  last  papa  sent  her   out  of  the  room 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


210 


AETffUE'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


with  some  excuse;  and  when  she  came  back 
she  found  the  strange  man  was  going,  and 
that  papa  had  his  overcoat  on,  to  go  with  him. 
He  let  the  stranger  out,  and  then  he  came 
back  to  mamma,  who  was  rather  frightened  at 
the  idea  of  being  left  in  the  house  alone,  and 
told  her  that  Martha  would  be  in  directly. 
He  could  not  wait,  as  he  had  very  pressing  ) 
business,  and  might  have  to  go  up  to  London 
bj  the  next  train.  He  used  to  go  up  to  Lon- 
don suddenly  sometimes,  so  she  was  not  sur- 
prised, onlj  she  did  not  like  being  left  alone. 

''However,  it  was  as  papa  said — they  had 
only  been  gone  a  few  minutes  when  Martha 
came  in.  She  had  been  to  Guildford,  but  had 
not  come  home  across  the  fields,  because  the 
way  was  lonely.  As  papa  did  not  return, 
mamma  supposed  he  had  been  obliged,  as  he 
expected,  to  go  to  London.  She  wasn't  the 
least  alarmed — we  knew  nothing  till  the  next 
morning. 

"It  was  early—- just  before  breakfast.  I  was 
on  the  stairs,  playing  with  my  doll.  The  front 
door  was  open,  and  Martha  was  outside,  clean- 
ing the  steps.  I  heard  her  cry  out  '  O  my 
God !'  and  I  ran  down  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. As  I  was  running  down,  there  came  in 
two  or  three  men,  carrying  some  large  thing 
between  them.  I  could  not  see  what  it  was  at 
first,  for  they  had  put  their  coats  over  it.  But 
presently  one  of  the  coats  slipped  aside,  and 
underneath  I  saw  papa*s  face  and  his  fair  hair 
— he  had  very  fair  hair.  I  thought  he  looked 
cold,  and  was  frightened,  for  there  was  blood 
about  his  lips. 

"Mamma  was  coming  down  stairs,  and  I 
ran  up  to  meet  her  as  I  heard  her  coming. 
Before  I  reached  her,  she  saw  what  the  men 
were  carrying  in  their  arms.  She  called  papa 
by  his  name,  and  then  she  fainted  and  fell 
down. 

"  I  remember  it  so  well — those  people  in  the 
hall,  and  poor  papa's  dead  face,  and  mamma 
fallen  in  a  heap  upon  the  stairs,  and  Martha 
coming  in  as  white  as  death,  shaking  and  cry- 
ing as  she  lifted  her  up. 

"  When  mamma  came  to  herself,  she  was  told 
how  these  men,  going  to  their  work,  had  found 
papa  lying  dead  in  the  copse.  The  ground  all 
about  was  covered  with  footmarks,  as  if  there 
had  been  a  struggle.  Papa  was  a  strong  man, 
and  had  defended  himself  against  his  murderer, 
but  a  blow  on  the  head  had  killed  him  at  last. 
It  had  had  some  effect  upon  the  brain,  so  that 
the  doctors  said  he  must  have  died  the  very 
instant  the  bloir  fell. 

"  Of  course  it  was  the  strange  man,  who  had 


come  and  quarrelled  with  him,  that  had  done 
it;  he  was  hunted  for  everywhere,  but  he  was 
never  found.  Mamma  described  him  as  well 
as  she  could,  but  she  was  so  confused,  and  not 
quite  herself  for  a  great  many  days,  and  in  that 
time  he  escaped.  After  all,  she  could  only  say, 
in  describing  him,  that  he  was  tall  and  dark, 
and,  of  course,  many  men  are  that.  But  I  have 
often  seen  her  shudder,  if  we  passed  a  tall,  dark 
young  man  in  the  street" 

That  was  the  story,  which,  in  its  main 
events,  I  had  known  for  fourteen  years— fonr- 
teen^ears  during  which  I  had  never  imagined 
that  I  was  to  hear  it  once  more  from  such  lips 
as  Alexia's. 


CHAPTEB  IL 

The  next  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  when 
I  again  went  in  search  of  Alexia.  I  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  her—something  which  the  story 
I  had  heard  the  night  before  had  determined 
me  to  say  before  my  son's  arrival,  but  which  I 
had  hesitated,  or  at  least  delayed  to  say, 
through  the  long  hours  of  the  morning  and  the 
afternoon. 

I  had  seen  but  little  of  her  that  day,  for  I 
had  been  busy  with  many  thoughts,  manj 
cares;  I  had  been  weighing  possibilities  to 
which  I  had  hitherto  given  no  thought,  and 
which  I  would  not  have  had  suggested  to  her 
for  the  world. 

Last  night  there  had  seemed  to  me  but  one 
safe  course  of  action,  and  that  was  to  send 
Alexia  away ; .  but  even  whilst  this  step  had 
seemed  to  me  inevitable,  I  had  shrunk  from 
taking  it  The  child  was,  in  herself,  so  harm- 
less, though  it  might  be  that  fate  had  put  into 
her  hand  a  terrible  power  to  harm  me  and 
mine.  And  then  I  no  longer  felt  that  my  pro: 
tection  of  Alexia  was  a  simple  charity,  which 
it  rested  with  my  pleasure  to  give  or  to  with- 
hold. She  had  a  claim  upon  me,  strong  al- 
most as  the  claim  of  my  own  fle8h  and  blood. 

For  that — the  claim  which  my  own  had 
upon  me — did  it  not  demand  that  I  should  do 
all  I  could  to  atone  to  Alexia  for  her  orphan- 
age? Was  it  not  my  part  to  undo,  as  far  as  I 
could,  the  evil  that  had  been  done  7  Then,  for 
expediency,  was  it  not  expedient  to  bind  her 
to  me  by  all  the  kindnesses  that  I  could  heap 
upon  her,  so  that  all  desire  of  vengeance  might 
be  outweighed  by  the  gratitude  so  natural  ^ 
that  true  and  tender  heart  ? 

Finally,  though  possible,  was  it  probable, 
that  out  of  her  remaining  with  me  harm  should 
come?    I  would  let  Hallam  stay  for  a  week, 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ALEXIA. 


211 


and  then  I  would  persuade  him  to  go— 7I  would 
set  before  him  the  danger  of  his  staying,  to- 
gether with  the  right  this  orphan  had  to 
Btay. 

60,  at  last  I  had  determined  that  I  would  not 
send  Alexia  from  me,  comforting  my  fear  with 
the  belief  that  while  I  did  all  I  could  to  atone 
for  what  had  long  ago  been  done,  God  would 
not  be  foand  inexorable  in  demanding  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  wrong-doer.  In  consequence, 
however,  of  this  determination  I  had  something 
to  Bay  to  her  which  she  might  not  think  wholly 
kind,  but  which'  it  was  imperatively  necessary 
I  should  Bay. 

A  window  in  my  bedroom  overlooked  a  se- 
cluded part  of  the  garden,  and  having  from 
thence  discovered  her,  busy  in  gathering  nose- 
gays for  the  drawing-room,  I  went  down  to  ac- 
complish the  first  step  in  the  course  I  had  re- 
solved to  tread. 

Alexia  had  poBsibly  felt  herself  neglected 
that  day,  seeing  me  absorbed,  as  she  supposed, 
in  expectation  of  my  son's  return.  When  she 
perceived  me  coming  to  her,  her  heart,  which 
perhaps  had  been  a  little  sore,  a  little  oppressed, 
and  more  open  than  usual  to  the  recollection 
of  recent  griefe,  was  comforted  and  soothed. 

"Have  you  done  it  all — are  all  the  prepara- 
Uons  finished?*'  she  asked,  meeting  me  with  a 
caressing  gesture,  and,  as  she  spoke,  holdii^g 
up  her  flowers  against  my  black  dress,  that  the 
dark  background  might  throw  out  their  glow- 
ing colors  into  more  conspicuous  beauty.  '  "  It 
must  be  charming  to  be  so  eagerly  expected  I 
Your  son  should  be  very  grateful  to  you,  Mrs. 
Thorn  wood." 
I  "He  will  be  all  that  he  should  be,"  I  an- 
I  Bwered,  speaking  with  difficulty  out  of  my 
pre-occnpation.  "Those  are  prcJtty  flowers, 
Alexia." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  nodding  her  little  heaS,  "I 
can  make  bouquets,  if  I  can  do  toothing  else. 
These  are  for  the  centre  table,  do  you  see? 
And  these  two  dear  white  roses  are  for  the  spe- 
cimen glasses  on  the  writing  table  in  the  win- 
dow." 

"And  that  bunch  of  scarlet  geraniums?"  I 
said. 

"Well,  now,  ril  tell  you,"  and  she  looked 
np  at  me,  laughing.  "Those  have  a  higher 
designation  still ;  they  are  for  you  to  put  into 
lay  hair  for  me,  because  that  is  one  of  the 
things  I  cannot  do.  There,  sit  down  on  that 
bench  and  stick  them  in.  Oh,  you  dearl  that 
iaven't  spoken  to  me  to-day.  I  won't  be  quite 
forgotten,  mind,  not  even  when  that  hero'  of 
heroes  shall  have  arrived." 


"I  shall  not  foiiget  you,  my  sweet,"  I  an- 
swered ;  nor  indeed  was  it  likely.  My  hand 
trembled  as  I  pinned  the  flowers  into  her  hair. 
Her  &ce  was  turned  from  me,  and  I  felt  the 
opportunity  thus  aflbrded  to  be  a  good  one  for 
my  speaking. 

"  Alex,"  I  said, "  you  do  not  often  talk  of  the 
Btory  you  told  me  last  night?" 

Alexia  started  a  little;  the  dark  recollection 
had  not  been  present  to  her  mind ;  brought 
thus  suddenly  among  her  brighter  thoughts,  it 
changed  the  fashion  of  them  with  an  evident 
chill.  • 

"Mamina  and  I  talked  about  it  often ;  she 
was  always  thinking  of  it,"  she  answered,  her 
voice  sinking,  as  it  had  sunk  last  night,  to  a 
low  key ;  "I've  had  no  one  to  talk  to  about  it 
since  I  lost  her." 

"  You  do  not  speak  of  it  to  strangers,  or  even 
ordinary  friends,"  I  said.  "That  is  wise.  It 
is  not  advantageous  to  a  girl  to  be  in  any  way 
associated  in  people's  minds  with  a  painful 
story.  A^  a  rule,  people  do  not  like  thinking 
of  sad  things.'* 

"Have  I  done  wrong?"  she  asked,  shrink- 
ing a  little  from  me.'  She  was  a  creature  most 
sensitive  to  blame.  "Do  you  mind  my  having 
told  you  t" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  imy  child.  You  may  talk 
of  it  to  me,  though  not  too  often,  for  your  own 
sake.  It  is  bad  for  ydu  to  let  your  mind  dwell 
upon  such  terrible  recollections.  But  speak  of 
it  to  no  one  else.  Do  you  hear  me,  sweet 
one?" 

She  answered  "  Yes,"  with  unhesitating  obe- 
dience ;  but  I  knew  she  did  not  understand — 
was  perplexed,  and  wondering,  and  a  little 
grieved.  I  was  sorry,  but  my  anxiety  was 
eased.  I  hoped  the  caution  might  prove  only 
the  more  imprcBsive  through  her  half-compre- 
hension of  the  cause. 

After  that  we  went  indoors,  and  up  to  our 
favorite  sitting-room^  The  evening  was  wear- 
ing on,  and  my  ears  began  to  listen  earnestly 
for  the  sounds  of  my  son's  arrival.  When  at 
last  the  roll  of  wheels  upon  the  gravel  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  I  left  Alexia 
and  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

And  then  for  a  minute,  as  ^y  the  hall  light 
I  saw  my  tail,  strong  son  once  more  in  his  own 
house,  as  he  came  to  me,  taking  me  in  bis  arms 
with  the  special  tendemeSB  of  those  that  meet 
after  an  interval  of  much  trouble  and  fear,  the 
terrible  parting,  the  long  years  of  separation 
were  as  though  they  had  never  been. 

Such  oblivion,  however,  could  be  but  brief. 
Drawing  myBelf  fifom  hiB  arms  with  reviving 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


212 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   SOME    MAGAZINE. 


recollections,  I  led  him  into  the  dinicg-sroom 
and  phut  the  door.  \ 

"  My  dear  hoy,  is  thU  safe  ?"  I  asked,  the  ohi 
phrase  of  afTection  rising^  to.mj  lips  as  readily 
as  if  he  had  been  still  in^^his  fresh  youth  as 
when  I  saw  him  last. 

Yet  as  I  spoke  I  was  aware  of  the  changes 
which  fourteen  years — fourteen  years  not  quite 
of  ordinary  security,  of  ordinary  peace — had 
made  in  the  exterior  that  had  dwelt  in  my 
memory  so  long.  It  was  not  so  much  any 
alteration  of  form  and  fei^ture,  for  he  was  still 
tall,  still  slender,  still  had  unchanged  the  soft 
curled  brown  hair  and  the  darJc  eyes  of  the 
Thorn  woods.  But  though  so  far  a  description 
of  what  he  had  been  would  fairly  have  de- 
scribed him  now,  caipriage  and  expression  h94 
undergone  a  change  that,  though  indefina^Jle, 
was  eloquent  for  ma  of  the  long,  grave  passage 
of  those  slow  and  anxious  years. 

A  sudden  shade  upon  bis  face,  a  sudden  con- 
traction of  the  smile  upon  his  lips,  made  me 
aware  that  the  recollections  provoked  by  this 
question  of  mine  were  painful  and  ondesired 
at  the  moment. 

"  Surely,"  he  answered,  with  a  certain  hur^ 
in  his  voice.  *'  Do  you-  suppose  I  would  have 
come  if  1  had  had  any  doubt  about  that?  The 
right  scent  was  never  taken  up,  and  must  long 
since  have  grown  cold."  When  he  had  said 
that,  he  hastened  on  to  another  topic  of  dis- 
course, as  if  anxious  to  shut  out  any  return  to 
that  which  he  found  so  full  of  pain.  "  Years 
have  dealt  tenderly  with  you,  mother.  I  won- 
der if  I  can  be  as  little  changed  as  you?" 

"You  are  changed,"  I  said  j  "and  yet  you 
are  not  changed." 

He  was  sitting  down,  and  as  I  stood  by  him 
I  laid  my  hand  upon  his  head,  which,  if  he  had 
been  standing,  I  could  npt  have  reached^  half 
to  caress  and  half  to  satisfy  myself  by  actual 
touch  that  the  brown  cufls  were  still  as  thick 
and  soft  as  they  had  jbeen. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  reverting  now  himself  to  that 
which  it  had  troubled  him  that  I  should  toueh 
upon,  "  I  must  carrj  some  trace,  I  should  think, 
of  all  that's  come  and  gone." 

"  You  are  fourteen  years  older,"  I  answered, 
"and  there  is  a  look,  in  your  face  which  was 
not  there  once.  I  understand  it ;  but  I  doubt 
if  any  one  else  would  even  see  that  it  is  there." 

These  words,  which  made  him  darker  even 
aa  X  uttered  them,  somehow  brought  into  my 
mind  Alexia  Beed. 

"I  am  not  alone^  Hallam,"  I  said,  perhaps 
surprising  him  by  the  delay  tQ  ask  thojBe  thou- 
sand questions  which,  pn  si^ch  an  oocasipp, 


should  have  been  natural  to  my  lips.  Bat 
Alexia's  presence  in  the  house  became  more 
prominent  in  my  thoughts  than  anything  else, 
when  once  the  first  moment  of  arrival  and 
recognition  had  gone  by. 

"  Aren't  you,  mother  ?"  he  answered,  saying 
nothing  .of  the  half-unconscious  wonder  which 
I  saw  he  ie\L  "  Who  is  so  happy  as  to  h&t 
you  company  ?" 

"A  little, friend  I  have  fallen  in  with.  Her 
name  is  Beed-^Alexia  Keed." 

I  watched  him  as  I  said  it.  Be  started 
slightly ;  but  another  than  I|  prepared  for  the 
discovery  of  some  such  sign,  might  possiblj 
have  found  none. 

"  Alexia .  is  a  pretty  name,"  he  said,  with 
his  ordinary  manner.  "  W^here  does  she  come 
from?" 

,  "  She  came  to  me  frpm  the  Fofiters,  where 
she  acted  as  governess  for  some  little  time. 
Before  tha(  she  lived  in  France.  She  is  sn 
orphan ;  both  her  parents  are  dead." 

"A  governess  1"  said  Hallam.  **  A  case  «f 
charity,  then,  I  may  suppose?" 

"A  case  of  fascination  rather,  acting  on  a 
lonely  woman,  tired  of  inhabiting  a  great  house 
by  herself,"  I  replied.  "  She  is  on  a  visit  to 
me.    A  very  nice  child,  indeed." 

Having  said  so  much,  and  having  said  it  ad- 
visedlf  I  my  mind  was  Dree  at  length  to  paae  to 
other  topics  more  evidently  natural  to  the 
Qceaaion. 

It  was.  not  till  many  questions  had  been 
asked  and  ansi^ered,  till  Hallam  had  dined, 
and  it  was  getting  late,  that  I  took  him  to  oar 
ui>-stairs  sitting-room,  where  Alexia  had  been 
all  this  while  aJone, 

Sitting  by  herself,  neglected  and  unoccupied, 
her  mind  had  naturally  reverted  to  that  topic 
1  most  desired  to  banish  from  her  thoughts. 
As  I  opened  the  door  I  saw  th^  shade  of  recol- 
lected trouble,  of  which  I  was  more  impatient 
now  than  ever,  d^kening  her  face. 

She  wa«  sitting  sideways  toward  us  in  a  lot 
c^air,  with  her  back  to  the  table  and  the  laffl|^ 
and  her  eyes  turned  toward  the  window,  through 
the  open  shutters  of  which  came  pleasant 
glimpses  of  the  garden,  lying  warm  and  quiet 
under  a  fuU  bright  moon.   .    . 

The  light  was  on  her  small  head,  heavy  with 
its  mass  of  yellow  hair,  in  which  the  scarlet 
geraniums  gleamed  like  red  jewels  set  in  gold. 
She  would  have  made  a  pretty  picture  forme 
at  any  other  time ;  just  then  her  sombre  ex- 
pression seemed  to  spoil  ithe  beauty  of  slender 
outlines,  coloring  at  once  delicate  and  rich. 

She  had  not  heaid  us  enter,  remaining  all 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ALEXIA. 


213 


nncoDsciouB  of  our  approach,  nntil  I  went  bo- 
hind  her  softly  and  touched  her  cheek  with 
my  finger.  Starting  then,  and  Jooking  up,  her 
eyes  fell  npon  Hallam,  who  had  paused  in  th^ 
doorway  to  admire  mj  dainty  guest. 

Perceiving  that  she  had  seen  him,  I;expected 
a  show  of  pretty  childish,  bashfulness,  ready 
npon  due  encourageinent  to  be  set  at  ease ;  but, 
instead  of  the  behavior  t^at  I  looked  for,  she 
gave  a  sharp  cry,  and  sprang  suddenly  to  her 
leet  It  was  a  cry  of  something  far  beyond 
surprise,  and  a  dreadful  terror  took  momentary 
peesession  of  my  heart  In  less  than  a  minute, 
however,  she  had  partly  reooUeeted  herself, 
and  turned  to  me. 

'^I  was  so  startled  1"  she  said,  breathlessly, 
and  with  that  hurried  glance  around  which 
betokens  a  surprise  allied>  to  iear.  ''I  had 
been  thinking — and,  O  Mrs.  Thomwood,  he  is 
tall  and  dark  1  You  never  t^ld  me  that  your 
son  was  tall  and  dark/' 

''  Hush,  Alexia  I''  I  answered  her,  with  sud- 
den sharpness,  while  Hallam  stood  looking  on 
amased  at  the  dismay  his  presence  had  excited. 
''This  is  a  very  rude  welcome  to  my  son. 
Hallam,  she  is  frightened  because  yon  are 
strange.  Come  in,  and  don't  notice  her  for  a 
minute  till  she  gets  used  to  you.  I  did  not 
know  yon  were  so  foolish,  little  one." 

''I  was  thinkiBg — ^"  she  began,  in  haa^ 
deprecation ;  bnt  I  chedced  her  with  a  glanoe, 
"  Leave  off  thinking,  then.  Remember  what 
I  said  to  you  in  the  garden.^" 

It  was  a  bad  beginning,  and  while  I  sat  by 
HalUun,  and  tried  to  talk  to  him  as  be  would 
expect  of  me  that  I  should  talk,  I  watohed 
Alexia  with  an  eager  vigilance,  of.  which  I 
would  not  for  the  world  have  had  either  of 
them  become  aware»  That  there  had  been  any 
recognition  was  impoBsibie.-  It  was  a  coinci- 
dence, disturbing^  alarming,  but  without  real 
danger. 

Alexia  remained  very  still  and  quiet  in  her 
chair,  feeling  herself  in  disgrace,  and  stiU 
Bufiering  from  some  remains  of  that  nervous 
agitation,  which  had  seized  her,  as  suddenly 
ftnd  strangely,  as  a  presentiment  of  evil.  But 
After  a  time,  observanl  with  an  anxious  obser- 
vation of  whose  exercise  they  suspect^  noth- 
^i^g^  I  saw  that  her  eyes  stole  furtively  from  the 
floor  to  Hallam's  face~-not  with  fear—- with 
curiosity  first,  and  thea  with  manliest  approval. 
At  last  their  eyes  met,  and,  amused  by  the  dis- 
covery of  this  timid  scrutiny,  he  smiled. 

In  his  youth,  I  often  used  to  say,  my  boy  had 
the  brightest  smile  lever  saw.  It  could  not 
have  retained  its  peculiar  sw^tness  and  charm 


undimmed  by  all  that  had  come  and  gone,  but 
it  was  still  bright  and  pleasantly  cordial. 
Alexia  smiled,  too.  Then  Hallam  got  up  from 
the  sofa,  and  went  across  to  where  she  sat. 

'*  If  I  had  had  the  least  idea  that  my  appear- 
ance was  so  alarming,"  he  said,  with  a  kind 
raillery,  as  he  oBered  her  his  hand, ''  I  would 
have  asked  my  mother  to  prepare  you  for  it, 
by  the  mibutest  possible  desoription." 

And  so  they  became  friends ;  and  I^  as  I  went 
to  bed  that  night,  said  fervently,  *'Thank  God  I" 
Does  it  ever  occur  to  us  that  sometimes  in  oi^ 
blindness  we  thank  Heaven  for  our  curses,  and 
let  our  blessings  go  by  unperceived  ? 

CHAPTER  III. 

The  year  had  grown  older  by  two  months, 
and  Hallam  was  with  us  yet.  My  old  inten- 
tion of  persuading  him  to  depart,  after  at  most 
a  week,  remained  unfulfilled. 

In  the  fii^st  place,  whether  through  the  new 
anxiety  that  had  come  upon  me^  or  from  any 
other  cause,  a  few  days  ajfler  his  arrival  I  had 
fallen  ill.  It  had  not  been  possible  to  me  to 
send  him  away  from  what  was  thought  then  to 
be  my  death- bed,  and  by  the  time  the  danger 
of  the  malady  had  ceased  to  be  great,  that 
other  and  wotse  danger  seemed  to  have  beep 
thrown  back  into  infinite  remoteness  by  the 
friendship  that  had  sprung  up  between  my  two 
nurses,  Hallam  and  Alexia. 

Heaven  forgive  me  if  my  pleasure  in  having 
those  two  constantly  about  me  made  nte. sel- 
fishly blind  to  what  was  good  for  them.  How 
it  was  that  the  fear  of  it  never  occurred  to  me 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  the  secret  knowJedge  I  pos- 
sessed of  reasons  why  their  path  through  ;life 
should  not  be  trod  together,  somehow  prevented 
me  from  imagining  that  any  desire  could  be 
entertained  by  either  of  making  their  ways 
one.  When  at  last  it  dawned  upon  n^e  that 
these  t^o  had  become  all  the  world  tp  one  an- 
other^—this  man  of  terrible, ^efi^erienee  and  th^ 
innocent  child  of  seviepti^ePxBct,  by  the  act  of 
one  of  them,  as  far  asunder  as  the  poles — ^it 
was  as  if  a  blow  fell  on.  me  from  the  clouds.  I 
had  not  dreamed  that  such,  a  thing  could  hap- 
pen ;  yet,  before  I  had  begun  to  fear  it,  it  had 
come  to  pass. 

In  those  days,  being  still  weak  with  illness, 
it  was  my  habit  to  go  early  to  .my  own  ropni. 
Oenerajijy  I  -^ent  to  bed  almost  immediately. 
But  one  night  early  in  September  I  departed 
from  my  usual  custom,  and  sat  up  to  read.  I 
knew  that  Hallam  and  Alexia  were  probably 
together  in  the  garden,  indemnifying  them- 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


214 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


selyes  in  the  moonlit  cool  of  the  evening  for 
that  imprisonment  which  their  deroted  attend- 
ance upon  me  imposed  upon  them  dnring  the 
day.  I  was  not  the  least  uneasy;  had  they 
been  nearer  in  age  and  feeling  than  I  imagined 
them  to  be,  I  should  have  trusted  them  to-  J^ 
gethcr,  secure  in  my  own  knowledge  that  they 
never  could  be' more  than  friends. 

When  at  length  I  closed  my  book  and  went 
to  the  window — ^tfaat  window  which  overlooked 
the  garden— it  was  with  no  restless  disposition 
to  watch.  I  went  to  look  out  at  the  night  as  I 
generally  did,  just  raising  the  blind,  and  drop- 
ping it  again  before  I  went  to  bed. 

It  was  a  very  bright  mopn ;  I  never  remem- 
ber a  brighter.  The  little  secluded  lawn  be- 
neath the  window  was  all  lit  up  by  it  I  saw, 
as  if  it  had  been  day,  Alexia  sitting  on  the 
bench  under  the  acacia  tree,  with  Hallam 
lying  on  a  rug  on  the  grass  at  her  feet  The 
delicate  coloring  of  lips,  cheeks,  and  eyes  was 
scarcely  paled  at  all  by  the  white  light;  the 
gold  glory  of  her  hair  was  as  beautiful  as  ever, 
escaping  from  underneath  a  scarlet  sbaw^ 
which  she  had  thrown  over  her  head. 

Hal  lam's  fkce  was  turned  away  trem  me 
toward  her,  and  she,  bending  over  him,  had 
twisted  her  hands  in  among  his  thick  brown 
curls,  laughingly  compelling  him  to  retain  an 
attitude  which  he  on  his  part  showed  no  desire 
to  abandon. 

I  could  hear  that  little  thrilling  laughter,  I 
could  see  the  light  shining  under  her  eyelids, 
and  I  could  gness  the  look  his  face  must  wear, 
as  with  a  sudden  movement  he  brought  him- 
self within  reach  of  her  lips,  kisaing  them 
before  she  was  aware. 

If  she  had  started,  if  she  had  seemed  sur- 
prised, some  comfort  might  have  reached  my 
heart,  aching  with  a  foreseen  angmsh,  as  I  be- 
held them  Chus.  She  showed  no  amazement, 
still  less  any  displeasure.  When  he  had  re- 
leased her  lips,  she  gave  back  kiss  for  kiss. 
Clearly  it  was  ikyt  even  the  first  caress,  this 
which  I  watehed  with  haggard  eyes,  nor  was 
there  any  question  between  them  of  their 
mutual  right  to  give  and  to  receive  stfch  ex- 
pressions of  affection. 

At  last  I  let  fall  the  window  blind,  and  went 
back  to  my  chair.  I  was  not  stunned  by  the 
dire  amazement  that  had  &llen  upon  me.  I 
-knew  at  once  what  had  to  be  done,  and  that  I 
must  lose  but  little  time  in  doing  it.  As  I 
passed  the  dressing-table,  I  looked  at  my 
watch;  it  was  already  late,  and  they  must 
soon  come  in. 

I  sat  still  watchilAg  till  I  heard  Alexia  going 


with  light  steps  to  her  room,  till  doors  were 
shut  and  windows  barred,  and  Hallam's  longer, 
heavier  tread  had  traversed  the  gallery  to  bis 
own  door  at  the  further  end.  Then  I  took  mj 
light,  and  followed  him  to  his  room. 

As  I  went  in  he  turned  toward  me  with  a 
start  My  presenoi  there,  so  long  after  my 
usual  time  of  sitting  «p,  apart  from  any  peco- 
liarity  of  appearanoes,  was  in  itself  a  matter 
for  surprise.    • 

'<  Mother  I  Is  there  anything  the  matter?" 
he  asked ;  but  hia  voice  betrayed  no  expecta- 
tion of  any  great  trouble;  and  knowing  what  I 
had  to  bring  upon  him,  I  felt  my  heart  sicken 
and  my  limbs  fail. 

I  set  my  candle  on  the  table,  and  sank  down 
heavily  into  the  nearest  chair.  Hallam  stepped 
f6rward  in  some  haste,  thinking  that  I  must 
be  ill ;  but  being  nearer,  he  saw  it  was  not  ill- 
ness only  that  I  carried  in  my  face. 

There  was  a  certain  chord  in  him,  a  chord 
of  fear,  which  once  atruck  roughly  long  ago, 
Tibrated  now  with  a  terrible  readiness  at  the 
least  touch  of  agitation.  There  was  in  him  a 
train  of  thought,  a  strain  of  unforgotten  mem- 
CNry,  which  made  him  quick  to  interpret  anj 
signs  in  others  akin  to  those  traces  which  they 
had  left  indelible  in  him.  For  the  same  reason 
he  was  apt  to  connect  any  demonstration  of 
alarm  in  those  belonging  to  him  with  that  peril 
underneath  the  shadow  of  which  he  had  walked 
for  fourteen  years. 

"Mother,''  he  said,  speaking  calmly,  hot 
with  anxious  eyes,  "  what  has  happened,  or  is 
going  to  happen,  to  make  you  look  like  thatf 

The  most  abrupt  was  at  that  moment  for  me 
the  easiest  speech.  I  dared  not  pause  before 
beginning  to  consider  how  I  should  begin.  I 
said  to  him :  *'I  saw  you  in  the  garden  to-night, 
under  the  acacia,  with  Alexia  Reed." 

His  look  changed  when  I  had  spoken,  but 
with  evident  relief.  This  was  no  mortal  peril 
which  he  was  summoned  to  confront  It  was 
only  that  I  was  vexed,  either  at  the  proposed 
connection  itself,  on  mere  ordinary  grounds,  or 
at  their  engagement  having  been  kept  a  secret 
from  me. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  he  said,  trying  to  pro- 
pitiate me  with  that  bright  smile  which  was 
peculiar  to  his  face,  "yon  mustn't  let  yourself 
feel  hurt.  If  you  had  not  been  ill  we  shoald 
have  taken  you  into  our  councils  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  told  you  everything  from  the  fii«t 
But  you  have  been  weak,  and  we  feared  ex- 
citement for  you.  It  was  our  only  reason  for 
silence.  You,  who  have  been  with  Alexia  so 
long,  who  know  her  so  well,  I  knew  that  you 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ALEXIA. 


215 


wonld  only  be  glad  to  hear  Uiat  ithe  had  learned 
to  care  a  little  for  your  scapegrace  sod.'' 

AU  this  he  said  to  me  pleadingly,  smilingly ; 
jet  there  was  some  little  nndercurreDt  of  d^ 
fiance  in  hia  tonej,  intimatiiig  that  if  he  had 
mlseoDceiyed  my  probable  feeling  when  I 
should  be  informed  ef  his  engagement,  he 
would  be  found  in  nowise  disposed  to  give 
it  op. 

" My  son,"  I  cried,  "you  cannot  marry  her." 

I  had  been  a  good  mother  to  him,  and  some 
gratitude  mingled  with  the  natural  instinct  of 
afiection,  else  he  would  have  given  me  an 
angry  answer.  I  could  see  how  wondering 
indignation  was  bringing  back,  a  stronger  color 
than  that  which  momentary  alarm  had  briefly 
banished  from  his  face. 

"  I  thought  you  valfied  Alexia  as  she  de- 
NTves  to  be  valued,"  he  said  at  last,  with  an 
accent  that  reproached  me  for  my  presumed 
indifference  to  all  the  lovely  qualities  he  had 
dieoemed  in  her.  '^  I  aevier  thought  you  were 
one  to  care  much  about  money  or  position, 
mother,  or  any  of  those  things." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  I  answered,  scorning  myself 
^  the  weakness  that  was  .so  long  in  telling 
what  mu9t  inevitably  be  told.  "It  is  not 
tto— it  is  not  anything  of  that  kind  at  all. 
Hallam,  it  is  not  any  anything  in  Jier." 

As  I  paused  he  looked  at  me,  and  marking 
the  emphasis  of  my  words,  some  partial  per- 
oeption  reached  him  of  their  meaning — of  their 
K&rence  to  something  in  himself  and  in  his 
IMst.  His  look  changed  again  with  t^  paleness 
that  was  half  passion,  half  the  sickness  of  re- 
viving recollection,  ^e  moved  away  from  me, 
>tod  stood  for  some  moments  silent,  where  I 
oonld  not  see  his  face. 

For  mcy  I  was  weak.  I  -  felt  I  ^onld.  hasten 
to  say  all  I  had  to  say— let  the  blow  fall  at 
OQc^  instead  of  by  tbese  slow  degrees^  and 
then  do  what  I  could  to  comfort  the  intolerable 
P^.  Bat  I  90UI4  i^ot ;  X  dreaded  his  look, 
^ia  reproaches,  hi^  resistance.  I  lingered, 
waiting  for  him  to  speak.  He  turned  to  me 
at  last 

"I  did  not  expc^  such  a  suggeetion  to  come 
firom  you,  mother,"  he  said,  with  an  iron  cold- 
ness— ^the  coldness  at  once  of  injury  and.reaist- 
^ce  in  his  voice..  "We  ifont  discuss  it;  it 
Bhall  be  as  though  it  never  had  been  made. 
It  has,  and  can  have,  no  weight  whatever." 

"It  must  have  weight!"  I  answered  him, 

despairingly.    If  only  he  might  guess  I    If  it 

inight  come  to  him  through  his  own  conscious- 

nesB,  rather  than  through  my  words  1 

Once  more  he  looked  at  me,  surprise  and  a 


sense  of  self-compassion  finding  even  stronger 
expression  in  his  face  than  wrath. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  he  ask.ed^  (and  the  tone  of 
his  voice  betn^yed  to  me  the  bitter  wonder  that 
he  felt  that  I  should  say  to  him  such  cruel 
'  things,) ."  that  for  that  miserable  accident, 
which  happened  years  ago,  I  should  be  shut 
out  from  all  the  happiness  of  Ufe?  I  do  not 
take  it  so-rit  cannot  be  so.  It  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  my  marrying." 

Then  I  felt  that  the  moment  had  arrived, 
and  I  must  speak.  .  I  was  but  prolonging  his 
own  pain  and  my  own. 

"  Marry  any  one  else,"  I  said,  "  but  not  her, 
Hallam.  Her  name  is  Beed — Eeejil  I>on't 
you  understand?    Have  you  never  thought?" 

At  last  he  understood  what  was  my  mean- 
ing. A  great  shock  seemed  to  go  through  him, 
leaving  a  paleness  unlike  anything  I  had  ever 
seen  upon  his  face  befoi^B — yet  he  said  nothing. 
A  minute  ago,  in  the  restless  impulse  of  his 
wondering  displeasure,  he  had  taken  a  papers 
knife  from  the  writing-table,  twisting  it  impa- 
tiently in  his  fingers  as  he  spoke.  He  returned 
it  to  its  place  now,  with  mech^ical  carefulness 
of  action,  before, he  answered,  me  at  all;  then, 
supporting  himself  with  both  hands  upon  the 
table  behind  him,  he  said,  in  a  low  .voice  but 
with  apparent  calmness,  "Beed  is  a  common 
name— there  are  many  lamilies  of  the  name 
of  Reed," 

But  though  he  spoke  calmly,  and  in  words 
disputed  the  inference  I  had  suggested,  I  saw 
that  the  truth  was  forcing  itself  upon  him  at 
last.  I  went  towards  him  with  an  impulse 
springing  from  my  yearning  to  comfort,  to 
atone;  for  this,  in  a  measure,  was  my  fault — 
at  least,  arose  out  of  my  terrible  mistake.  But, 
as  he  perceived  my  intention,,  Hallam  put  me 
back  with  hie  hand  silently.  Igipatienoe  is 
almost  insep^able  from  a  struggle  to  ignore 
grea^pain  and  fear. 

"  I  never  asked  her  much  about  her  parent- 
agCy"  he  said,  presently,  in  his  former'  tone. 
"  I — I  don't  know  why." 

But  to  me  that. admission  betrayed  that  there 
had  been  a  secret  fear  in  him  all  along,  and 
might  even  have  conyeyed  to  me  some  comfort, 
as,  in  a  measure^  lessened  my  responsibility, 
had  I  not  been  so  absorbed  in  watching  him. 
I  knew  this  calmness  could  not  last.  ,  He  was 
passionate,  and  there  must  be  a  passion  in  his 
griefl  It  would  be  better,  too ;  anything  would 
be  better  than  this  quiet,  which  was  so  unlike 
his  ordinary  ways. 

"I  see  you  mean  me  to  guess  something,"  he 
said  at  last,  sharply,  and  with  sudden  recovery 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


2ie 


ARTEUJR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


of  the  power  of  his  voice.    **What  am  I  to 
giiese." 

"O  Hallam,*'  I  cried,  imploiinglj,  "you 
have  gueeaed  I  She  is  William  Heed's  daogh- 
ter." 

For  the  last  half  hoar  he  had  heen  gradaallj  * 
growing  sure  of  it;  but  the  words  gave  to  his 
conviction  a  sudden  force,  like  the  force  of  a 
blow.  Then  the  crime,  so  far  as  it  had  been 
crime,  mingled  itself  with  the  consequences, 
so  that  all  was  horrible.  Leaving  his  place 
by  the  table,  he  sat  down,  with  his  face  hidden 
in  bis  hands.  I  watched  him  for  a  minute, 
and  then  crossed  over  to  him,  undeterred  by 
memory  of  the  first  repulse.  He  was  my 
child,  my  only  one,  and  he  was  suffering  partly 
through  my  fault. 

**  Hallam,  look  at  me  I " 

At  that  entreaty  he  raised  a  fierce  pale  face 
to  mine. 

''Keep  back  from  me,*'  he  said,  in  hiiB 
passion,  that  passion  which  I  had  foreseen. 
"  Heaven  for:give  you,  for  this  is  all  your  fault 
What  put  it  into  your  head  to  deceive  me,  until 
I  had  deceived  myself?" 

"  I  did  it  for  the  best,"  I  answered,  plead-* 
ingly,  with  the  humility  of  my  love  and  pity 
and  remorse;  "I  thought  that  if  you  knew, 
you  would  be  embarrassed  and  betray  yourself. 
I  never  dreamed  of  that  happening  which  has 
happened.  Oh,  my  son,  do  not  turn  from  me, 
even  if  I  have  erred.  I  am  your  mothei^-I 
have  never  desired  anything  but  your  good." 

He  made  no  answer,  though  he  heard.  He 
loved  me,  but  his  thoughts  were  too  full  to  ex- 
press forgiveness,  even  if  he  began  to  feel  less 
implacable  toward  me. 

"  At  least  you  might  have  made  it  worse  now 
by  telling  her,"  be  said,  after  a  long  silence ;  he 
then  rose  up  as  if  he  had  some  immediate 'pur> 
pose  to  execute.  But  he  had  Aone;  he  was 
only  trying  «o  steady  the  powers  which  had 
been  shaken  by  the  shock  he  had  received, 
-and  resolving  what  course  he  oould  pursue. 

Seeing  by  his  face  what  it  would  be,  I  folt 
my  heart  sink.  I  had  given  him  pain  already ; 
now  my  work  was  to  force  that  pain  home  upon 
him,  make  him  accept  it  as  the  only  portion 
that  could  possibly  be  his.  And  he  would  re- 
sist, although  I  had  that  power  which  must 
make  him  yield  at  last. 

At  length  his  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed 
blankly  upon  the  moonlighted  square  of  the 
window,  fell  with  mixed  question  and  defiance 
in  their  glance  to  mine. 

"  I  don't  see  what  stronger  reason  there  can 
be  for  telling  me  now  than  there  was  at  first," 


he  said,  trying  to  ignore  the  possibility  of  op- 
position by  that  intention  of  which  he  per- 
ceived I  was  aware,  but  by  look  and  tone  be- 
traying that  he  already  foresaw  and  defied  it 
**  However,  it  may  be  as  well ;  forewarned  it 
forearmed ;  I  might  not  have  been  so  cautioos, 
otherwise." 

*' Hallam,"  I  answered,  meeting  his  eyes 
steadily,  ''  I  know  what  is  in  your  mind ;  but, 
my  son,  you  cannot  do  it,  you  cannot  many 
Alexia  Beed.  There  is  blood  between  your 
hands,  so  that  they  can  never  come  together.^ 

''She  shall  never  know  it,"  he  aaswered, 
with  sudden  determination ;  "  she  shall  ne?er 
find  it  out  It  will  not  enter  her  mind  to  «w 
pect." 

'^How  can  you  assure  yooiedf  of  that?"  I 
asked.  **  And  if  she  never  should  arrive  at 
suspicion  of  the  truth,  she  would  soon  lean 
that  you  had  a  great  tecret  in  your  heart  She 
will  not  be  always  a  child ;  nor  can  you  be  al- 
ways on  your  guard  against  your  wife.  And 
then — though  she  may  never  guess  that  the  se- 
cret you  keep  from  her  is  exactly  that  which 
all  her  life  she  has  been  longing  to  discover— 
the  fkct  that  you  have  a  great  secret  at  all  will 
destroy  her  happiness,  change  her  love  to  the 
ooldness  of  suspicion  and  distrust." 

He  was  silent,  but  his  face  was  set  as  a  flhit 
My  words  made  him  suffer,  but  they  had  not 
forced  him  to  abandon  his  purpose. 

"  Hallam,"  I  said,  *  do  you  love  her  so  mudi 
—this  poor  child?" 

He  did  not  answer ;  but  I  knew  he  heard  my 
question,  although  the  passion  of  the  moment 
forbade  him  to  reply. 

"Well,  you  may  think  you  do,"  said  I;  "but 
you  deceive  yourself.  Loving  her,  you  coald 
never  deliberately  'expose  her  to  the  risk  of 
discovering  some  day,  when  she  is  lying  ifi 
your  bosom,  that  yon  are  the  murderer  of  whom 
she  has  been  so  long  in  seai^ch." 

Then  at  last  he  spoke.  He  moved  from  his 
place  with  a  sudden  actioii  of  extreme  excite- 
ment— intolerable  paiA. 

**  I  am  not  a  murderer  I"  he  said,  passion- 
ately. ''Mother,  you  hav*  turned  againat 
me  I" 

Pain  conquered  passion* for  the  moment 
His  head  foil  upon  his  hands,  and  his  attitude 
was  that  of  a  man  whoae  power  of  resistanoe  is 
temporarily  broken.  1  went  up  to  him  and 
put  my  arms  about  him,  strongs  in  my  weak- 
ness than  he  was  in  his  strength. 

"Hallam,"  I  said,  "I  have  no  one  in  the 
world  but  you  ;  I  cannot  turn  against  yoa.  I 
have  but  joined  your  better,  wiser  self  againat 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


ALEXIA, 


217 


your  worse.  Think  of  tliat  poor  child  I  Bhe 
cannot  reaaon — she  will  only  feel.  To  me  yoti 
are  no  murderer,  though  a  nfan  driven  ana- 
wares  by  a  great  wrong  into  great  sin.  But 
Alexia  will  feel  nothing  but  that  you  haye  de- 
ceived her,  and  that  she  has  been  cheated  into 
giving  her  love,  where  her  hatred — at  least  her 
horror — should  have  bieen  due." 

As  I  said  that,  he  raised  his  head,  repnlsii^ 
the  closeness  of  my  Embrace. 

"  You  might  have  had  some  pity  for  hef-^  if  i 
you  had  none  for  me,"  he  said,  bitterly,  reflect- 
ing upon  that  free  intercourse  which  I  had  al- 
lowed.   ''  I  have  taught  her  to  love  me ;  she  is 

so  teachable,  so  gentle,  so "    A  spasm  of  \ 

pain  crossed  his  face  and  changed  his  speech. 
**Grod  forgive  you  V*  he  exclaimed,  with  an  in- 
tense passion,  freeing  himself  from  my  touch. 

It  was  well  for  me  that,  as  a  mother,  I  was 
absorbed  in  his  su Spring,  to  the  exclusion  of  \ 
the  keenest  possible  senfte  pf  that  personal  pa^ 
awakened  by  his  reproaches  in  my  hearty  to 
which  he  had  already  brought  its  full  share  of 
sorrow.  I  could  still  think  what  would  be  best 
for  him,  and  find  strength  to  do  it.  Believing 
his  resistance  to  be  virtually  at  an  end,  I  moved 
towards  the  door..  He  heard'  the  movement 
and  raised  hb  head,  watching  till  I  had  my 
hand  upon  the  latch.    Then  he  sprang  up. ' 

"  Where  are  you  going?" 

In  answer  to  that  fierce  challenge  I  looked  at 
him  steadily.  My  heart  was  torn  with  vain 
oompasusion^  but  it  was  imperative  upon  me  to 
be  strong. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  Alexia." 

"  You  shall  not  go,"  l^e  said. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  removing 
my  fingers  with  a  passionate  strength.  Against 
such  resistance  I  was  powerless.  1  kept  my 
eyes  upon  him  and  waited.  At '  last,'  as  I 
watched  him,  there  came  a  change.  He  put 
oat  one  hand  to  me  pleadingly. 

"Not  to-night,  mother,  not  to-night,"  he 
said,  in  a  whisper,  and  with  one  of  those  pain- 
ful smiles  which  only  belong  to  moments. of 
supremest  anguish.  He  had  ceased  to  resist ; 
he  was  but  b^^ging  for  mercy ;  and  I  knew  it 
would  be  no  mercy. 

"  My  dearest,  yes,  to  night,"  I  said. 

Then  he  loosened  his  hc^ld,  and  went  away 
to  the  far  end  of  the  room  out  of  my  sight  \  and 
I;  opening  the  door  hastily,  went  out. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
The  moon  was  flooding  all  the  gallery  floor 
with  a  strong  light  as  I  paused  for  a  moment 


outside  Hallam's  room.  It  was  not  a  pause  of 
hesitation,  of  any  conscious  shrinking  from  that 
which  yet  had  to  be  done.  The  moment  for 
such  wavering  was  past,  and  in  its  stead  I  felt 
a  dreadful  haste  to  be  through  with  the  work 
laid  upon  me,  and  learn  at  once  the  heaviest 
consequences  which  it  was  sure  to  bring.  But 
I  was.  weak  with  sickness ;  and  though  I  little 
cared  at  such  a  time  to  remember  that  I  had 
not  my  ordinary  strength,  I  found  my  breath 
failing  me,  after  that  long  and  terrible  discus- 
sion, and  my  heart  beating  at  remembrance  of 
that  past  excitement,  if  not  at  the  prospect  of 
that  further  pain  Chat  was  to  come.  Still  my 
dread  lest  Hallam  should  come  out  and  hinder 
me  once  more  from  doing  that  which  must  be 
done  harried  m^  I  went  on  presently  to 
Alexia's  door. 

The  window  was  open,  and  as  I  went  in  the 
draught  blew  out  the  candle  which  I  carried 
in  my  hand.  It  did  not  matter — here  too,  the 
light  of  that  clear  night  was  strong  enough  to 
replace  the  day.  I  put  the  candlestick  out  of 
iny  hand,  and  feame  forward  to  the  window 
where  Alexia  was. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  floor  in  a  square  of 
moonlight,  and  was  looking  out  into  the  gar- 
den. Her  dress  h^d  been  taken  off  with  some 
conscientious  endeavor  to  go  to  rest]  but  then 
the  need  for  thinking  out  at  once  her  pleasant 
thoughts,  for  counting  up  the  greatness  of 
her  hopes,  had  come  upon  her,  and  she  had 
thrown  herself  dowti  in  her  long,  white 
petticoat  and  nilderbodice  before  her  win- 
dow, which  stood  open  to  the  balcony  with- 
out. 

I  conld  not  look  at  the  little  figure  crouched 
'among  her  long  white  draperies,  the  red  shawl 
btill  thrown  over  her  head,  to  keep  oflT  a  cer^ 
tain  chilliness  in  tlie  night  air — I  could  not 
see  the  delicate  face,  lifted  toward  me  in  soft 
'sarj^rise,  like  a  small;  Mr  flower  from  amon*g 
acarlet  leaves,  the  "(i^hite  childish  shoulder 
thrust  up  from  under  the  red  fringe  against  the 
window  shutter  for  support,  without  shrinking 
from  the  change  I  was  about  to  bring  into  the 
fashion  of  her  thought,  and  trembling  at  the 
deadly  power  about  to  be  conunitted  to  her 
childish  hands. 

She  did  not  move  lis  I  entered,  held  still 
partly  by  astonlc/hment  and  partly  by  the 
lingering  impression  of  her  walking  dream. 

'*  Mrs.  Thomwood  f '  she  said,  at  last,  as  I 
stood  looking  at  her. 

There  was  a  low  chair  set  in  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  window,  and  I  placed  myself  in 
'  it  before  I  spoke. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


318 


ARTEUR'8   LADT8   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


''You  are  not  ia  bed,  Alexia.  ,Iam  oome 
to  tell  you  Bomething.*' 

The  suppression  of  a  terrible  trouble  is  al; 
most  always  stem.  Something  in  my  look  and 
Toice  penetrated  her  childish  heart  with  a 
vague  sense  of  alarm.  I  could  see  the  soft 
eyes  widening  and  the  red  lips  parting  under 
the  mixed  influence  of  surprise  and  fear. 
She  rose  up  from  the  floor  and  stood  before 
me,  questioning  my  £gu».  with  timid  glances. 

Presently  a  new  thought,  a  suspicion^  a 
dread,  occurred  to  her.  The  secret  which  she 
and  Hallam  shared  so  blissfully  between  them 
might  be  the  cause  of  this  altered  manner 
which  she  observed  in  me.  I  saw  the  discon- 
certing idea  awakeoing  in  the  color  that  flushed 
her  cheeks,  and  neck. 

Hers  was  a  soft  nature,  disposed  rather  to 
deprecate  displeasure  by  little  caressii^  wiles, 
pretty  artful  demonstrations  of  affection,  tlian 
to  attempt  its  removal  by  self- vindication. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  for  anything, 
are  you,  Mrs.  Tbomwood?"  she  sfiid,  beseech- 
ingly, as  that  sudden  rash  of  color  trembled  in 
her  cheeks. 

I  said  ''  No^"  and  held  out  my  arms  to  her. 
She  was  so  sweet,  so  pretty,  it  was  as  natural  to 
caress  her  as  it  is  to  breathe.  She.  was  going 
to  suffer,  too,  poor  child,  and  that  in  conse- 
quence of  my  blind  incaution,  and  it  would  be 
in  her  power  shortly  to  bring  ruinous  suflering 
upon  me  and  mine.  I  felt  at  once  the  need  to 
console  and  to  propitiate. 

Encouraged  by  the  action,  she  came  and 
Jcnelt  down  by  me,  resting  her  face  upon  my 
shoulder. 

"You  know  itj  then?"  /she  said,  in  a  whis- 
per, half  happy,  yet  half  afraid,  "  Oh,  I  think 
you  do  I  And  you  are  not  angry,  are  you, 
Mrs.  Thorn  wood  ?  I  have  so  wanted  you  to 
get  strong,  that  I.  migl^t  talk  to  you  about  it; 
but  he  said  you  were  not  to  be  excited.  He  is 
so  thoughtful  always,  and  so  good  TV 

These  words  from  one  who  would  shortly 
hold  Hal  lam's  life  in  her  hands,  came  to  me 
like  balm.  I  put  my  hand,  with  a  tenderness 
involuntarily  pleading,  upen  the  bent  head. 
Alexia  understood  the  action  as  an  expression 
of  affection  only  and  content.  Throwing  back 
the  red  shawl  and,  the  golden  curls  together, 
she  lifted  her  face  ta  b^tow  upon  me  a  loug 
silent  kiss.  ■ 

''  You're  so  good  T'  she  said,  in  soft  accents 
of  delight;  "  and  Tm  so  happy  1" 

After  that  there  passed  a  few  minutes  with- 
out further  speech.  How  could  I  speak  then 
of  what  1  had  to  say  ?    In  that  pause,  the  sick- 


ness of  my  heart  grew  into  a  tiemblbg  of  my 
limbs. 

"  You  are  shivering  r  cried  Alexia,  in  alann. 
"It  is  so  late  for  you  ,to  be  up.  Let  me  come 
with^  you  and  help  you." 

"  "Wait  awhile^  Alex ;  I  came  to  say  some- 
thing, and  I  ha?e  not  said  it  yet." 

And  once  again  the  look  of  my  face  and  tlw 
tone  of  my  words,  as  she  pondered  on  them, 
threw  a  sudden  chill  upon  the  rapture  of  her 
contented  love. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something  about  Htl* 
lam ;  something  you  ought  te  have  known  1^ 
ago." 

She  was  still  for  a  minute ;  then  rising  np 
out  of  my  arms,  she  stood  back  to  look  at  m 
The  rapture  was  all  gone  now,  and  in  its  plioe 
had  come  distrust  and  fear. 

"  Is  it  about  anybody  that  he  loved  better 
than  me?" 

"No I"  I  answered.  "So  far  as  I  know, 
IQallam  never  loved  any  one  as  he  loves  yoo.^ 

Upon  receiving  that  reply  she  raised  her 
head  with  a  pretty  soft  triumph,  and  came  back 
to  her  place,  to  be  consoled  for  the  aogulBh  of 
that  brief  alarm. 

"  You  frightened  me  I"  she  said.  "  I  thougljl 
T  was  going  to  bear  something  terrible."  Bat 
the  momentary  reassurance  vanished  ss  she 
looked  into  my  face.  "  Mrs.  Thornwood,  what 
is  the  matter  with  you?  You  don't  know  how 
strange  you  look  1"  ' 

Her  voice  began  to  tremble  again ;  she  cow- 
ered closer  into  my  arms  with  a  childish  iin* 
pulse,  to  seek  protection  from  her  rising  fear. 
So  little  and  tender  as  she  was,  surely  her 
veiy  weakness  would  make  her  merciful,  w 
that  the  terrible  secret  would  be  allow«d  to 
sleep  with  the  secret  of  her  love,  which 
could  never  be  owned  joyfully  before  the 
world. 

"  1  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Hallam,'*  I 
said,  forcing  the  words  to  my  lips,  "»^* 
something  he  did  years  ago.  Young  men 
have  many  temptations,  and  Hallam  was  not 
always  good." 

"I  should  think  he  must  have  been— always 
she  answered,  pleadingly.  It  was  not  in  her 
to  be  indignfint,  even  for  her  lover.  "Pr*.T> 
Mys.  Thornwood,  don't  tell  me  anything  l^ 
not  like  to  hear." 

Would  to  Heaven  I  could  have  taken  her 
at  her  word,  and  left  her  happy  in  her  igno- 
rance! But  there  conld  be  no  such  mertJ 
either  for  her  or  xne. 

"This  is  something,"  I  said,  wondering »» 
the  persistent  ^resolution  which  my  heart  d^ 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ALEXIA. 


219 


nied, ''  that  jou  must  hear.  I  left  HaJllMn  jost 
DOW  to  tell  it  to  you.  He  knows  you  are  going 
to  be  told  of  it." 

Learning  that  it  was  with  her  loyer't  knowl- 
edge that  this  revelation  was  about  to  be  made^ 
Alexia  seemed  to  feel  that  there  was  no  escape. 
More  than  that,  though  no  suspicion  of  the 
Irath  had  reached  her  yet^  a  shadow  of  a  vague 
bat  overpowering  fear  fbll  visibly  upon  her. 
She  hid  her  fsce  against  my  shoulder^  wait- . 
lug  passively  for  that  which  she  could  not 
arert. 

^I  have  told  you/'  I  said*-then,  once  more 
conscious  of  a  dreadful  haste  for  the  next  half 
hour  to  be  over,  and  my  woik  done—''  that 
Hailam  was  not  always  good.  Good  at  heart, 
indeed,  I  believe  that  he  was  always ;  but  he 
had  a  hasty  temper,  and  foolish,  extravagant 
tastes;  and  there  was  a  time  when  he  gave 
great  anxiety  to  his  father  and  me. .  He  was 
led  away  by  bad  companions,  and  he  was  very 
joung. 

"^  At  last,  through  the  treachery  of  a  man  who 
had  seemed  to  be  his  greatest  friend,  he  found 
himself  involved  in  difficulties,  from  which 
there  was  but  one  way  of  extricating  hims^f 
without  loss  of  honor.  That  one  way  of  escape 
was  the  immediate  payment  of  a  huge  sum  of 
money.  I  never  altogether  understood  the 
matter,  but  it  was  wholly  an  affair  of  money — 
borrowing,  lending,  standing  security.  Hal- 
lam's  extravagance  had  left  him  no  such  sum 
at  command  as  was  required,  and  he  was  afraid 
to  apply  to  his  father.  He  never  said  a 
word  to  me  even,  till  the  very  worst  had 
come.  His  whole  trust  was  in  this  one  false 
friend. 
I  ''But  at  length,  when  his  difficulties  were 
growing  greater  and  greater,  ciroumstances 
came  to  his  knowledge  which  revealed  to  him 
how  he  had  been  duped— how  he  had  been  be- 
trayed; He  went  down  from  London,  where 
be  was  living  then,  away  from  us,  to  this  man's 
house,  partly  to  upbraid  him  with  his  cruel 
treachery,  and  partly,  I  believe,  because  he 
i^oald  not  even  then  give  up  the  hope  that  the 
traitor  might  explain,  might  in  some  way 
cleanse  himself  of  his  treason.  The  place 
where  this  man  lived — he  lived  not  far  from 
where  you  used  to  live  once,  Alexia — was  some- 
where near  Guildford,  in  Surrey." 

L^Yoluntarily  my  voice  had  changed  the 
Simple  accent  of  narration  for  one  of  hesita- 
tion, of  beseeching.  At  last  I  paused,  falter- 
ing before  that  which  was  to  follow ;  and  as  I 
paased,  Alexia  raised  herself,  with  a  half-eup- 
presied  exclamation. 
VOL,  xxxvni.— 16. 


As  I  fell  that  start,  heard  that  smothered 
cry,  I  thought  for  a  minute  that  my  work  was 
done — ^that  she  had  already  guessed  what  I  was 
about  to  tell ;  but  it  was  not  possible  that  she 
should  be  content  with  guessing.  Suspicion 
craved  to  be  made  certain  with  a  dreadful  rav- 
ing. Moreover,  if  she  suspected,  she  dared 
not  yet  acknowledge  such  suspicion  to  her- 
self. 

"  I  was  frightened,"  she  said,  presently,  with 
a  little  shivering  laughter ;  "  I  wish  it  had  not 
been  near  GuHdford.  Gk>  on— don't  wait!  t 
cannot  bear  the* waiting."  Yet  she  knew  the 
waiting  was  to  end  in  something  terrible.  All 
the  color  had  gone  out  of  her  cheeks,  and  her 
hands  held  me  fiiintly.  *'  Gro  on,"  she  said, 
shrinking,  and  yet  harrying,  as  I  too  at  once 
shrank  and  hasted,  to  know  the  worst. 

^  He  tried  to  clear  himself,"  I  said,  taking 
up  the  terrible  story  where  I  had  left  off,  '^  this 
most  unfortunate,  this  most  miserable  man ; 
but  the  proof  was  too  strong,  and  Hailam  could 
not  be  deceived; a  second  time.  He  left  the 
house,  declaring  that  he  would  publish  the 
whole  story.  The  other  followed  him,  trying 
to  persuade  to  silence. 

'*  They  took  a  lonely  road  toward  the  town, 
the  one  trying  to  persuade,  the  other  refusing 
to  be  persuaded.  At  last  persuasion  and  de- 
nial, proving  of  no  avail,  were  changed  to 
sneers,  to  mocking  raillery  of  that  foolish  con- 
fidence which  had  been  sought  only  that  it 
might  be  betrayed.  Taunts  drew  forth  vehe- 
ment threats  of  infamy  and  vengeance ;  the 
passions  of  both  began  to  be  inflamed.  They 
were  both  passionate  men — oh,  Alex,  they 
were  both  passionate  men!  At  last  Hailam 
struck  his  false  friend,  his  cruel,  treacherous 
enemy,  who  had  used  his  friendship  only  for 
his  ruin.  The  blow  was  returned — there  was 
a  struggle.  I  don't  know  how  it  was — after  a 
time  one  fell,  and  did  not  rise  again." 

Then  at  last  the  cry  which  had  been  gather- 
ing on  Alexia's  lips  burst  forth. 

"  Papa  I"  she  said — ^**  oh,  poor  papa  I" 

She  rose  to  her  feet  staggeringly,  like  one 
that  has  been  struck ;  but  the  power  of  her 
limbs  had  gone  from  her.  I  saw  how  it  would 
be,  and  held  out  my  arms.  The  minute  after- 
Wi  r  1  she  seemed  to  shrink  and  wither  up.  She 
moved  a  pace  or  two,  as  if  wondering  how  it 
was  with  her,  and  fell. 

CHAPTER  V. 
It  must  have  been  the  second  night  front 
that  night  that  Alexia  called  me  to  her.  Hailam 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ARTEUR'8   LADT8   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


had  been  whimpering  to  me  through  the  door 
to  know  how  «he  wan,  and  she  had  heard  his 
Toice  or  hie  step,  or  some  fine  instinct  had 
somehow  warned  her  that  he  was  near. 

I  went  up  to  her  as  she  laj  in  her  bed,  a 
little,  ghost-like,  shrunk  up  thing;  for  in  that 
short  space  we  had  ehanged  places  suddenly, 
we  two.  She  became  the  invalid,  and  I  the 
nurse — recovering  mj  strength,  thank  God,  in 
that  great  emergency. 

•*  What  is  it,  Alex?"  I  said. 
^he  put  out  her  hand  upon  mine,  playing 
nervouHly  for  a  minute  with  the  trimming  of 
my  sleeve. 

*<  Mrs.  Thorawood,"  she  said,  at  last,  with- 
out looking  up,  "  I  can  never  see  him  again." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  approached  in 
words  that  tragedy  in  which  she  had  been 
called  upon  to  bear  a  part.  I  had  known  that 
whenever  she  should  come  to  speak,  this  would 
be  the  least  that  she  must  say.  Vengeance 
was  far  from  her  heart,  but  she  had  accepted 
final  separation  from  Hallam  as  a  thing  inevi- 
Uble. 

It  could  not  be  otherwise.  Yet  I,  who  had 
seen  him,  who  knew  what  deep  lines  these 
two  days  had  drawn  upon  a  lace  already 
stamped  with  more  than  ordinary  carey  for  a 
minute  felt  that  she  was  cruel. 

''He  will  not  try  to  see  yoa  ogainst  your 
will,"  I  said  to  her. 

Nor  would  he ;  only  day  alter  day  as  that 
terrible  time  went  on  he  asked  me,  eagerly, 
''Mother,  how  is  she?"  adding  with  his  ciyes 
that  further  question  which  he  dared  not  speak, 
«nd  to  which  there  could  be  but  one  answer. 
Alexia  might  love  him  still,  and  I  believe  she 
did ;  but  to  have  part  or  lot  with  him,  save 
only  as  she  sufiered  with  him  in  their  separa- 
tion, had  become  impossible  to  her  forever. 

I  do  aot  know  how  soon  he  acquiesced  in 
•this  decision  of  hers,  or  whether  he  had  fore- 
seen and  accepted  it  from  the  finit;  but,  at 
last,  when  a  fortnight  had  gone  by,  and  she 
was  beginning  to  get  better,  after  that  auxious 
question  had  been  asked  and  answered,  I  saw 
that  he  had  more  to  say. 

Trouble  had  made  mj  soul  prophetic ;  my 
high-strung  nerves  seemed  also  to  have  strung 
my  powers  to  a  high  pitch.  BeHides  wh^ch, 
there  was  a  look  of  lareweli,  the  final  renunqia* 
tion  of  hopes  once  infinite,  in  Haiiam's  iaoe. 
I  knew  what  it  was  I  was  to  hear. 

"  You  will  be  to  her  what  you  have  been  to 
me,  a  mother  beyond  pricey"  he  said ;  for  in 
those  days  he  had  forgiven  me,  had  seemed, 
indeed,  to  turn  the  more  to  me  for  her  inevita* 


ble  taming  away.  **  As  for  me,  I  have  dons 
with  England.  Would  to  Heayen  I  had  never 
set  my  foot  upon  it  again  I  But  you  will^  be 
good  to  her ;  and  when  I  am  at  the  old  work  in 
Brasil,  it  will  be  something  for  me  to  know 
that  you  are  together.  My  banishment  will 
content  her,  will  it  not  ?  She  does  not  want  i 
heavier  punishment  than  that  V* 

^'She  has  not  judged  you  hardly,  Hallam," 
I  answered,  seeing  how  the  idea  of  yindictive- 
ness  in  her  towards  him  had  piero^d  his  heatt 
as  with  a  sword. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  said.  "  I  could  have  fo^ 
given  her  every  crime  under  the  sun;  bot 
women  never  are  so  merciful  as  men." 

He  was  unreasonable ;  but  what  was  there  to 
say  to  a  man  sore  smitten  as  he  had  been?  1 
longed  to  give  him  comfort,  but  there  was  oone 
possible  for  him,  unless  such  as  Qod  might 
vonchsafe.  My  poor  boy  had  repented,  I  knew 
that;  fourteoi  biaa>elesa  years  had  proved  hov 
alien  that  brief  moment  of  fatal  passion  had 
been  to  his  true  self.  Yet  at  last  the  waaip 
had  fallen  upon  him  heavily,  and  no  depth  uf 
penitence  could  avail  to  teach  that  fieiy  nston 
how  there  might  be  good  in  this  intolerable 
pain. 

"You  promiae  me,  mother?"  he  8aid,pR- 
sently,  reverting,  as  I  stood  silent,  tahis  deriia 
that  Alexia  should  remain  with  me.  "  Yoa 
will  never  see  me  again,  you  know ;  it  is  my 
last  will  and  testament,  this,  which  you  nndo^ 
take  to  execute." 

Then  I  could  hold  out  no  longer. 

"  Ob,  my  boy  1"  I  said,  andfell  upon  his  seek 
and  wept 

He  was  very  kind  to  me,  though  I  think  the 
keenness  of  his  own  sufSsring  made  him  half- 
impatient  of  my  teara.  He  could  not  comfort 
me,  promiaing  a  return  which  waa  not  poaaibie; 
but  he  was  tender,  caressing.  He  could  be  m 
tender,  so  caressing,  this  man,  from  whom,  by 
his  own  deed,  the  outlet  for  the  deepest  teDde^ 
ness  had  been  cut  off;  and  with  the  coosolauun 
of  his  kindness  I  forced  myself  to  be  cooaa^ 
y  grew  strong  and  calm.  I  discussed  his  pi«od 
with  him,  or  more  truly  his  plan;  for  bui 
thoughts  had  scarcely  gone  beyond  the  reaolu- 
tion  to  leave  England  and  return  to  hia  home 
\  in  Brazil,  as  soon  as  possible. 

"The  Star  qf  ihA  West  will  saU  from  Lifer- 
pool,  next  week,"  he  said,  passing  bis  hm 
restlessly  through  the  tumbled  locks  of  hair,  in 
which  gray  streaks  had  recently  began  to sbo*. 
"  I  thought  rd  get  away  from  this  the  day  a^er 
to-morrow." 

It  was  horribly  short,  yet  I  knew  (hit  J*  ^*^ 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ALEXIA. 


221 


best.  I  took  hiB  hand  into  both  minei  and  held 
it  without  speaking,  fearing  to  trouble  him  with 
SprievouB  worda.  He  did  not  pause  from  that 
uneasy  gesture,  though  he  looked  up  at  me  with 
the  Blow,  painful  smile  which  I  had  seen  once 
apon  his  ikoa  before. 

"  This  ifl  worse  than  the  last  time^  even/'  he 
aaid.  ''  IVe  not  been  mueh  of  a  son  to  you, 
have  I  ?  It'll  he  made  up  to  you,  I  suppose, 
some  way  or  another." 

"When  Grod  brings  us  together  again  in 
Heaven,"  I  answered ;  but  he  only  sighed  and 
got  up  from  his  place. 

*'What  would  she  do  in  that  case?"  he 
asked,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  as  he  walked  about 
the  room  ;  but  the  bitterness  changed  presently 
to  a  tremulous  anguish.  "  When  you  tell  her 
that  I  am  going,"  he  said,  standing  still,  (he 
never  uttered  her  name  now — ^had  never  ut- 
tered it  sinoe  that  moment  when  I  had  left  him 
to  tell  her  of  his  misdeed,)  "tell  her,  mother, 
that  I  cannot  go  without  seeing  her  again.  It 
is  the  same  thing  as  dyings  you  know,  a  £nal 
Reparation  such  as  this.  She  might  see  me 
once,  and  let  me  ask  her  to  forgive  me.  Tell 
her  that  I  shall  meet  death  before  I  ever  meet 
her  again,  and  that  if  she  refuses  me  this,  the 
bitterness  of  it  will  be  with  me  on  my  death- 
bed, though  it  should  be  fifty  years  hence. 
Tell  her  that,  mother;  I  think  she  will  give  in 
to  that" 

I  thought  she  would,  too,  even  while  I  asked 
myself  whether  it  would  be  well  that  she 
should.  It  would  be  such  a  terrible  meeting ; 
and  she  was  so  weak ;  and  he — it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  had  already  suiSered  as  much  as  he 
could  bear. 

However,  I  could  not  refuse  to  do  his  bidding* 
I  told  Alexia  all  that  he  had  said.  She  kept 
her  face  turned  from  me  while  I  was  speaking ; 
bat  when  I  had  done,  I  found  that,  though 
almost  against  my  own  will,  I  had  prevailed. 

"I  will  see  him  once,"  she  said,  below  her 
breath,  ''just  at  the  last." 

She  had  a  very  bad  night  after  that;  and 
when  the  morning  came,  the  morning  on  which 
my  son  was  to  go  away  from  me  forever,  she 
seemed  so  worn  and  wasted,  that  I  tried  to  per- 
suade her  not  to  see  him,  expecting  nothing  in 
such  a  meeting  but  a  fearful  trial  for  them 
both ;  but  I  found  then  that  her  heart,  poor 
child,  longed  for  one  more  sight  of  him  she 
had  renounced,  and  my  persuasions  were  of  no 
avail ;  so  I  dressed  her,  and  brought  her  into 
the  up-stairs  silting-room,  where  we  had  been 
so  happy,  and  set  her  on  the  sofa  while  I  went 
to  fetch  Hallam. 


''She  is  there,  waiting  for  you,"  I  said.  He 
was  paler  than  she  was  when  he  went  into  the 
room. 

I  do  not  know  how  they  met,  but  after  a  few 
minutes  I  heard  him  calling  me,  and  I  fol- 
lowed hurriedly.  He  was  standing  then  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  had  Alexia  in  his  arms. 
Her  head  had  fallen  back — ^her  cheeks  and  lips 
even  were  as  white  as  the  long,  white  throat 
that  hung  powerless  over  his  arm.  As  for 
him — ^but  they  are  both  happy  now,  or  I  could 
not  bear  to.  think  of  it. 

''She's  faint)"  he  said,  as  I  came  in.  "  Haye 
you  got  anything  to  give  her?"  But  when  J 
would  have  taken  her  from  him,  to  lay  her 
down,  he  put  me  away  strongly.  "Don't 
touch  her— get  something  for  her."  But  I 
knew  how  little  strength  was  in  her,  and 
dreaded  to  renew  her  consciousness  of  pain. 

"Go  now,"  I  entreated,  "  while  she  does  not 
know  that  you  are  going.  Spare  her  any 
more  of  this,  dear  Hallam,  for  the  love  of 
God  I" 

But  she  had  heard  me,andsheclong  to  him. 
Poor  little  tender  soul  I  she  could  not  keep 
him,  and  yet  she  ooold  not  let  him  go. 

"  Hallam  t"  she  cried,  in  her  weak,  flutter- 
ing voice. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  said,  with  that  in- 
finite tenderness  of  his,  which  none  knew  of, 
except  me  and  herself.  "  You  do  not  hate  me 
then,  my  little  white  love?  You  will  pray  to 
God  for  me  when  I  am  gone  ?*' 

She  oould  not  speak  to  him ;  she  lifted  her 
oolorless  lips  to  his,  and  in  that  kiss  it  seemed 
as  if  her  very  life  went  out.  He  put  her  into 
my  arms  then,  kissing  me  without  a  word,  and 
BO  went  And  I  have  never  seen  him  again, 
my  tall,  strong  son,  my  first-born,  the  only  sou 
of  my  love  I 

A  iortnight  after  that  day  Alexia  and  I 
were  in  the  large  drawing-room  down  stairs. 
I  did  not  think  it  well  for  her  that  she  should 
keep  her  own  room,  brooding  over  that  which 
had  come  to  pass,  and  our  up-stairs  parlor  had 
become  intolerable  to  us.  It  was  evening,  and 
the  weather  was  wild ;  there  was  a  high  wind 
^driving  thick  clouds  over  aa  uncertain,  shifting 
moon.v 

We  had  a  fire,  and  Alexia  was  sitting  on  the 
hearth-rug  at  my  feet  We  bad  neither  of  us 
spoken  for  a  long  while ;  we  were  listening  to 
the  wind  and  rain,  and  thinking  how  the  Star 
of  the  West  must  be  by  this  time  far  out  on  the 
open  sea. 

Recent  events  had  made  me  pecaliarly  sus- 
ceptible to  melancholy  forebodings.     As  we 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


222 


AnTHUR'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


sat  thus  in  *  the  firelight,  the  moaning  treen 
without,  and  the  shifting  lights  and  shades 
within,  I  was  visited  by  such  an  impression  of 
disaster,  that  it  was  to  me  as  if  I  saw  that  ship 
which  carried  both  our  hearts  foundering  hi 
out  in  mid  ocean. 

The  impression  was  so  viyid,  so  distinct,  that 
it  seemed  like  a  spiritual  insight  into  what  wa«  ) 
happening  where  mj  thoughts  were.    At  the 
time  I  struggled  against  it. 

"  Alexia,"  I  said,  "  speak  to  me.  I  am  get- 
ting foolish  in  this  dusk  and  silence." 

She  lifted  her  head  to  answer  me,  but  before 
any  words  had  left  her  lips  we  both  started  at 
the  opening  of  the  hall  door. 

'*  Thej  have  not  bolted  it,"  I  said.  But  even 
as  I  spoke  a  long  step,  the  step  we  both  knew, 
but  had  never  thought  to  hear  again,  traversed 
the  hall  and  ran  up  the  stairs  into  the  sit- 
ting room  overhead ;  then  everything  became 
still. 

Alexia  clung  to  me.  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  was  with  agony  or  joy. 

'*  He  is  come  back,"  she  said. 

I  had  recognized  Hallam*s  step  as  well  as 
she,  but  I  knew  he  could  not  have  come  back, 
"  unless  the  sea  has  given  up  her  dead,"  was 
the  thought  of  my  heart ;  but  I  said  nothing  of 
such  a  thought  to  her. 

I  put  her  from  me,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
The  front  door  stood  open,  and  a  sheet  of  cold 
white  moonlight  covered  the  flags  of  the  hall, 
beading  with  silver  the  heavy  black-oak  ban- 
inters  of  the  stairs.  Without  was  the  hurry 
of  the  storm,  and  masses  of  clouds,  riding  un- 
derneath the  moon,  and,  borne  upon  the  west- 
erly wind,  the  roaring  of  the  sea  came  to  me 
as  I  stood. 

Leaving  the  door  as  it  was,  I  went  up  the 
stairs.  The  morning-room  was  all  lit  up  with 
moonlight,  and  the  door  was  open.  There  was 
no  one  there. 

I  went  down  to  Alexia,  and  said:  ''It  is 
nothing  but  the  wind."  But  from  that  hour  I 
knew  that  I  was  childless. 

It  was  no  news  to  me,  and  hardly  any  to 
Alexia,  I  believe,  when,  a  week  later— when 
the  papers  began  to  chronicle  the  disasters  of 
that  long  and  terrible  storm — we  came  one 
morning  upon  this:  ''TbelTope  arrived  in  port 
on  Saturday  night,  after  sustaining  much  dam- 
age in  the  recent  gales.  Reports  having  sighted 
a  large  ship,  completely  disabled,  on  the  after- 
noon of  Wednesday,  the  15th.  This  vessel  is 
Bupjwsed  to  have  been  the  SUxr  of  the  Wett, 
bound  from  Liverpool  to  Rio  Janeiro;  and 
little  hope  is  entertained  that  she  con  have 


survived  the  tempestuous  weather  of  Wednes- 
day night." 

Neither  did  she — she  was  never  heard  of 
again. 

I  had  Alexia  with  me  for  a  year  after  that, 
and  even  began  to  hope  that  I  should  have  her 
till  the  end.  But  God  saw  she  wad  not  strong 
enough  to  bear  her  trouble  for  any  length  of 
time;  and  while  I  persuaded  myself  that  she 
was  getting  stronger,  she  was  but  going  from 
roe,  after  all.  And  so  it  is  many  years  that  I 
have  sat  alone  in  the  dusk  light,  when  wind 
and  rain  are  beating  on  the  house,  haunted  by 
the  memory  of  those  dear  dead  lacea  which 
earth  and  sea  have  hid  from  me  forever. 

Ceciii  Griffith. 


TRUSTING. 

Br    BOSKITEART. 

THE  trees  looked  dead;  the  earth  was  brown 
and  bare 
Where  early  rain  had  washed  away  the  snow. 
Shall  these  dead  live,  shall  springing  grasses 
grow. 
And  young  leaves  clothe  the  trees  with  raiment 

fair? 
Ont  'neath  the  naked  branches  of  the  wood 

Shall  early  wild  flowers  come  with  silent  tread, 
And  offer  their  sweet  incense  of  perfume, 
Above  last  sammer's  leaves  there  lying  dead  ? 

Shall  all  the  olden  miracle  of  life 

Be  wrought  again  f^om  out  the  frozen  clod  ? 

Blessings  unmerited,  so  fair  from  God, 
With  the  bright  spring  o'er  all  the  land  be  rife  ? 
Out  on  the  orchard  boughs  a  robin  swings, 

Singing  a  song  of  trust  and  holy  love ; 
The  winds  blow  coldly  round  him,  yet  he  clings, 

Casting  his  quick,  bright  glance  aroond,  above. 

He's  trusting  for  the  warmth  of  sun  and  shower 

To  wreathe  these  branches  bare  with  bowers  of 
bloom. 

As  snow>flakes  flutter  in  this  hour  of  gloom, 
So  shall  the  tiny  petals  of  each  flower 
Come  floating  down  o'er  the  brown  nest  half  hid, 

O'er  his  bird  mate,  too,  and  their  eggs  of  blue; 
Still  down,  until  the  grass  they  lie  amid. 

Unerring  instinct  trusts  each  season  true. 

So  would  toe  trust,  unquestioning,  for  a  land 

Where  spring,  unfaiding,  reigneth  evermore. 

Like  a  child  just  gone  to  the  farther  shore, 
Though  o'er  a  thorny  road  he  reached  the  strand. 
He  saw  in  a  far  better  land  a  home ; 

And  when  the  angel  came  and  gave  sweet  rest, 
The  cahn  smile  on  the  easket  clay  became 

A  seal  to  us  that  Qod  does  what  is  best 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A  DOLLAR  A  DAY. 


BY  VIBGIOTA  P.  TOWNSEND. 


Darley  Hanee  did  a  driving  baBinefis  that 
day.  The  run  on  the  Morning  Nem  and  the 
Eisewng  Standard  had  exceeded  the  supply, 
proving  a  little  wind-squall  of  good  luck  for 
the  newsboy's  pocket,  on  which  yon  may  be 
certain  he  did  not  felicitate  himself  this  time. 

Brisk  little  Thomley  was  shocked  and  volu- 
ble over  the  tragedy  which  had  transpired  in  its 
midst,  and  each  of  the  dailies  came  out  with  an 
immensely  sensational  account  of  the  afikir,  a 
slender  foundation  of  facts  affording  material 
for  a  large  superstructure  of  imaginary  detail. 

Darley  was  compelled  to  stand  still  and  listen 
to  talks  and  comments  on  all  sides,  which  was 
anything  but  agreeable,  a  minority  of  the  opin- 
ions expressed  being  altogether  unfavorable  to 
the  Forsyths. 

The  fiery  little  newsboy  hankered  more  thnn 
once  to  turn  around  and  knock  some  one  of 
the  speakers  down. 

Envy,  exultation,  and  the  disgrace  which  had 
fiillen  into  the  rich  man's  household,  and  all 
that  brood  of  mean  and  hateful  passions,  showed 
their  faces  at  thb  crisis.  Forsyth's  antecedents 
were  hunted  up  and  dragged  out,  and  the  son 
was  pronounced  '^  a  chip  of  the  old  block,"  and 
it  was  averred  on  many  sides,  and  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction  in  many  quartertj,  "  that  folks 
who  prided  themselves  on  their  ill-gotten  gains, 
and  carried  their  heads  higher  than  their 
neighbors,  were  apt  to  have  a  fall.''  Thorn- 
ley,  you  see,  was  very  much  like  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Guesses  were  hazarded  as  to 
whether  young  Forsyth  would  make  his  es- 
cape, or  the  authorities  get  a  grip  on  him — 
people's  opinions  being  divided  on  this  matter. 

And  the  homely  little  newsboy,  in  his  bit  of 
black  cap  and  seedy  overcoat,  listened  to  all 
the  wonder  and  guesses  over  Kamsey's  where- 
abouts, with  a  sinking  heart,  thinking  of  the 
white  face  he  had  left  sleeping  under  the  sha- 
dow of  the  old  'Mean -to."  The  wonder  was 
that  no  living  soul  had  caught  sight  of  the 
bojs  on  that  morning  when  Darley  dragged 
hifl  friend  up  from  the  river.  The  former  had 
had  his  wits  sufficiently  atK>ut  him  to  strike 
into  a  lonely  road ;  but  it  was  almost  miracu- 
lous that,  in  all  Thorn  ley,  no  human  eye  had 
seen  them. 


Darley  drew  a  long  breath  when,  his  last 
paper  disposed  of,  he  could  push  for  home,  his 
pockets  lined  with  scrip  and  nickel  as  they 
had  not  been  for  months.  But  the  boy  scarcely 
thought  of  that  fact;  he  would  have  emptied 
them  eagerly,  and  gone  supperless  to  bed,  with 
his  sisters,  for  a  month  to  come,  to  have  seen 
Bamsey  Forsyth  safe  beyond  the  limits  of 
Thomley, 

How  to  get  him  there  was  the  question  that 
lay  heavy  on  the  boy's  soul,  as  he  plodded 
home  in  the  chill  darkness  that  night.  He 
was  too  shrewd  not  to  perceive  that  this  con- 
cealment could  not  go  on  for  many  days. 
Young  Forsyth,  after  all  he  had  undergone, 
was  quite  incapable  of  making  any  plans  for 
himself,  and  if  left  to  his  own  devices  might 
attempt  to  carry  out  his  purpose  of  the  morning. 
Darley  shuddered,  and  put  that  thought  away ; 
yet  the  qaestion  kept  coming  up  as  to  what 
was  to  be  done?  It  was  a  question  that  well 
might  puzzle  older  and  wiser  brains  than  the 
shrewd  ones  under  the  skull-cap  of  the  news- 
boy. 

Bamsey  Forsyth  had  had  a  long  sleep,  wak- 
ing only  about  an  hour  before  Darley's  return. 
He  had  laid  quite  still,  the  girls  told  their 
brother,  only  answering  their  questions,  and 
never  alluding  to  what  had  passed.  Tliey 
fancied  he  did  not  like  to  talk,  and  had  leit 
him  mostly  to  himself.  Nobody  had  come  to 
the  house  that  day  but  a  peddler,  when  Prudy 
mounted  guard  at  the  front  door. 

When  Darley  came  in,  Bamsey's  face  actu- 
ally brightened  a  little.  The  horror  had  quite 
gone  out  of  his  eyes ;  and  altogether  the  long 
slumber  had  brought  back  so  much  of  his 
natural  look,  that  it  did  Darley's  heart  good 
to  see  it.  The  girls,  too,  had  been  bustling 
about^  getting  up  quite  an  appetizing  supper. 

Bamsey  had  watched  them,  and  sometimes 
his  gaze  had  gone  curiously  around  the  south 
room  of  the  old  **  lean-to ;"  but  he  had  not  told 
his  thoughts,  only  you  may  be  sure  they  were 
very  unlike  any  which  Bamsey  Forsyth  had 
ever  had  in  his  life  before. 

A  few  inquiries  followed  on  Darley^s  part, 
to  which  the  replies  wereall  prompt  and  satisfac- 
tory enough,  thus  relieving  the  newsboy  of  a 


{    1223)    , 

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224 


ARTEUR'8   LADrS   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


fear   that  he  had  carried  all   day,  that   his 
friend's  mind  might  be  permanently  shattered. 

"I  tell  you  what,  now,  Forsyth,"  said  Par- 
ley, taking  matters  into  his  own  hands  in  a 
kind  of  blunt,  manly  way  that,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, somehow  sat  well  on  his  sturdiness, 
*'  I'm  going  to  have  you  np  in  the  arm-chair 
at  the  table,  and  you  can't  leave  it  until  jouVe 
put  down  a  good  meal.  YouVe  fasted  long 
enough  to  famish  a  fellow,  and  now  we  must 
try  what  one  of  Prudy's  suppers  will  do  for 
yon." 

Bamsey  drew  himself  up  on  the  lounge,  a 
little  feebly  at  first ;  but  at  this  juncture  Darley 
had  gained  such  a  power  over  the  hard,  domi- 
nant youth,  that  I  doubt  whether  the  latter 
would  not  haye  done  anything  the  newsboy 
enjoined. 

It  is  likely  enough,  too,  that  young  Forsyth 
discovered  when  he  was  on  his  feet  that  he  was 
hungry.  At  any  rate  it  was  hardly  a  step  from 
the  lounge  to  the  head  of  the  table,  where 
Cherry  had  already  placed  the  comfortable  old 
chair  with  its  cushions ;  and  here  Ramsey  For- 
pyth  took  his  first  meal  under  the  "lean-to," 

It  was  eaten,  though,  almost  in  silence.  Of 
the  four  young  people  gathered  around  that 
supper-table,  each  one's  thoughts  were  too 
busy  or  too  troubled  for  much  talk. 

Prudy  had  done  her  best,  though,  that  night, 
bringing  out  the  relics  of  her  mother's  china  in 
honor  of  their  guest,  and  getting  up  the  meal 
in  a  dainty,  appetizing  way,  which  atoned  for 
all  its  homeliness. 

Kamsey  Forsyth  had  never  sat  down  to  any- 
thing so  humble  as  that  table  in  his  whole  life, 
but  it  did  everybody's  heart  good  to  see  what 
a  comfortable  supper  he  made  of  it ;  although 
every  little  while  he  would  plunge  ofiT  into  his 
own  thoughts,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand, 
while  troubled  glances  would  flash  around  the 
table,  and  be  checked  as  the  guest  waked  up 
with  a  start  to  a  sense  of  the  present 

When  the  supper  was  over,  Ramsey  went 
back  to  the  lounge  again ;  but  he  did  not  lie 
down  this  time;  he  sat  silent  for  awhile,  look- 
ing into  the  coals,  or  watching  the  others  with 
some  look  in  his  eyes  they  could  not  under- 
stand. 

At  last  he  turned  to  Barley,  who  had  taken 
a  low  seat  close  by  him,  and  asked :  "  What 
made  you  do  all  this  for  me?" 

The  answer  came  promptly  .enough.  "Be- 
cause I  was  your  friend,  Forsyth.  I  thought 
you  knew  that." 

"But  what  made  you  so?  What  good  had 
1  ever  done  you  ?" 


The  question  at  that  time  went  to  the  quick. 
Barley's  mouth  quivered. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Christmas  eve?" 

"  Was  thAt  all?"  asked  Bamsey. 

"  All  I '  repeated  Barley.  "  You  don't  know 
what  a  Christmife  we  had — ^and  we  owed  it  all 
to  you— docs  he,  girls?" 

"  No  indeed,"  piped  two  yoong  voices ;  for 
the  girls,  drawn  by  the  talk,  had  left  the  even- 
ing work  and  gathered  around  the  fire. 

Ramsey  stared  from  one  to  the  other,  not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  this  talk. 

Prudy  looked  at  her  brother.  "You  (ril 
him,"  she  half  whispered. 

Barley  commenced  his  story ;  but  it  was  not 
long  that  he  had  all  the  talk  to  himself.  Eadi 
one  had  some  color  to  add  to  the  pictare  which 
Barley  drew  of  that  Christmas  eve,  and  was  eo 
anxious  to  set  before  the  boy  the  good  he  had 
done,  that  the  principal  narrator  was  constantly 
interrupted  with  little  live,  quivering  aeotences 
flashed  from  the  lips  of  his  sisters. 

Alter  my  fashion,  I  tried  to  tell  you  long  ago 
the  story  of  that  Christmas  eve ;  bot  it  was  one 
thing  from  my  pen  and  quite  another  from  the 
living  actors. 

Ramsey  saw  il  aD— 4he  lonely  girls  sittiog 
by  the  fire  in  the  winter  moonlight,  awaitisg 
their  brother's  return;  and  the  boy  plodding 
op  and  down  the  cold  streets  with  his  pile  (^ 
papers  and  his  sinking  heart.  And  at  lait 
Ramsey  heard  the  newsboy's  shout  at  the  door, 
and  lived  through  the  joy  and  comedy  of  the 
scene  that  followed,  and  through  the  happy 
Christmas  day,  with  its  wonderful  dinner;  and 
young  Forsyth's  awfiil  griefs  slipped  for  the 
moment  Into  the  background  as  he  lived  ofV 
this  scene. 

"And  we  owed  it  all  to  you,"  piped  in 
Cherry,  gulping  down^a  sob. 

Ramsey  put  his  hand  to  his  fkoe.  Soft  tean 
rained  through  his  fingers.  Once  in  his  life  he 
had  cast  some  bread  on  the  waters,  and  now,  in 
this  hour  of  his  desolation  and  wretchedneES, 
he  had  found  it. 

He  thought  of  Cressy  as  she  stood  that  night 
in  her  scarlet  cloak,  with  the  bright,  solemn 
look  on  her  iace  as  she  said :  "  Somehow  «nd 
somewhere  you'll  be  glad  of  what  you've  done 
today.  It  will  bring  a  blessing.  I  feel  it  in 
my  bones." 

Ramsey  drew  his  hands  away.  **Vm  « 
wretch  and  a  brute,"  he  said.  "  Pve  hecn  one 
all  my  life;  but,  bad  as  I  was,  if  I'd  known 
what  that  five  dollars  was  to  be  to  yon,  N 
somehow  have  made  it  a  hundred." 
"It's  well    you   didn't   know,  then,"  »id 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAT. 


225 


Pradj,  laughing  and  crying  together,  ''for  a 
hundred  dollars  woold  JQst  have  killed  OBOiUr 
righc»  and  five  didn't.'' 

In  a  little  while  BamBey  aaid^  in  a  low  70100, 
*'  1  want  to  tell  you  all  about  }i:* 

They  knew  what  hie  ftieant.  They  itll  drew 
B  little  doaer  to  him,  jywUy  glancing  at  doors 
and  windowsi  to  make  certain  everything  was 
quite  secure  before  his  friend  commenced. 

Bamfley  made  a  clean  i^easti  not  sparing 
himself  from  beginning  to  end  of  his  story. 
I(  was  a  relief  to  him  to  unburden  the  worst, 
and  that  was,  substantially,  the  facts  which 
you  already  know  from  the  time  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Bopes. 

But,  however  in  his  remorse  he  might  ooa- 
demn  himeelf-*-however  lew  the  facts  in  some 
instances  might  fairly  make  against  him  to  the 
boy  and  girls  who  listened  with  pity  and  hor- 
tor  to  his  story,  he  was  only  the  sufferer  and 
the  ▼ictim.  Bopes,  in  their  eyes^  was  the  vil- 
lain black  as  lago,  at  whose  door  lay  all  the 
guilt  and  shame.  And  an  impartial  hearer 
must  admit  that  the  heavier  part  of  the  crime 
lay  with  the  older  sinner.  When  they  knew 
all  there  was  to  tell,  the  young  people  in  the 
"lean-to"  <mij  pitied  young  Forsyth  with,  if 
possible,  a  deeper,  tenderer  sympathy  than 
ever;  and  no  condemnation  of  himself  could, 
in  the  elightest  degree,  alter  their  leeling,  or 
shake  their  faith  in  him. 

Bameey's  story  developed  only  one  further 
fact  regarding  Bopes.  The  two  had  agreed  to 
meet,  a  liltle  after  midnight,  at  a  corner  of  the 
lane  just  b^ond  Pine  Bridge,  where  young 
Forsyth  was  to  deliver  the  money  of  which  he 
had  robbed  his  father. 

When  the  boy  tore  out  of  the  house,  in  that 
awful  moment  in  which  he  had  heard  his  fa- 
thei's  cry,  Bamsey  had,  with  a  kind  of  blind 
instinct,  rushed  for  the  point  where  he  had  en- 
gaged to  meet  Bopes.  He  found  the  man  here 
awaiting  him.  Forsyth  must  have  shouted 
oat  that  he  had  murdered  his  father,  for  he 
remembered  a  terrible  oath  from  Bopes,  and  a 
blow  which  felled  Bamsey  to  the  earth,  and 
which  accounted  for  the  bruise  on  his  left 
cheek. 

Bamaey  must  have  Iain  there  a  long  time 
unconscious,  for  there  was  a  faint  streak  of 
dawn  fronting  him  in  the  eadt  when  he  awoke, 
>nd  he  had  started  up,  with  his  crazed  brain, 
uid  made  for  the  river,  hounded  on  by  the 
awful  thought  that  he  was  his  father's  mur- 
derer and  they  would  hang  him. 

As  he  listened,  shuddering,  to  this  story. 
Barley  was  ^greatly  impressed  with  the  share 


he  had  borne  in  it.  He  was  usually  a  sound 
sleeper,  and  the  restlessness  which  had  dragged 
him  from  his  bed  and  driven  him  miles  from 
home  in  the  cold  winter  dawn,  had  an  air  of 
the  preternatural  about  it,  which,  to  this  day, 
puzzles  him.  Prudy  always  says,  with  her 
grave  face  and  her  indrawn  breath— just  as 
she  did  that  night  when  Darley,  relating  the 
strange  feeling  which  had  drawn  him  down  to 
the  banks  of  Thomley  Biver  in  the  dawn :  "  It 
was  Qod  did  it."  Nobody  has  ever  found  a 
better  solution  to  the  whole  mystery  than  Pru- 
dy's—nObody  ever  WilL 

Ever  since  his  long  sleep  Bamsey's  thoughts 
had  been  working  clearer.  Even  his  confes- 
sion had  gone  ikr  toward  steadying  the  chaos 
and  distraction  of  his  brain.  He  turned  now, 
of  a  sudden,  to  Darley,  and  said,  "  I  must  get 
away  from  here." 

Prudy  and  Cherry  exchanged  scared  glances, 
thinking  the  boy  was  going  mad  again.  Darley 
did  not  reply  at  once.  What  should  be  done  with 
Bamsey  Forsyth  had  been  the  thought  which 
had  lain  heaviest  on  Darley's  soul  ever  since 
he  had  heard  the  street  talk  and  read  the 
papers  that  day. 

The  boy  was  shrewd  enough  to  comprehend 
all  the  difficulties  of  this  question.  There  were 
no  limits  to  the  enthusiasm  and  sadrifice  with 
which  he  was  not  ready  to  devote  himself  to 
his  friend.  He  would  joyfully  have  consented 
to  Bamsey's  remaining  concealed  in  the  old 
'*  lean-to"  for  the  rest  of  his  mortal  life,  but 
Darley  Hanes  was  a  sensible  boy,  and  his 
reason  showed  him  only  too  clearly  the  impos- 
sibility of  Bamsey's  retreat  not  being  dis- 
covered sooner  or  later. 

Darley  was  eager  enough  to  have  him  leave 
Thomley  before  the  officers  of  the  Jaw  should 
get  on  his  track ;  but  when  was  he  to  go ;  and 
in  his  present  exhausted  condition  of  mind 
and  body,  how  was  he  to  bear  a  journey  7  AH 
these  questions  held  Darley  dumb  for  the  first 
few  seconds  that  followed  Bamsey's  speech. 

Cherry  saved  her  brother  the  trouble  of  re- 
plying. Perhaps  she  had  waited  for  him  to 
speak.  Perhaps  she  was  not  conscious  that 
she  ^poke  at  all ;  but  she  did,  with  a  gasped 
out,  **0h,  where  will  you  go?" 

Bamsey  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  from 
one  face  to  the  other,  as  though  trying  to  seek 
some  help  from  each;  but  he  found  only  a 
great  pity  and  a  great  perplexity.  ''  I  don't 
know,"  he  said ;  ''  but  I  must  go.  I  tell  you  I 
must;"  and  he  rose  up  in  a  swift,  jerking  way, 
glancing  wildly  at  the  front  door. 

Darley's  hand  was  on  Bamsey's  arm  \ 


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226 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   ROUE   MAGAZINE. 


the  boy's  hand  that  had  dragged  him  back  from 
the  riyer  bank  that  morning.  "  We  mnst  talk 
it  over  fint,  Forsyth/'  in  the  most  quiet,  rea- 
sonable tone,  not  at  all  like  that  jerky,  fiery 
little  Darley,  who  felt  as  though  he  had  been 
growing  ages  old  since  morning. 

Ramsey  sat  down  in  a  half-relactant  way, 
and  the  rad  light  of  the  fire  and  the  soft  shine 
of  the  kerosene  fell  upon  the  yonng  group  of 
anxious  faces  in  the  low-oeiled  room. 

*'  There  is  no  place  so  good  as  this,  Darley," 
said  Prudy.    *'  We  are  all  his  friends  here." 

*'  But  I  must  get  out  of  Thornfey.  Don't  you 
know  they  won't  let  me  stay  here — they  will 
come  and  drag  me  off  to  prison  7" 

There  was  a  little  shriek  from  Cherry,  and 
Prudy's  face  grew  white  at  that  terrible  word. 
Both  of  the  girls  turned  and  looked  at  Darley, 
and  Darley  in  turn  looked  at  them,  but  he  did 
not  contradict  what  young  Forsyth  had  said ; 
and  Cherry,  scared  and  horrified,  began  to  cast 
about  in  her  mind  for  all  the  dark  cuddys  and 
comers  of  the  old  "  lean-to"  where  one  might 
be  perpetually  incarcerated. 

''Is  there  anybody  you  think  of  to  go  to?" 
asked  Darley,  anxiously. 

Bamsey  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

''  But  I  tell  you  it  don't  matter,"  looldng  up 
again  with  that  wild  eagerness.  ''  I  must  get 
out  of  Thornley — ^I  must  do  it  at  once.  The 
world  is  so  big  I  can  hide  myself  somewhere 
so  they  can  never  find  me  at  home." 

It  struck  each  of  his  hearers  that  facing  any 
of  his  family  was  something  Bamsey  dreaded 
more  than  going  to  prison. 

Darley  reflected  en  this  fact  a  few  moments, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  in  young  For- 
syth's place,  he  should  feel  precisely  as  the 
latter  did.  Awful  as  prison  was,  it  would 
not  be  so  terrible  as  facing  Prudy  and  Cherry 
with  a  crime  on  his  soul. 

Suddenly  the  boy  broke  out :  ''  Oh,  if  Joe 
Dayton  was  only  here — ^if  Joe  Dayton  was 
here  I    He's  the  man,  six  I" 

Bamsey  looked  up  with  a  vague  questioning 
in  his  eyes,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"He's  my  best  friend,"  continued  Darley. 
''  The  best,  truest,  biggest- hearted  fellow  in  the 
whole  world.  I  tell  you  he'd  find  a  way  to 
help  us  out  of  these  woods ;  but  he's  gone  to 
sea— sailed  for  India  more  than  a  year  ago." 

Something— a  light,  a  hope— shot  into  Bam- 
sey's  face.  The  words  burst  out  like  a  bomb- 
shell, "  That's  the  one  thing  I  can  do — run  off 
and  go  to  sea." 

Darley  did  not  answer  at  once;  but  his 
thoughts  kept  up  a  rapid  march  through  his 


brain.  Ever  since  Joe  Dayton  had  gone  to 
sea,  the  newsboy  had  had  a'hankering  himself 
for  that  kind  of  life.  It  was  the  rery  last  sort 
of  one  for' which  Dariey  Hanes  had  any  native 
aptitudes,  but  the  wide  blue  ocean  had  held 
possession  of  the  boy's  imagination  ever  since 
Joe  Dayton  had  taken  to  a  seafaring  life.  It 
struck  Darley,  too,  that  to  go  to  aea  was  at  this 
juncture  the  one  course  open  to  Bamsey  For- 
syth. It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  re- 
main on  land,  or  in  the  vicinity  of  Thorn- 
ley,  without  discovery,  which  moat  end  in  a 
way  that  Darley  shivered  to  think  about  But 
once  safely  at  sea,  there  would  be  no  possibility 
of  seizing  him  for  the  present*  and  time  could 
hardly  fail  to  work  something  in  hia  fiivor. 

But  when  Darley  turned  once  more  and 
looked  at  his  friend,  the  sudden  hope  began  to 
ebb  in  the  boy's  soul.  The  sea-coaat  was  so 
many  miles  ofi^  the  chances  of  escape  so  small. 
And  then  there  was  Forsyth  himself— could  he 
he  trusted  to  himself?  Left  to  make  his  own 
way,  would  not  the  madness  and  despair  return 
which  had  so  nearly  ended  everything  that 
morning  ? 

Under  this  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  Dar- 
ley said :  '*  It's  not  so  easy  a  thing — this  going 
to  sea.  And  you've  nobody  to  help  you  in  that 
line." 

The  speaker  supposed  there  could  be  but  one 
answer  to  this  questioD,  but,  in  the  interval, 
Ramsey  Fonyth  had  been  having  hia  thoughts^ 
too. 

"There's  Barker,"  he  said.  "If  I  oouW 
find  the  fellow,  h^d  make  a  chance  for  me." 

"  Who  is  he?"  asked  Darley,  leaning  for- 
ward eagerly,  as  did  the  girls  also,  for  the 
reply. 

It  came  out  that  this  was  the  name  of  an  old 
servant  of  the  Forsyths,  who  had  taken  a  iaD(7 
to  a  seaiaring  life,  and  followed  it  since  Bam- 
sey was  a  small  boy. 

The  sailor  had  called  on  the  son  of  his  former 
master  a  day  or  two  before  the  young  man  left 
New  York.  Barker  was  a  blufi)  honest,  jolly 
tar,  and  in  all  his  rough  tumblings  about  the 
world  he  had  kept  a  soft  spot  somewhere  in  his 
soul  for  the  sturdy  little  youngster  he  had 
treated  to  so  many  a  ride  on  his  back ;  and 
there  was  knit  up  some  old  childish  associa^ 
tlons  with  the  savior's  weather-beaten  face  and 
broad  shoulders,  which  always  ensured  him  a 
welcome  one  would  hardly  have  expected  from 
Bamsey  Foreyth  with  his  airs  and  his  smart- 
ness. 

In  this  miserable  hour  the  heart  of  the  youth 
turned  to  the  old  servant  and  sailor,  clutchio^ 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAT. 


227 


at  it  ft8  at  a  last  straw.  Barker  had  infonned 
Ramsey  that  he  was  to  sail  in  a  few  days  in  a 
whaling  vessel  bound  on:  a  three  years'  voyage. 
If  young  Forsyth  oonld  only  make  his  escape 
to  New  York,  he  would  ship  on  the  whaler 
with  his  father's  old  servant — ^he  would  be  suee 
of  Barker's  aid  and  sympathy  at  this  crisis. 

Bamsey  seized  on  this  plan  with  desperate 
eagerness.  In  a  few  words  he  laid  it  open  to 
hU  friends,  getting  up  and  pacing  the  room  in 
his  excitement,  and  then  coming  suddenly  and 
standing  still  before  Darley,  saying,  in  a  low, 
agitated  voice,  and  with  eyes  that  gleamed  like 
coals  of  fire,  *'  I  must  go ;  I  tell  you,  I  must  go." 
And  the  three  to  whom  he  spoke  looked  at 
I  each  other.  It  was  one  of  those  ]ife>and-death 
questions  which  they,  were  now  called  upon  to 
answer,  questions  that  might  well  have  per- 
plexed the  wisest  souls — and,  counted  by  birth- 
days, all  these  were  children ;  yet  they  felt  so 
old — so  very  old  that  night-H)Ider  than  they 
would  feel  when  the  gloas  of  their  hair  was 
tamed  to  gray^  and  the  young  faces  were  wrin- 
kled with  the  gathering  of  the  yean.  They 
looked  at  each  other,  as  I  said,  reading  in  each 
iaoe  doubt,  perplexity  and  dread.  Darley 
knew  better  than  his  sisters  the  risks  which 
young  Forsyth  incurred  with  every  hour  that 
he  remained  in  Thornley,  Bamsey's  plan  was, 
at  best,  a  desperate  venture,  but  it  seemed  the 
only  chance  of  escape  for  him.  It  was  proba- 
ble that,  with  another  day,  every  effort  would 
be  made  for  his  arrest,  and  long  concealment 
within  the  town  was  impossible.  Darley  had 
a  quality  of  hard,  common  sense  which,  despite 
all  his  readiness  to  sacrifice  himself  for  his 
friend,  set  this  fact  straight  before  him. 

Darley  Hanes  looked  at  his  friend ;  then  he 
rose  op  and  went  to  the  window.  It  was  a  dark, 
starless  night,  with  heaps  of  wild-looking 
clouds  in  a  panic  stricken  flight  before  the 
winds.  But  the  darkness  would  be  Bamsey 
Forsyth's  best  friend  at  this  juncture.  The 
nearest  point  at  which  it  would  be  safe  for  him 
to  take  the  cars,  was  six  miles  from  Thomley. 
The  train  was  due  a  little  before  midnight.  If  | 
he  started  now,  there  would  be  plenty  of  time 
to  secure  the  cars  at  the  junction;  and  again 
Darley  saw  thai  the  chances  for  escape  by  an- 
other night  would  be  decreased  a  hundred-fold. 
The  newsboy  stood  there  a  few  moments, 
looking  up  at  the  starless  sky,  with  the  black 
clouds  struggling  across  it,  and  while  he  looked, 
I^ley  Hanes  felt  there  was  but  one  answer  he 
could  in  honor  make  to  his  friend.  He  came 
back  to  the  fire.  There  was  a  look  in  his  face 
which  made  the  others  wait  for  him  to  speak. 


"Forsyth,"  he  said — and  though  his  lip 
trembled  his  voice  was  steady — "it's  hard  to 
say  it,  but  I  think  you  had  belter  go." 

'^Oh,  Darley,.  how  can  you?"  burst  out  a 
little,  breathless,  deprecatory  cry  from  Prudy 
and  Cherry. 

**  I'm  ready,"  said  Bamsef,  getting  up,  and 
moving  a  step  toward  the  door. 

''Girls,"  said  Darley,  with  a  solemn,  im- 
pressive tone,  very  unlike  his  usual  swift,  jerky 
way  of  talking,  "  you  know  I  would  not  tell 
him  to  go  if  I  could  help  it,. but  I  understand 
better  than  yon  how  much  depends  upon  his 
being  in  a  hurry.  Prudy — Cherry,  you  must 
be  women  now." 

And  to-night  the  words  went  where  they  had 
gone  in  the  morning.  Their  eyes  swam  in 
tears,  but  Prudy  rose  up,  and  Cherry  after  her, 
ready  to  do  what  was  necessary  to  be  done. 

"  I  shall  go  with  him,"  said  Darley,  qaickly. 

The  girls  did  not  demur,  though  it  was  such 
.a  long  walk,  and  they  had  never  slept  alone 
under  the  roof  of  the  "  lean-to." 

Bamsey  came  back  now,  and  stood  a  moment 
by  the  fire.  It  was  an  awful  moment.  His 
gaae  went  from  one  pitying  face  to  the  other. 
He  was  going  out  a  wanderer  and  a  criminal 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  was  leaving 
the  home  upon  which  he  had  brought  the 
shadow  of  disgrace,  and  almost  the  bitterneBS 
of  death. 

Thoughts  of  his  father,  of  Proctor— above  all 
of  Creasy — must  have  borne  in  upon  his  soul 
that  morning. 

"  I  wanted  to  thank  you,"  he  said,  and  there 
he  stopped. 

"Ah,  we  don't  want  any  of  those  things," 
answered  Darley,  in  a  huRky  voice,  but  trying 
bravely  to  carry  things  off  with  an  air. 

"No,  indeed,"  sobbed  Prody. 

"No,  indeed  we  don't."  shouted  Cherry. 

In  a  few  moments  Darley  was  ready.  "  I 
shall  cut  clear  of  the  main  road,  and  go  acrof^s 
lots,  and  through  lanes,"  he  said.  "You'd 
better  draW  your  cap  down  over  your  face." 

But  everybody  now  became  conscious,  for 
the  first  time,  that  Bamsey  had  worn  no  cap. 
He  must  have  left  it  on  the  river  bank. 

Prudy  hurried  off  up  stairs,  and  produced  a 
cap  which  had  belonged  to  her  father,  and 
though  it  was  large,  and  old-fashioned,  and 
shabby,  it  would  serve  the  purpose ;  and  nobody 
now  was  disposed  to  be  fastidious. 

"Come,  girls,  bid  him  good-by,  and  wish 
him  good  luck.  We're  off  I"  said  Darley, 
speaking  out  of  a  horrid  lump  in  his  throat. 

Prudy,  that  shy,  prim  little  maiden,  forgot 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ABTEUR'S   LADT'a   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


ererything,  and  put  her  arms  rigbt  aroond  the 
boy.  <*Good-b7/'  she  sobbed  again.  ''Oh, 
God  take  care  of  you,  Bamsey  ForeythI'' 

It  waa  Cherry's  turn  now.  She  came'  up 
with  a  little  faded  green  velTflt  piocosbioD, 
which  had  belonged  to  her  mother. 

"  It's  all  IVe  got,"  she  said ;  '*  but  I  want  ^rou 
to  keep  it  always,  and  whenever  you  look  at 
it  you  must  think  there  are  some  folks  in 
the  world  who  trust  you  and  believe  in  you." 

The  words  were  stammered  out  from  a  little 
girl's  honest,  pitying  heart.  No  wiser  ones 
would  have  served  half  so  well  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

Bamsey  took  the  little  cushion,  and  he  held 
it  up  in  the  light,  as  though  it  had  been  a  gift 
t>f  the  angels  straight  from  Heaven ;  but  lie 
did  not  thank  Cherry  even,  he  only  said :  "Ah, 
how  good  you  have  all  been  to  me  I" 

''Fudge!  nonsense,"  grunted Darley, making 
a  plunge  toward  the  door. 

Then  Ramsey  kissed  Cherry  as  he  had  kisbed 
Prudy  before,  and  said,  "  Good-by,"  and  went 
out — God  only  knew  where. 

In  the  long,  solitary  walk  that  followed 
through  the  thick  darkness,  and  the  growl  of 
winds  in  the  valleys,  I  fancy  these  boys  seldom 
spoke  to  each  other.  The  souls  of  both  were 
too  full  for  any  words.  Wherever  Darley  led, 
there  Ramsey  followed  without  a  question. 

They  kept  off  from  the  main  road  and 
avoided  the  farm-honses,  where  the  lights 
twinkled  out  from  the  windows  into  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  so  Ramsey  Forsyth  made  his  escape 
from  Thomley.  Onoe,  howerer,  the  silence 
was  broken.  They  must  have  been  within  two 
miles  of  the  junction,  when,  of  a  sudden,  Dar- 
ley stopped  square  in  the  road,  turned  to  his 
friend,  and  grasping  him  by  the  sleeve,  cried 
in  an  agitated  undertone:  "I'm  glad  I  saved 
you,  dear  fellow ;  Tm  glad  I  saved  you  from 
drowning." 

Ramsey  looked  np.  Perhaps  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  boy's  face  beaming  with  joy  and 
generous  devotion  through  the  darkness.  Per- 
haps he  did  not;  at  any  rate  he  only  answered, 
in  a  low,  doubtful  voice,  "  I  wonder  if  it  will 
pay,  Darley." 

"I  don't — I  haven't  any  wonders  there," 
answered  Darley,  stoutly,  and  the  two  resumed 
their  tramp ;  and  half  an  hour  later  the  little 
depot  at  the  junction  came  in  sight,  with  the 
lights  set  and  the  signal  ready  for  the  down 
train. 

It  was  a  cold  winter's  morning,  with  spiteful 
little  squalls  of  snow  every  few  minutes,  and 
the  new  whaling  ship  was   getting  ready  to 


sail.  One  of  the  men,  a  broad-filioalderai, 
grizsled-bearded,  mahogaay-skinned  tar,  vu 
bolting  his  tin  cup  of  hot  ooflee  and  hard  !»»• 
cuit,  when  a  slender,  well-dressed  youth,  witk 
the  oddest-looking  eap  drawn  Over  his  ibreheti' 
climbed  vp  the  side  of  the  vessel  and  stoedl 
before  the  mahogany-faeed  sailor. 

The  youth  looked  round  in  a  scared,  fiutife 
sort  of  way,  drew  doae  to  the  sailor  and  liiU 
his  cap.  "Do  yon  know  me,  Harkerf  ht 
asked. 

The  man  started  up  like  oneshoi.  "TW 
devil  catdi  me  if  it  isn't  Ramsey  Forsytk,"kj 
cried. 

"  I'm  in  great  trouble,"  said  the  latter,  spat 
ing  in  a  rapid,  imploring  tone;  "and  yooui 
the  only  friend  I  had  in  the  world  to  come  t^ 
Harker.    I  want  to  go  to  sea  with  you." 

That  day,  at  noon,  the  whaling  ship  mM 
for  a  three  years'  whaling  cruise,  and  RaoK^ 
Forsyth  was  on  board  her.  On  the  night  «f 
that  sameday^a  telegram  ordering  thearreitof 
Ramsey  Forsyth  was  received  by  the  cUef of 
the  New  York  police. 

On  that  day,  too,  Darley  Hanes  wrote  in  tlie 
supercargo's  acoonnt-book :  If  I  live  to  be  « 
old  as  Methusela  himself,  I  shall  never  kifA 
that  moment  when  the  express  train  thundepBd 
up  to  the  little  depot. 

Somebody  drew  his  hat  dose  over  hisfya^ 
and  we  went  into  the  cars  togethsir,  and  vc 
found,  luckily,  a  back  seat  which  was  oao^ 
oupied,  and  he  settled  himself  down  here  where 
the  lights  were  dimmest,  and  where  people 
would  be  least  like^  to  take  any  notice  of 
him.  i 

Then  we  shook  each  other's  bands.  Tbcft 
was  no  time,  of  oourse,  for  words ;  but  it  vu 
an  awfol  moment  for  both  of  oa.  That  knk 
in  his  eyes  almost  took  my  breath  away* 

Then,  of  a  sudden— I  can't  tell  how  ithip- 
pened,  or  where  I  read  the  words,  or  how  thef 
came  to  me  at  that  time ;  but  I  leaned  forwai^ 
and  I  or  something  in  me  spoke  right  oatyand 
the  words  that  came  were : 

<*Ood  shall  lift  up  thy  bead." 

That  is  all ;  the  car- bell  was  ringiog^  n^^ 
had  to  whisk  oat.  • 

It  wouldn't  have  been  so  wonderfiil  if  Td 
been  a  parson,  or  even  a  pious  party;  batBodi 
words,  coming  from  me,  Darley  HaseBl  tbfti'a 
what  sticks  me. 

The  warrant*  are  ont  for  his  arrest,  and  the 
town  is  all  agog  over  it,  and  I — sell  my  p«l*" 
and  keep  ray  own  counsel. 

Some  things  are  hard  on  a  fellow,  though. 
If  I  could  only  hear  he  had  got  safely  to  the 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


INTO    THE    CITY. 


229 


whaler,  and  set  off  in  her  in  this  oM  roaser  of  (      Ketcham  told  me  to-day  he  had  seen  the 


a  snow-storm. 

What  with  mj  trouble  jesterdajr,  Und  mv 
tramp  laat  night,  my  bones  are  stiff  and  soi'e, 
and  the  girls  are  osed  up  and  look  as  if  they'd 
seen  ghosts. 


doctor,  and  the  old  gentleman  was  on  the  gain. 
I  thanked  God  for  that  in  my  heart  I  can  do 
that,  althongli  I  am  not  a  parson  or  a  pious 
party. 

(ToUomiltmtM.) 


V 


?^    - 


INTO  THE  CITY. 


Bit  KB8.  E.  B.  Di^mrr. 


0 


CHAPTER  T. 
|N  a  raw,  bluatering  April  day,  that  might 

have  been  a  March  one,  Judging  fh>m  the 
weather,  a  car-load  of  famitore  stopped  in 
front  of  the  entrance  of  one  of  the  numerous 
ooarts  that  abound  in  the  thickly  settled  por- 
tions of  our  city.  The  street  where  this  par- 
ttcQlar  court  was  to  be  found  was  one  of  those 
short  ones  below  Sooth  Street,  which  consist 
of  a  few  squares  only — ^a  peculiar  kind  of 
street,  where  all  sorts  of  houses,  inhabited  by 
ill  sorts  of  people,  may  be  found.  There  is 
the  respectable  three-story  brick,  with  marble 
steps  and  fkcings,  standing  alongside  of  dilap- 
idated buildings,  which  date  back,  perhaps, 
to  a  past  century.  There  are  tenement  houses 
swarming  with  life  and  noise  and  dirt.  There 
are  rows  of  tumble-down  wooden  structures,  in- 
habited by  miserable  drunken  wretches  of  both 
sexes,  with  their  squalid  children.  And  every 
few  doors  there  is  an  opening  between  the 
buildings,  leading  up  a  long,  narrow  passage- 
way, sometimes  covered,  sometimes  uncovered, 
which  the  initiated  recognise  as  an  entrance  to 
a  court. 

Philadelphia  Kas  no  such  wretchedness  to 
show  in  the  hooser  of  its  poorer  classes  as  New 
Tork.  There  are  no  such  abodes  of  misery, 
filth,  and  malaria  as  tens  of  thousands  of  the 
New  York  poor  call  by  the  name  of  home.  In 
our  expansive  city  the  industrious  artisan  can 
generally,  If  he  chooses,  secure  a  comfortable 
dwelling-place.  It  is  only  the  idle,  the  spend- 
thrift, the  drunken,  and  possibly  the  sick,  who 
crowd  into  the  tenement  houses,  which,  in  a 
nwdified  form,  do  exist  in  our  city. 

Bnt  there  are  courts  and  cotirts.  Some  of 
Ihcm  art  narrow,  dark,  and  filthy,  the  abod^ 
and  hiding-places  of  poverty  and  sin.  There 
ire  others  light  and  cleanly,  where  any  one 
might  dwell  and  still  retain  self-respect,  though 
luany  of  the  conveniences  of  life  might  be  lack- 
ing. 


The  court  with  which  we  have  to  do  was  one 
of  the  latter.  It  was  entered  by  a  narrow, 
covered  passage,  over  which  were  the  words : 
'^  Kelly's  Place."  After  the  covered  passage 
came  a  tall  trellis,  over  which  stretched  the 
broWn  arms  of  a  grape-vine,  now  only  showing 
swelling  buds,  but  whose  broad  green  leaves 
would,  in  summer,  aflbrd  grateful  riiade.  The 
trellis  passed,  the  passage  widened  into  a  broad 
yard  or  place  wide  enough  one  way  to  afford 
front  for  four  dwellings^  and  wide  enough  the 
other  to  furnish  plenty  of  light  and  air.  On 
one  side  a  peach-tree  looked  over  the  high 
paling  into  the  Place,  and  from  the  other,  in 
spring  and  summer,  came  sweet  scents  of  flowers 
unseen.  Altogether,  Kelly's  Place  was  a  model 
court,  and,  I  fear,  an  exceptional  one.  I  think 
if  I  had  lived  there  I  should  have  suggested 
that  the  brick  paving  be  removed  in  certain 
spots  sufficient  to  allow  a  growth  of  grass  and 
flowers — for  there  was  plenty  of  room— and 
that  a  tree  or  two  be  planted  to  shield  the 
Ikouses  from  the  summer  sun.  But  then  who 
expects  these  things  in  courts  ? 

The  people,  too,  were  respectable  and  quiet. 
One  of  the  end  houses  was  occupied  by  a  carter 
and  his  family,  consiBting  of  a  limp,  salldw, 
semi'invalid  wife,  a  baby,  and  bin  mother,  a 
tall,  spare,  hard*  knock  led,  but  not  over-strong 
woman,  who  helped  out  the  family  resources 
by  taking'  in  washing.  The  next  house  was  oc- 
cupied by  a  brawny  Irishman — ^a  day-laborer — 
and  ^is  equally  brawny  wife,  and  their  flock  of 
children,  ranging  in  age  from  twelve  dowd  to 
the  baby  ih  arms.  Thia  couple  frequently 
finished  up  the  week  by  a  carouse,  but  it  was 
a  quiet  one.  They  dared  not  make  it  other- 
wise, for  no  disturbances  were  allowed  in  this 
court.  The  third  house  was  empty ;  and  in  the 
fourth  and  last  lived  a  shoemaker,  who  ham- 
mered away  at  his  bench  all  day  long — a  quiet 
and  industrious  man,  who  spent  his  days  and 
evenings  at  home  with  his  wife,  and  if  he  was 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


230 


ARTHURS   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


not  saving  money  on  hb  week's  wages,  was  at 
least  wasting  none. 

It  was  for  the  third  and  empty  house  that 
the  goods  in  the  furnitare  car  were  In- 
tended. 

The  hoase  was  open,  and  fonr  or  five  chil- 
dren were  swarming  in  and  out,  while  a  thin, 
pale-faced  woman  was  trying  to  keep  them  in 
order.  The  carter  began  to  bring  in  the  fur- 
niture such  as  he  could  manage  by  himself. 
At  length  he  paused. 

"  I  think,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "  you'll  have  to 
give  me  a  lift.  I  can't  manage  all  these  things 
alone." 

"Where's  Stevens 7*^  asked  the  woman,  in 
surprise.  "I  thought  he  was  copaing  with 
you." 

"So  he  did,  part  of  the  way,  but  I  misted 
him  just  before  I  got  here." 

The  woman  said  no  more^  but  came  out  and 
helped  in  with  table,  stove,  and  bureau,  though 
it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  she  was  unequal  to 
the  task. 

The  car  was  emptied,  and  the  man  came  in 
and  sRked  for  his  pay. 

"  I  have  no  money.  You  will  have  to  wut 
until  Stevens  comes,"  she  answered. 

"  But  I  can't  wait.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  my 
time  here." 

"  I  can't  help  it ;  I  have  no  money." 

A  burst  of  oaths  followed,  but  the  woman 
showed  no  surprise,  and  made  no  reply.  The 
man  finding  he  really  could  not  get  his  money, 
went  out  to  his  cart  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  pavement,  every  moment  of  waiting  adding 
to  his  wrath,  until  Mr.  Stevens  came  in  sight. 
Then  there  was  an  explosion,  of  course.  Hard 
words  on  both  sides,  for  one  man  was  angry, 
and  the  other  half  tipsy.  Bui  the  money  was 
finally  paid,  the  car-man  departed,  and  Stevens 
entered  the  house  to  visit  his  ill-humor  upon 
his  wife.  She  gave  one  glance  at  his  face,  and 
a  hopeless  ex  preesion  came  over  her  own.  He 
had  been  drinking.  To  the  storm  of  abuse 
which  followed  she  said  not  one  word,  only 
when  it  ended  she  murmured,  as  if  to  herself, 
"  I  am  sorry  we  came  here  I"  ^ 

"  Why  isn't  supper  ready  ?"  Mr.  husband  be- 
gan again.  "  When  a  man  has  worked  hard 
all  day  at  work  like  this,  the  least  a  woman  can 
do  is  to  have  his  supper  ready  for  him  at 
night." 

The  womaa  glanced  around  tlie  rpom  filled 
with  the  confused  mass  of  furniture,  and  her 
temper,  which  she  had  controlled  thus  far,  got 
the  better  of  her,  and  she  burst  into  an  angry 
retort,  to  the  effect  that  he  ought  to  have  been 


there  helping  her,  instead  of  wasting  his  time 
and  money  at  the  dram-shop. 

"  If  I  can't  come  home  without  being  jibused, 
I'll  go  away  again  !*'  and  he  turned  to  the  door. 
She  sprang  up  and  intercepted  him,  and  her 
fear  overcame  her  anger,  as  she  pleaded  in 
eager,  even  affectionate  tones,  that  he  would 
stay  with  her.  But  he  pushed  her  rudely  to 
one  side,  and  went  out,  slamming  the  door 
after  him.  She  dropped  wearily  upon  a  bundle 
of  bedding,  and  lay  there,  her  face  in  her 
hands,  without  sound  or  motion.  But  presently 
the  ohildren  came  clamoring  to  her  asking  for 
their  supper.  She  arose,  and  with  a  patient 
air,  as  of  one  who  performs  a  duty,  yet  who  has 
no  heart  in  the  doing  of  it,  she  set  bread  and 
batter  and  oold  meat  before  the  children.  8fae 
tried  to  eat  herself,  but  the  first  mouthful 
seemed  to  choke  her,  and  she  did  not  take  a 
seoond.  Her  little  one^  who  .put  up  its  tin; 
iace  for  a  kisii,  she  took  up  mechanically,  and 
in  a  way  pitiful  to  see  kissed  and  fondled  it 

When  the  vigorous  yonng  appetites  wereaat- 
isfied,  she  called  the  older  of  the  children  to 
her  assistance,  and  by  dint  of  hard  lifting  they 
managed  to  dear  the  room  of  its  superflaoos 
furniture,  dragging  heavy  articles  up  the  stairs, 
and  putting  things  to  rights.  After  the  light 
had  waned,  and  she  had  put  the  children  to 
bed  in  beds  hastily  made  upon  the  floor,  ahe 
still  kept  on  with  iht  air  of  one  who  does  not 
care  to  work,  yet  who  cares  still  lees  to  be  idle. 
At  every  footfall  outside  she  would  start  and 
listen.  But  the  hours  went  wearily  on,  and 
her  husband  failed  to  oome. 

At  last,  overcome  by  fatigue  and  sleepiness, 
she  laid  down  upon  a  bed  she  spread  upon  the 
kitchen  floor.  She  had  just  sunk  into  an  on- 
easy  slumber,  when  the  door  was  burst  open, 
and,  with  a  staggering  step,  hear  husband  en- 
tered the  house.  He  said  soareely  a  word,  but 
seeing  the  bed  from  which  ahe  hastily  rose,  he 
flung  himself  heavily  upon  it^  and  was  soon  in 
a  stupor-like  sleep.  The  woman  waited  until 
certain  he  was  so  sound  in  his  drunken  alum- 
ber  that  nothing  would  disturb  him,  and  then 
went  to  him,  and  with  difficulty  turning  him 
from  side  to  side,  she  managed  to  search  all  his 
pockets.  The  explorations,  brought  to  light 
three  pennies— that  was  all.  Alone  in  the 
city,  without  friends,  without  mon^,  and  al- 
most without  food,  three  pennies  was  all  that 
remained  of  the  little  stock  which  they  had 
calculated  would  last  them  until  they  were 
fairly  settled  in  their  new  quarters— a  stock 
which  had  been  saved  up  by  much  care  and 
economy,  by  self-denialri  and  absolute  pinch- 
Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


INTO    TEE    CITY. 


231 


iogB  on  her  part,  and  now  all  gone  as  the  price 
of  one  daj'a  folly.    It  was  hard — verj  hard. 

Yet  this  man  "was  not  alfcogether  an  unkind 
and  inooDBiderate  husband.  For  months  part 
he  had  been  industrious  and  sober.  He  bad 
taken  pains  to  keep  himself  out  of  the  way  of  ' 
temptation,  and  in  the  country  home  which 
they  had  now  left  for  the  city,  temptation  had 
not  come  to  him  at  every  turn  in  his  path. 
Bat  he  had  fancied  that  he  could  do  better  in 
the  city,-  where  he  was  told  work  was  plenty 
snd  wages  high.  His  wife,  too,  a  country 
bred  woman,  had  fancied  the  city  a  kind  of  i 
elyaium,  where  the  sun  always  shone,  and 
where  one  always  dressed  in  holiday  garments. 
She  had  put  aflide  the  remembrance  of  her  hue- 
band's  besetting  sin.  He  had  so  long  lived 
soberly,  that  she  could  not  realize  he  would 
fall  back  into  his  old  habits  again. 

So  they  had  engaged  a  city  house  at  three 
times  the  rent  they  were  paving  in  the  country, 
had  packed  their  few  worldly  goods,  and  that 
day  had  bidden  good-by  to  green  fields  and 
trees,  had  crossed  the  Delaware,  and  were  thus 
installed  in  their  city  quarters.  Mrs.  Stevens 
on  Teaching  the  city  had  hastened  at  once  with 
the  children  to  their  new  abode,  while  Mr. 
Stevens  had  remained  at  the  boat  to  oversee 
the  loading  and  carting  of  the  furniture. 
While  thus  employed  an  acquaintance  had 
ssked  him  to  step  into  the  saloon  over  the  way 
aod  take  a  drink.  The  one  drink  became  two ; 
for,  of  course^  Mr.  Stevens  must  treat  in  return, 
a  thing  he  was  all  the  more  ready  to  do  as  he 
had  money  in  his  pocket. 

On  his  homeward  way  he  had,  now  that  the 
^uor  had  found  its  way  to  his  brain  and 
silenced  all  scruples,  stopped  in  one  of  the 
inany  saloons  that  stand  open  everywhere  in- 
viting the  weak  to  enter.  Here,  after  an 
hoar's  delay,  had  arisen  a  misty  vision  of  the 
^^Bftnanged  home  and  tlie  unpaid  car-man 
Waiting  his  coming,  and  with  some  slight 
qoalms  of  conscience  he  had  turned  his  steps 
^itherward.  The  reader  knows  how  the  day 
ended. 

This  man  was  rich  in  good  resolutions  and 
good  intentions/  but  weak  in  their  fulfilment. 
^  was  sufficiently  strong  in  purpose  not  to  go 
out  of  his  way  to  gratify  his  appetite.  But 
when  temptation  placed  itself  in  his  '^etj  path, 
*^  good  resolutions  vanished — became  ob- 
B^^vued  as  it  were^  and,  for  the  time  being, 
utterly  obliterated  from  his  memory.  Anxious 
^^d  earnest  to  live  soberly,  the  tempter  met 
him,  and  he  was  powerless  to  resist. 

When  wiU  the  time  come  when  society  will 


help  the  poor  struggling  victim  of  appetite  to 
overcome  his  evil  propensities,  and  punish  as 
he  deserves  to  be  punished  the  man  who 
spreads  a  snare  for  his  feet,  and  drags  him  an 
unwilling  but  helpless  victim  down  to  perdition  ? 


CHAPTEB  II. 

<'  Emily  I  Emily  T  The  voice  was  a  shrill 
one,  and  the  woman  who  owned  it  was  thin  and 
careworn,  more  careworn  than  when  we  last 
saw  her  a  few  months  ago.  She  was  slatternly, 
too.  The  hooplesB  dress  hung  in  tatters,  and 
her  sleeves  were  rolled  above  her  elbows. 

"Where  is  that  child  gone?  She's  never 
here  a  minute  at  a  time  I''  Just  at  that  mo- 
ment a  nearly  grown  girl  appeared  turning  a 
distant  corner,  and  seeing  her  mother  appar- 
ently looking  for  her,  hastened  home.  The 
girl  had  a  coarse,  bold  look,  and  in  reply  to 
her  mother's  reproaches,  answered  rudely  and 
sulkily. 

'*  Why  can't  yon  stay  at  home  and  help  me 
a  little  about  my  work  ?" 

."  Because  I'm  not  going  to  be  shut  up  in 
that  court  all  the  tiilne  where  I  can't  see  a 
thing..  There  is  no  use  of  living  in  the  city  if 
I'm  never  going  to  have  any  fun." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  quietly  dressed  lady 
passed  by,  and  Mrs.  Stevens  started  with  a 
gesture  of  recognition. 

•'Mrs.  Cameron  1" 

The  lady  paused,  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
the  speaker. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Stevens,  is  it  you  ?  You  have 
altered  so  in  the  past  few  months  that  I  hardly 
recognized  you.  How  are  yon  all,  and  how 
do  you  like  living  in  the  city  ?  " 

The  lady  was  a  former  neighbor  of  Mrs. 
Stevens  when  she  had  lived  in  the  country. 

^*  O  Mrs.  Cameron  1"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stevens, 
in  a  genuine  burst  of  emotion,  ''  I  wish  I  was 
safe  back  again  in  '  Rotten  Row,'  so  I  do  t  The 
Row  was  not  very  stylish,  but  it  was  at  least 
comfortable.  Here  there  is  only  one  room  on 
a  floor,  and  it  is  nothing  but  travel  up  and 
down  stairs,  up  and  down  stairs  all  day  long, 
until  my  poor  back  is  almost  broken." 

" How  is  Mr.  Stevens  doing?" 

"Oh  !  don't  ask  me  I  I  would't  tell  you  a 
word,  only  you  have  been  bo  kind  to  me,  and 
such  a  good  friend  to  him,  that  I  think  you 
once  helped  him  to  do  better.  And  now  he  is 
going  from  bad  to  worse.  I  believe  he  tries  to 
keep  sober,  and  he  makes  plenty  of  promises. 
But  when  he  has  done  a  day's  work,  and  is 
coming  home  tired  with  his  money  in  his 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


2S2 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


pocket,  there  are  liquor  saloons  all  aroond 
eTery  where,  and  before  he  knows  it  he  finds 
himself  inside  of  one  of  them.  If  he  don't  go 
in  of  himself,  there  are  plenty  of  men,  who  know 
he  has  got  mon<)y,  ready  to  ask  him  in,  and 
then  sometimes  when  he  comes  out  he  has  no 
money  left.  It  beats  all  what  devils  there  are 
in  the  world  V* 

Her  language  was  certainly  strong,  hot  no 
stronger,  it  may  be,  than  the  droamstaooea 
justified. 

''I  have  had  to  take  in  washing,"  she  re- 
sumed, ^  to  help  us  along  and  pay  oar  rent. 
If  we  didn't  pay  it  we  should  have  to  march 
quick  enough.'' 

**  What  kind  of  neighbors  have  you  7"  asked 
Mrs.  Cameron,  pained  by  the  woman's  recital 
of  her  troubles,  and  trying  to  introduce  some 
pleasanter  subject. 

^*They  are  quiet  people,  only  Mr.  Burke,  the 
shoemaker,  on  one  side  nearly  drives  me  fran- 
tic with  his  constant  pounding.  I  am  tired 
and  nervous,  and  can't  sund  such  things  as 
some  people  can.  The  Mulvaney's,  on  the 
other  side,  are  Irish,  and  I  don't  have  anything 
to  do  with  them,"  said  she,  with  a  little  air  of  \ 
superiority.  "  Bat  Stevens  sometimes  gets  to 
talking  to  them,  and  then,"  said  she  with  a 
sigh,  **  comes  my  worst  trouble.  They  always 
have  whiskey  in  the  house,  and  they  often  ask 
him  to  drink  with  them.  So,  when  I  think  I 
have  him  safe  home  for  the  night,  they  often 
invite  him  in  there,  and  then  he  always  comes 
home  the  worse  for  drink.  I  have  spoken  to 
our  landlord  about  it,  but  he  says  the  Mulva- 
neys  are  quiet  folks  that  always  pay  their  rent, 
and  so  long  as  they  don't  make  any  disturb- 
ance he  can't  interfere.  He  tells  me,  too,  that 
I  mustn't  mind  a  little  drink  in  a  man.  That 
all  men  will  take  a  little  now  and  then.  As  if 
there  was  any  more  reason  for  them  to  do  it 
than  for  women  1 

'*  I  know  Stevens  would  do  right  if  he  ooald 
only  be  let  alone;  but  in  the  city  he  can't  turn 
around  without  seeing  something  to  put  him  in 
mind  of  liquor." 

At  this  moment  a  policeman  approached, 
dragging  rather  than  leading  a  lad  of  ten  or 
twelve  years  of  age. 

"Is  this  your  boy,  ma'am?"  he  asked, 
roughly. 

*•  Yes!    What  is  the  matter,  Bill?" 

''Matter  enough,"  answered  the  policeman 
Uf  the  boy,  who  sulkily  hung  his  head. 
**  I've  had  my  eye  on  tlie  rascal  for  some  time, 
and  it's  my  opinion  he^s  just  about  as  bad  a 
one  as  nms  the  streets.    If  I  have  hold  of  him 


again,  he'll  go  to  the  House  of  Befuge.  Why 
don't  you  look  after  him,  ma'am  ?" 

"  I  do  try  to^  and  tell  him  to  go  to  school. 
Bat  he  is  getting  so  big  and  unruly  he  won't 
imnd  me." 

Mrs.  Cameron,  the  first  moment  an  opportu- 
nity presented,  bid  a  hasty  adieu,  her  hesrt 
sore  for  her  old  neighbors  who,  in  leaving  the 
country  ibr  the  city  seemed  to  have  jumped  oat 
of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire.  Looking  bick 
as  she  was  about  to  tarn  the  corner  of  the 
street,  mother,  son,  a»d  policeman  had  distp- 
peared,  bat  £mily,  the  daughter,  was  standing 
near  the  court  entrance,  bandying  words  with 
the  idlers  in  front  of  the  hose-house  close  bj; 
for  my  story  dates  back  before  the  disbandlDg 
of  volunteer  fire  companies. 

'^  Unfortunate  wifel  unfortunate  children  f 
thought  she^  **and  husband  most  unfortunate 
of  all  I" 

I  have  not  tried  to  write  a  story.  I  hive 
only  sketched,  in  perhaps  too  hasty  oatllne^ 
what  life  in  the  city  may  prove  to  some.  To 
those  who  possess  wealth,  intelligence^  sod 
fixed  moral  principles,  the  city  may  open  up 
new  fields  of  social,  moral,  intellectual,  sod 
esthetic  enjoyment  But  to  the  poor,  and  to 
the  physically  and  morally  weak,  the  city  is 
filled  with  evils,  with  temptations  and  Btum* 
blingblocks.  I  firmly  believe  all  children  are 
better  out  of  it  than  in.  There  is  something  ao 
entirely  out  of  keeping  between  a  fresh,  young, 
innocent  nature,  and  a  city  life  and  surrooad- 
ings.  City  children  become  so  early  used  to 
the  familiar  sight  and  knowledge  of  evil,  tbat 
they  soon  outgrow  their  childish  nature.  If 
they  belong  to  the  poorer  classes,  and  are 
brought  in  contact  with  evil,  they  soon  become 
vitiated ;  or,  if  guarded  by  loving  and  carefol 
parents,  who  have  pecuniary  means  with  which 
to  evince  their  love  and  care,  they  develop 
early  into  precocious  and  artificial  men  and 
women,  and  we  have  no  more  "old-iashioDed' 
girls  and  boys. 

I  do  not  care  to  describe  the  career  of  the 
Stevens  family  further.  Those  of  you  who  ti« 
acquainted  with  city  life  and  city  ways  csn 
easily  finish  the  sketch.  In  it  must  be  broogbt 
the  station-house,  the  police-court,  and  the  fine 
which  fiills  not  upon  the  man  who  sells  the 
liquor,  nor  upon  the  man  who  drinks  it,  M 
upon  the  helpless,  sufiering  wife,  who  miw*? 
perhaps,  make  it  up  firom  her  hard-earned 
wages  at  the  wash-tub,  or  else  suffer  the  dis- 
grace of  having  a  husband  sent  to  prison.  For 
after  a  man  has  passed  through  a  dnwken  de- 
Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


KING    JAMES 


233 


baach  and  reached  the  police  Btation,  he  seldom 
baa  any  money  left  with  which  to  pay  fined. 

Jt  is  well  that  this  sombre  fttory  should  have 
I  little  less  sombre  ending.  So  let  me  say  that 
ft  year  from  their  entrance  into  the  city  found 
the  Steyenses  in  the  country  again,  only  too 
pleased  to  settle  down  in  their  old  neighbor- 
hood. Mrs,  Stevens  was  thinner,  sharper,  and 
qnicker-tongaed  than  ever,  perhaps,  but  phe 
had  nevertheless  developed  a  strange  kind  of 
gentleness  and  patience  that  showed  itself  at 
times.  It  was  as  though,  in  passing  through 
the  fire  of  trouble,  the  dross  of  her  nature  had 
separated  from  the  few  grains  of  fine  gold,  and 
while  both  still  remained  in  the  cracibfe,  each 
was  distinct  from  the  other. 

The  children,  though  sadly  injured  by  run- 
nbgwild  in  a  populous  and  somewhat  ques- 
tionable neighborhood,  it  is  to  be  hoped  are 
not  mined  past  redemption.  Like  Adam  and 
Eve,  they  have  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
and  henceforth  shall  know  good  and  evil.  Let 
us  hope  they  may  yet  be  given  the  power  and 
the  inclination  of  choosing  the  good  instead  of 
the  evil. 

Mr.  Stevens  came  back  a  broken  and  spirit- 
less man.  Conscious  of  his  own  weakness  and 
powerlessness  to  resist  temptation,  yet  more 
earnest  than  ever  in  a  desire — which  has 
scarcely  enough  Will  in  it  to  be  a  purpose — to 
escape  from  the  thraldom  of  his  appetite,  he  is 
truly  a  man  to  be  pitied — though  to  no  one  in 
the  world  is  society  and  law  more  pitiless  than 
to  such  unfortunates  as  he.  There  is  little 
hope  for  hina  until  the  strong  arm  of  the  law 
shall  stretcli  itself  out  for  him  rather  than 
against  him  ;  when  it  shall  punish  those  who 
I  place  atumblingblocks  in  his  way,  instead  of 
visiting  the  punishment  upon  him  for  falling 
where  he  is  groping  blindly. 

There  is  one  place  where  such  as  he  may 
find  shelter  and  rest — a  place  where  God  has 
heard  the  prayer,  **  Lead  us  not  into  tempta- 
tion," because  it  has  been  uttered  fervently 
and  earnestly  by  His  people,  whom  He  has 
answered — as  He  answers  all  prayer — by  put- 
ting it  into  the  hearts  of  those  who  otter  it  the 
thought  and  the  way  to  work  out  their  own 
salvation :  "  A  city  where  the  sign  of  a  liquor 
saloon  does  not  stare  you  in  the  face  at  every 
turn ;  taverns  without  bars ;  street  corners  with- 
out half-tipsy  loungers ;  streets  without  drunk- 
ards reeling  along  them ;  days  of  peace  and 
nights  of  perfect  quiet  There  are  factories 
where  sober  employers  and  foremen  direct  the 
operations  of  sober  workmen,  who  on  Saturday 
night  take  home  their  weekly  earnings  entire 


to  their  families — men  who,  going  home  soberly 
at  the  end  of  the  week,  spend  the  Sabbath  at 
church  and  in  the  bosoms  of  their  own  house- 
holds—who have  no  practical  knowledge  of 
'blue  Mondays,'  and  are  living  examples  that 
it  is  possible,  in  all  times  and  seasons,  in  all 
degrees  of  heat  and  cold,  of  enforced  idleness 
or  necessary  overwork,  not  only  to  abstain  from 
the  use  of  intoxicating  liquors,  but  to  feel  in 
their  hearts,  and  to  evince  by  their  unanimous 
declaration,  that  they  are  better  without  such 
so-called  stimulants." 

A  city  from  whose  limits  rumsellers  are 
banished  must  be  indeed  a  city  of  refuge  for 
unfortunates  like  Stevens.  Let  us  hope  that  he 
may  yet  find  his  way  to  Vineland. 

IM  ■  *       

KING  JAMES. 

**Kiiig  Jaraes  the  First."— Gail  Hawltok. 

3T  KATRBRIIIE  K.  FTLSR. 

AND  this  is  young  King  James  the  First, 
This  dainty  monarch  only  two  years  old. 
Who  rules  the  small  dominion  of  his  father's  honre. 

And  reigns  sapreme,  with  kingliness  untold; 
His  crown  the  golden  of  his  carls, 

His  robe  of  state  that  same  soft  balr> 
That  trembles  half  way  to  bis  waist, 

And  quivers  on  the  restless  air. 
0  regal  king  among  all  kings  1 

How  scornfully  he  tosses  his  small  head — 
Looks  down  at  me,  with  disdain  in  his  glance, 

As  if  to  say :  "  'Tis  time  you  were  abed !" 
But  when  I  speak  of  Fairy  Land, 

And  midnight  greens  where  elflns  danooi 
He  sidles  toward  me  with  his  chair, 

And  smiles  all  cheerily  askance. 
This  is  a  king,  a  busy  king, 

Who  patters  restlessly  across  the  room, 
Who  proudly  carries  for  a  drum  a  pan, 

And  for  a  charger  rides  a  harnessed  broom. 
Fights  battles  with,  imagined  foes. 

With  chairs  drawn  up  in  battle  array. 
Flits  like  an  aid>de-oamp  from  Add 

Of  strife,  and  sleeps,  grown  tired  of  play. 
0  weary  monarch,  fallen  asleep, 

I  can  but  ponder  at  the  time  to  come. 
When  life  shall  hold  for  you  a  wider  realm 

Than  childhood's  in  the  tender  heart  of  home; 
When  little  hands,  grown  strong,  shall  strive 

Uppn  life's  struggling  battle-plain; 
When  little  heart,  that  knows  but  joy. 

Shall  pulse  in  throes  of  anguished  pain. 
Like  good  fays  at  the  christenings, 

One  wish  I  make  aboTC  your  dreaming  face : 
May  life's  best  truths  all  centre  in  your  soul. 

And  holiness  find  there  its  resting-place, 
That  in  your  reign  o'er  hearts  of  earth 

Your  sceptre  may  be  that  of  love. 
Gracious,  benignant,  unto  men 

A  symbol  of  that  Rule  abore. 


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EVElSTIINrGS   WITH   THE   FOETS. 


MOTHER'S  SONG. 

DON'T  grow  old  too  fast,  my  sweet! 
Stay  a  little  while 
In  this  pleasant  baby-land, 
Sunned  by  mother's  smile. 

Grasp  not  with  thy  dimpled  hands 

At  the  world  outside ; 
They  are  Still  too  rosy  soft. 

Life  too  cold  and  wide. 

Be  not  wistful,  sweet  blue  eyes ! 

Find  your  rest  in  mine, 
Which  through  life  shall  watchful  be 

To  keep  all  tears  from  thine.. 

Be  not  restless,  little  feet  I 

Lie  within  my  hand ; 
Far  too  round  these  tiny  soles 

Yet  to  try  to  stand. 

For  awhile  be  mine  alone, 

So  helpless  and  so  dear; 
By  and  by  thou  must  go  forth, 

But  now,  sweet,  slumber  hero. 

ANGEL   FOOTFALLS. 

BY  R.  W.  EASTBRBROOKS. 

PITTER-PATTBR  on  the  carpet 
Comes  the  sound  of  tiny  feet. 
And  the  blending  of  their  footfalls 

Makes  a  melody  complete. 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  sunlight. 

Then  it  seems  a  oarol  gay ; 
And  they  enter  with  the  moonbeams, 

But  their  joyous  fairy  lay 
Changes  to  a  soothing  nootnm, 

As  the  night  snooeeds  the  day. 

Other  people  cannot  hear  them. 

It  is  granted  mo  alone 
To  discern  a  precious  presence 

In  each  timid  tripping  tone. 
Some  have  listened ;  but  my  wee  ones 

Shrink  from  stranger?.     So,  you  see. 
Outside  ears  have  never  heard  them ; ' 

They  but  come  to  comfort  me. 
I  alone  may  know  my  darlings 

By  their  footsteps'  melody. 

One  was  taken  while  he  studied 
How  alone  to  cross  the  room ; 

And  I  hear  his  timid  stepping 
Out  into  the  midnight  gloom. 

Now  he  totters !    Insecurely 
Dimpled  feet  have  touched  the  floor, 
(234) 


And  he  falls,  but  angel  bro'thers 

Lift  him,  as  in  days  before; 
And  again  he  ventures  forward, 

Pit-p»t!  pit-pat!  o'er  and  o'er. 

So  I  recognize  each  stepping ; 

And  though  dear  ones  all  have  flown 
From  beyond  my  longing  yision, 

I  am  never  quite  alone. 
€)ld  and  deaf  to  earthly  soundings, 

I  oan  yet  dif»oern  a  jstrafn 
Keener  hearings  ne'er  discover; 

All  their  listening  is  vain ! 
And  I  know  by  every  footfall 

Barthly  loss  is  heavenly  gain. 

Phrtnolut/icod  JournaL 


MY  OLD  LOVE. 

THEAR  in  the  thicket  the  brooklet's  fall; 
A  thrush  on, the  lilac  spray 
Sings,  as  of  old,  the  vesper-song 

Of  the  slowly  waning  day ; 
And  the  fragrance  comes  down  from  the  cheftflot 
trees 
In  the  meadow  where  daisies  Blow, 
As  it  came  when  the  tender  twilight  came, 
In  the  springs  of  long  ago. 

Far  over  the  dark  and  shadowy  wood;, 

Comes  floating  the  ehurch-beirs  chime, 
And  I  wander  and  dream  in  the  fading  light, 

As  I  dreamed  in  the  olden  time, 
When  I  lingered  under  the  chestnut  boughs. 

Till  hushed  was  the  sweet  bird's  strain, 
And  the  shimmering  light  of  the  moonbeams  fell 

On  the  leaves  like  a  silver  rain. 

But  never  again  shall  I  wait  and  watch. 

In  the  hush  of  the  sweet  spring  night. 
For  a  step  in  the  depth  of  the  rustling  copee, 

And  a  gleam  of  a  garment  white. 
And  never  again,  'neath  the  dew-gemmed  flowers, 

Shall  linger  my  love  and  I, 
When  the  tremulous  stars  through  the  fleMj  hsn 

Look  out  in  the  western  sky. 

Yet  a  joy  which  is  nameless  and  strangely  sad 

Throbs  oft  in  ihy  heart's  deep  core. 
As  the  sweet,  sweet  love.of  the  days  long  fled 

Is  thrilled  into  life  once  more. 
Oh !  dear  was  I  to  the  heart  that  is  cold, 

And  her  love  o'ershadows  me  still; 
And  the  stars  shine  down  on  her  grave  to-nij^bt 

In  the  lone  churchyard  on  the  hill 

Chamber^  J<mm°^ 

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EVENlNGa    WITH    TEE   F0ET8. 


235 


LIFF8  PITY. 

ITHIKE  tbe  pity  of  this  life  is  love ; 
For  though  my  rosebud,  thrilling  into  life. 
Kissed  by  the  loTe-beams  of  the  glowing  san, 
Meets  his  fond  gate  with  her  pnre,  tender  eyes. 
Filled  with  the  rapture  of  a  glad  surprise 

That  from  his  light  her  glory  shall  be  won ; 
Tety  when  into  her  rery  heart  be  sighs, 
Behold  I  she  puts  away  her  life^-and  dies. 

I  think  the  pity  of  this  life  is  Ioto; 
Beoause,  to  me  but  little  joy  has  oome 

Of  all  that  most  I  hoped  would  make  life's  sun ; 
For  thoqgh  the  perfumed  seasons  come  and  go, 
The  spring  birds  warble,  e'en  the  rivers  flow 

To  meet  some  lore  that  to  their  own  doth  run. 
My  bad  of  love  hath  bloomed  for  other  eyes, 
And  I  am  left — to  sorrow  and  to  sighs. 

I  think  the  pity  of  this  life  is  love; 

For  from  our  love  we  gather  all  life's  pain. 

And  place  too  oft  our  hearts  on  earthly  shrines, 
Where  we  would  kneel — but  where,  alas !  we  fall 
Beneath  a  shadow  ever  past  recall : 

We  seek  for  gold,  when  'tis  but  dross  that  shines. 
Then—if  we  may  not  turn  our  hearts  above— 
I  know  the  pity  of  this  life  is  love. 

Ov€rl€tnd  Jfontkfy, 
idi^o—-^ 

FAITH. 

BT  PHOSBn   CART. 

DEAR,  gentle  Faith !  on  the  sheltered  poroh 
She  used  to  sit  by  the  hour. 
As  still  and  white  as  the  whitest  rose 

That  graced  the  vines  of  ber  bower. 
She  watched  the  motes  in  the  sun,  the  bees. 

And  the  glad  birds  oome  and  go ; 
The  butterflies,  and  the  children  bright 

That  chased  them  to  and  fro. 
She  saw  them  happy,  one  and  all. 

And  she  said  that  God  was  good ; 
Though  she  never  had  walked  on  the  sweet  green 

grass. 
And,  alas !  she  never  would ! 

She  saw  the  happy  maid  fttlfll 

Her  woman's  destiny ; 
The  trusting  bride  on  the  lover's  arm, 

And  the  babe  on  the  mother's  knee. 
She  folded  meek  her  empty  hands. 

And  she  blest  them,  all  and  each. 
While  the  treasure  that  she  coveted 

Was  put  beyond  ber  reach. 
"Tea,  if  God  wills  it  so/'  she  said, 

"  Even  so  'tis  mine  to  live. 
What  to  withhold  he  knoweth  best, 

As  well  as  what  to  give !" 

At  last,  for  her,  the  vory  sight 

Of  the  good,  fair  earth  was  done. 
She  conld  not  reach  the  porch,  nor  see 

The  grass,  nor  tha  motes  in  the  sun. 
VOL.  XXXYIII,— 16. 


Yet  still  her  smile  of  sweet  content 

Made  heavenly  all  the  place 
As  if  they  sat  about  her  bed 

Who  see  the  Father's  fkee ; 
For  to  His  will  she  bent  her  head. 

As  bends  to  the  rain  the  rose: 
"  We  know  not  what  is  best,"  she  said ; 

**  We  only  know  He  knows !" 

Poor,  crippled  Faith !  glad,  happy  Faith ! 

Bven  in  aiBietion  blest; 
For  she  made  the  cross  we  thought  so  hard 

A  sweet  support  and  rest 
Wise,  trusting  Faith !  when  sha  gave  her  hand 

To  one  we  could  not  see. 
She  told  us  all  she  was  happier 

Than  we  could  ever  be* 
And  we  knew  she  thonght  how  her  feet,  that  ne'er 

On  the  good,  green  earth  had  trod. 
Would  walk  at  last  on  the  lily-beds 

Tlut  bloom  in  the  smile  of  God ! 


TWO  SONOa 

BT  BEY.  I.  B.  TARBOX. 

TWO  songs  go  up  forever  fk'om  the  earth. 
One  the  fall  choral  swell  of  joy  and  gladness; 
The  other  is  a  strain  unknown  to  mirth. 

The  low,  sad  wail  of  mortal  grief  and  sadness. 
Turn  where  we  may,  in  lands  afar  or  near, 

These  songs  of  joy  and  woe  are  still  ascending ; 
Voices  of  love,  and  hope,  and  gladsome  ebeer. 
With  notes  of  sorrow  are  forever  blending. 

Here  ruddy  health  goes  singing  on  its  way. 

There  the  pale  sulTerer  on  bis  ooncb  is  lying; 
Here  the  glad  shout  of  children  at  their  play. 

There  the  sharp  fiurewell  cries  about  the  dying; 
Here  a  proud  mother  walking  in  the  light. 

Because  her  darling  son  has  come  to  honor. 
And  there  another  sobbing  out  the  night. 

Whose  darling  son  has  broughtdisgrace  apon  her. 

Hark  the  glad  music  on  the  morning  air, 

When  the  sweet  summer  day  is  just  awaking ; 
And  hark  afar,  those  aocenu  of  despair. 

On  the  wild  shores  where  stormy  waves  are 
breaking. 
Here  rings  aloud  some  merry  marriage  boll, 

And  some  fair  bride  goes  with  her  maids  attended ; 
And  here  is  tolling  the  sad  fanerel  knell. 

As  some  yoBug  happy  mother's  life  is  ended. 

And  so  moves  on  the  pilgrimage  of  earth ; 

Our  pathway  now  is  light,  now  dark  and  dreary. 
The  hours  of  grief  press  close  the  hours  of  mirrh. 

And  happy  days  give  place  to  days  aweary ; 
But  in  those  habitations  of  the  blest, 

In  that  far  land  beyond  the  gloomy  river. 
The  tired  soul  shall  find  its  long-sought  re»t, 

And  the  glad  songs  of  joy  shall  flow  forever ! 


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THE   HOME   CIROLE. 


XDITED  BY  A  LADT. 


THE  LIONS  IN  THE  WAY. 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  baa  as  ex. 
oellent  artiole  in  a  rooant  aanbar  of  the  JniU- 
pendentf  wherein  she  atteaipta  to  ahow  why  women 
do  not  keep  op  with  men  in  mental  improyement 
She  saji: 

"  Bojs  ^nd  girli  begin  by  being  aetonishingly 
alike.  Up  to  a  certain  point  they  go  hand  in  hand. 
The  first  thing  we  know  the  road  iplits,  and,  before 
one  can  tell  what  has  happened,  or  why,  or  how, 
he  is  tripping  down  his  side  of  it,  she  hers,  and  off 
they  go,  *  waging  their  hands  for  a  last  farewell ' 
to  that  commanity  of  facnlties,  tastes  and  inter- 
ests, that  possible  (sometimes  practical)  likeness 
of  mental  and  moral  calibre  which  alone  can  con- 
stitute, in  any  suflSoient  rense  of  the  term,  equality 
between  two  people.  Now  and  then  a  woman 
f  cuts  across  lots;'  now  and  then  a  man  goes  hon- 
estly  oat. to  meet  her;  and  occasionally,  through 
thickets,  and  over  rocks,  and  across  briers,  the 
two  clasp  bonds  with  an  appreciation  of  mntnal 
need,  and  a  fitness  for  one  another  which  would 
have  been  unattainable  had  they  gone  on  tossing 
roses  and  fljing  kites  at  each  other  across  the 
growing  distanoe  of  their  several  ways.  But  this 
is  only  that  happy  exception  which  prores  the  sad 
rule.  Mature  life,  which  develops  the  nuku,  stunts 
the  woman.  He  goes  on.  She  stands  still.  He 
unfolds.  She  droops.  He  puts  himself  at  eom- 
pound  interest.  She  does  well  if  she  save  her 
principal  iotaeU  This  is  especially  noticeable 
amoDg  what  we  call  'educated' 'men  and  wo- 
men." 
And  now  she  proceeds  to  give  us  the  reason : 
"The  average  young  woman  expends  enough 
'  inventive  power,  enough  financial  shrewdness, 
em  ugh  close  foresight,  enough  pertnrbation  of 
spirit,  enough  presence  of  mind,  enough  patience 
of  hope  and  anguish  of  regret,  upon  one 
season's  outfit  —  I  had  almost  said  upon  one 
single  street  suit — to  make  an  excellent  bank 
cashier  or  a  comfortable  graduate  of  a  theo> 
logical  seminary.  •  •  ♦  I  once  saw  a  young 
lady  ride  the  whole  way  from  Portland  to  Boston 
in  the  cars  without  once  leaning  back  against  the 
cushioned  seat,  so  that  she  should  not  tumble  her 
black  silk  sash.  A  barber  told  me  that  he  'curled 
,a  jouDg  lady'  once  for  a  ball,  and  she  had  two 
hundred  and  forty- seven  curls  when  she  was  done. 
*  And  I  began  at  10  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  I 
never  got  through  with  her  until  9  o'clock  at 
night!'  Pr.  Dio  Lewis  tells  of  a  being  which  put 
four  hundred  and  twenty-five  ([  think)  yards  of  ' 
(336) 


trimming  upon  ona  single  dress.  •  •  •  Pqv 
hundred  and  twenty -five  yarda  I  CeneeiTe  of  the 
Hon.  Charles  Sumner  or  Professor  Loggfellow  ii 
four  hundred  and  twenty-five  yards  of  trimmmf  I 
Imagine  the  speech  on  San  Domingo,  or  tfci 
**  Psalm  of  Life,"  written  in  a  black  aUk  sash  Ued 
in  a  snarl  to  the  anther's  coat-tails,  he  pavshig  st 
every  classic  metaphor,  or  at  the  eloee  of  eack 
martial  stansa,  to  see  if  he  had  tumbled  hiandf 
behind!  Fancy  Brown  Seqnard  at  a  eonsolts- 
tion  in  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  curls.  Pie 
ture  him  timing  the  pulse  of  a  dying  man  wiU 
one  hand  and  tightening  his  hair  pins  with  tk« 
other." 

WHOM  WOMEN  SHOULD  NOT  MABRY. 

IN  the  August  nnmber  of  the  Overland  Jfoa(% 
Mrs.  Sarah  B.  Cooper  furnishes  the  third  of  s 
series  of  articles  on  "Ideal  Womanhood."  We 
extract  from  the  artiole  the  following  paragrapb 
descriptive  of  an  unworthy  object  of  a  worth; 
love: 

"To  marry  simply  from  love,  without  bsiig 
able  to  give  a  sensible,  judicious  reason  for  thit 
love ;  without  being  able,  alter  a  careful  analjsiii 
to  discover  a  legitimate  foundation  for  that  lore, 
would  be  quite  as  irrational  and  disastrous  ai  (o 
marry  from  mere  mercenary  or  social  coosidenr 
tions — perhaps,  even  more  so.    In  matters  of  nch 
deep  moment,  there  should  be  a  wise  interblend* 
ing  of  feeling  and  judgment    Reason,  cantiws 
and  sure-footed,  is  too  apt  to  fall  in  the  rear; 
while  passion,  reckless  and  nimble,  takes  thelsad 
as  guide.    A  premium  on  the  passional  is  suis  w 
involve  a  discount  on  the  rational.     Love  for  » 
man — ardent,  soulful  love — is  certainly  one  of  lb« 
most  potential  of  reasons  for  marrying  him;  bot 
there  may  be  equally  valid  reasons  why  marriage 
should  never  take  place.     A  man  addicted  to 
habits  of  public  or  private  dissipation,  no  matter 
what  his  social  altitude  may  be — a  man  vbo  ii 
afflicted  with  constitutional  weariness,  inooeeBtef 
all  ambition  to  achieve  or  to  excel — a  man  wboM 
temperamental  tendencies  are  in  direotantagooisn 
to  one's  own — a  man  who  is  churlish,  undemoB- 
strative,  and  reticent  of  word  and  deed,  who  iinato- 
rally  selfish,  loving  himself  just  a  litUe  better  tbaa 
all  the  world  besidea—a  man  who  has  bad  blood 
as  an  inheritance  from  an  nnregenerate  anoeeti7i 
however  irresponsible  himself—- a  man  posfsniag 
a  naturally  despotic  nature,  with  a  native  tendeoej 
to  look  down  upon  woman  as  a  second-rats  order 
of  being,  at  beft— a  man  who  shows  n0  ebJraliie 


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TSE   SOME    CIRCLE. 


237 


l)earing,  no  delicate  courtesy  toward  womaB,  who 
Cfto  speak  lightly  of  female  virtue,  perpetrate  a 
nthlesfl  joke  at  the  expense  of  her  chastity,  and 
flippantly  declare  that  'the  hest  of  women  are  sab- 
jeet  to  attacks  of  moral  yertigo'— a  man  who 
manifests  little  or  no  affection  for  his  mother  or 
sister;  a  man  poseeasing  these  characteristics,  or 
any  one  of  them,  can  never  malie  a  woman  serenely 
happy.  For  deliverance  fh>m  all  snoh,  let  erery 
troe,  womanly  heart  send  the  litany  heaven- 
ward!" 


WOMAN'S  NATURAL  GUARDIANS. 

THAT  lively,  pnngent,  and  slightly  eccentric 
writer,  writes  as  follows  of  "Woman's  Natural 
Goardians,"  in  Harper^t  Baxar : 

"  The  natural  guardians  of  a  woman  are  her 
father  and  husband.  They,  of  (heir  own  free  will 
and  choice,  assumed  her  life,  and  it  is  their  shame 
if  they  do  not  provide  for  her.  But  nobody  else 
is  her  natural  guardian.  Upon  no  one  else  has 
she  an  unspoken  claim.  Into  no  other  home  than 
theirs  has  she  an  undisputed  right  to  enter,  and 
ao  other  doors  is  it  impossible  justly  to  close 
against  her. 

/'A  father  dies,  leaving  his  family  penniless. 
It  is  a  wrong  thing  to  do,  but  men  will  sometimes 
do  it.    We  should  all  think  it  selfish  and  unmanly 
for  the  sons  to  go  on  their  way,  and  leave  the 
daughters  to  go  on  theirs,  unhelped.    It  is,  hap- 
pily, a  sight  we  seldom  do  see.    I  often  wonder 
at  the  bravery,  fidelity,  and  delicacy  with  which 
boys  assume  a  burden  devolved  upon  them  often 
through  what  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  the 
improvidence  or  incapacity  of  their  fathers.     They 
'  fight  the  bitter  fight  for  two,'  or  three,  or  a  dozen 
without  taking  on  airs,  simply  because  it  is  the 
:   thmg  to  do,  and  never  imagine  themselves  heroic. 
Bat  just  as  disgraceful  as  it  would  be  for  the  boys 
to  neglect  their  sisters  is  it  for  sisters  supinely  to 
permit  themselves  to  be  aburden  upon  their  brothers. 
A  sister  has  no  such  claim  upon  her  brother  as  it 
is  ever  safe  to  presume  on.    She  cannot,  after  ar- 
riving at  maturity,  be  honorably  supported  by  him 
unless  at  his  expressed  and  perfectly  untrammelled 
desire.    Even  then  the  connection  may  not  be  free 
from  embarrassment    I  can  hardly  conceive  of  a 
case  in  which  independence  would  not  be  prefera- 
ble.   For  a  time  the  common  support  may  not  be 
onerous,  and  the  common  home  may  be  delight- 
fal.    But,  by  and  by,  the  brother  forms  new  at- 
tachments, and  his  marriage  puts  a  new  face  on 
matters.    He  must  either  maintain  two  establish- 
ments, which  he  may  be  far  from  able  to  do,  or  he 
must  have  wife  and  sister  in  the  same;  and  very 
few  houses  were  ever  built  large  enough  for  such 
an  arrangement    Men  and  their  wives,  sisters, 
and  mothers  may  all  be  saints ;  but  when  the  code 
of  laws  regarding  married  women  is  perfected,  it 


will  be  a  state-prison  offence  for  a  man  ever  to 
propose  to  his  wife  in  e«te  or  in  pone,  to  live  in 
the  family  with  his  female  relatives.  If  his  wifs 
propose  it,  or  they  invite  and  she  accept,  that  is 
her  own  affair;  hut  for  a  man  to  arrange  it,  and 
call  that  providing  for  his  wife,  is  a  part  of  the 
naive  and  touching  blindness  which  distinguishes 
men  in  their  conduct  of  delicate  domMtic  affairs. 
A  girl  must  then  be  in  some  sense  oast  off  by  her 
brother,  or  she  must  be  a  superfluous  member  of 
his  household,  and  uncertain  at  any  time  whether 
she  may  net  l>e  a  burdensome  and  undesired  one. 
The  time  may  come  when  she  will  he  needed  and 
summoned ;  hut  how  much  better  for  her  to  be 
self-stfstalnhig  IVom  the  beginning,  and  be  sum- 
moned !  This  does  not  necessarily  involve  isola- 
tion or  even  separation  from  her  brother ;  but  it 
does  involve  a  partnership  whose  benefit  shall  be 
reciprocal,  and  in  whose  existenee  both  shall  have 
power  of  choice." 


MEN  AND  MATRIMONY. 

MRS.  CROLT  is  writing  an  excellent  series  of 
**  Papers  on  Marriage"  for  Demorett'*  Monthly, 
In  the  September  number  she  discourses  on  the 
"  Duties  of  Husbands."  There  is  much  truth  in 
the  following: 

**  It  is  the  habit  to  credit  women  and  their  ex- 
travagance with  not  only  the  modem  restlessness 
and  unhappiness  in  the  matrimonial  relation,  but 
with  the  modem  tendency  to  old  bachelorhood 
among  men.  This  is  false  and  UQJust — unjust  be- 
cause it  is  false.  The  growth  of  luxury  undoubt- 
edly has  something  to  do  with  the  reluctance  of 
joung  men  to  bind  themselves  by  new  ties  and 
responsibilities ;  but  it  is  less  the  fear  of  increased 
demands  on  the  part  of  women,  than  unwilling- 
ness to  give  up  their  own  pet  indulgences,  to  sub- 
ordinate their  selfish  desires  to  broader  social 
duties.  No  more  than  women,  do  they  understand 
the  duties  involved  in  the  new  relation,  but  they 
somehow  feel  that  it  would  interfere  with  their 
individual  pleasures;  and  their  education  has 
tended,  even  more  than  that  of  women,  to  establish 
a  belief  in  a  divine  right  to  consult  their  own  in- 
clinations, and  secure  their  own  personal  comforts 
at  any  sacrifice." 

In  the  same  article  she  refers  to  the  idea  of  the 
assumed  superiority  of  the  husband,  and  the  ex- 
pected submission  of  the  wife. 

**  How  many  men  have  said  to  themselves,  *  I 
must  begin  as  I  mean  to  go  on.  One  must  be 
matter f  and  it  is  best  that  she  should  know  which 
it  is  to  be.' 

"Now,  the  man  who  marries  with  the  idea  that 
either  must  be  '  master,'  is  not  fit  to  marry  at  all. 
He  ought  to  have  been  a  slave-driver,  and  dropped 
out  of  the  world  altogether  with  that  ancient  and 
once  respectable  institution.    There  is  no  need  for 


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238 


ABTEUB'a   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


niMtonhlp  on  eithtr  side :  in  faet,  St  cannot  exiit 
with  happiness  and  equality  in  mairiagt,  beoaasa 
the  conscioosness  of  submitting  to  wrong  and  hu* 
miliation,  on  the  one  hand,  snd  the  unjust  exereise 
of  unwarranted  power  on  the  other,  would  pobon 
the  very  springs  of  their  enjoyment,  and  sow  the 
seeds  of  misery  for  future  generations.  The  hon- 
est, oheerful,  candid  recognition,  on  the  contrary, 
of  her  woman's  estate,  of  the  importance  of  her 
duties,  of  the  profision  they  require  in  order  thai 


she  may  fblfll  them,  the  exhibition  of  confidence 
in  her  judgment,  of  trust  in  her  affection,  in  her 
willingness,  her  desire  to  do  right,  will  excite  her 
love  and  gratitude  to  the  utmost,  prompt  her  to  a 
thousand  acts  of  wifely  devotion,  and  induce  her 
to  yield  voluntarily  that  respect  for  superior  judg- 
ment, and  that  deference  for  more  practical  knowl- 
edge, which  could  never  have  been  wrested  from 
her  by  any  display  of  insulting  tyranny." 


FRUIT   CULTURE   FOR   L^r^IES. 

BT  THE  AUTHOB  OV  "  OARDENINO  FOB.  I.ADIIS." 


PREPARING  AND  PLANTING  AN 
ORCHARD. 

IN  reference  to  the  preparation  of  the  ground  for 
and  the  planting  of  an  orchard,  the  Onrdtnn't 
Monthly  oifers  the  following  suggestions : 

"We  feel  that  the  advice  constantly  given  to 
subsoil,  and  nnderdrain,  and  manure,  to  the  extent 
of  hundreds  of  dollars  per  acre,  is  too  costly  to 
follow,  and  of  little  use  after  it  is  taken.  If  we 
were  going  to  prepare  a  piece  of  ground  for  an 
orchard,  we  should  manure  it  heavily  and  put  m 
a  crop  of  potatoes ;  then  in  October  manure  again 
lightly,  and  put  in  rye.  On  this,  in  April,  we 
should  sow  red  clover.  The  rye  off,  we  should 
then  consider  it  ready  to  plant  trees.  For  apples, 
pears,  plums,  or  cherries,  we  shonld  mark  out  the 
rows  ten  feet  apart,  and  for  the  trees  ten  feet  from 
each  other.  This  will  be  twice  as  thick  as  they 
will  be  required  when  fully  grown,  but  they  grow 
much  better  when  thick  together ;  and  they  will 
bear  more  thsn  enough  fruit  to  pay  fur  the  room 
they  occupy,  before  the  time  comes  to  cut  every 
other  one  away.  We  say  the  rows  ten  feet  apart, 
but  every  fourth  row  should  be  twelve  feet,  to 
afford  room  to  get  between  the  blocks  with  a  cart. 

*'  Plant  as  early  in  October  as  possible,  but  it 
can  be  continned  until  the  approach  of  frost.  To 
plant,  a  hole  can  be  dug  in  the  stubble  just  large 
enough  to  bold  the  roots  without  cramping  them. 
We  should  tread  in  the  soil,  and  trim  in  t^e  bead 
very  severely.  The  next  spring  we  should  just 
break  the  crust  formed  by  the  winter  rains  about 
the  tree,  and  then  leave  everything  to  grow  as  it 
might  The  clover  will  be  ready  to  cut  in  June 
or  July.  The  twelve  feet  rows  may  be  done  by 
machine,  the  rest  by  hand.  Hay  enough  will  be 
made  to  pay  fur  all  the  labor  for  one  year  and  a 
little  more.  After  the  hay  has  been  hauled  off, 
bring  back  some  rich  earth  of  any  kind,  and 
ppread  about  a  quarter  or  a  half  an  inch  thick 
over  the  surface  of  the  ground  disturbed  in  mak- 
ing the  hole.    This  will  keep  the  gra?8  from  grow- 


ing very  strong  just  over  the  roots.  Keep  oi 
this  way  annually,  prery  ttro  or  three  years  giving 
the  whole  surface  of  the  orchard  a  top  dressiog, 
for  the  sake  of  the  grass,  and  it  will  be  fonod  to 
be  the  most  profitable  way  of  making  the  orchard 
ground  pay  for  itself,  until  the  f^ult  crops  come 
in,  that  one  can  adopt  The  trees  also  will  be 
models  of  health  and  vigor,  and  when  they  com- 
meoce  to  bear,  will  do  so  regularly  and  abas- 
dan  tly. 

"  The  dwarf  trees  we  would  plant  on  the  same 
system,  but  six  instead  of  ten  feet  apart  Few 
soils  are  too  wtt  for  fruit  trees.  Only  in  wet  soils 
plant  on  the  surface^  and  throw  vp  the  earth  over 
them  from  between,  so  as  to  make  a  ditch  or  far> 
row  to  carry  away  the  surface  water.  On  the 
plan  of  annual  surface  dressings  which  we  have 
outlined,  the  feeding  roots  will  thus  always  keep 
above  the  level  of  standing  water ;  and  when  thej 
can  do  this,  it  will  not  hurt  the  trees,  though 
the  tap  root§  are  immersed  in  water  for  half  the 
year." 


THERMOMETERS  IN  FRUIT  ROOMS. 


w, 


TE  find  in  an  agricultural  exchange  the  fol- 
lowing useful  suggestions. 
''  The  keeping  of  apples  and  other  fruit,  depends 
greatly  on  the  temperature.  If  the  room  is  too 
closely  shut,  from  a  fear  of  freesing,  the  ft'nit  may 
decay  in  a  few  weeks;  if  kept  cold,  and  with  some 
circulation  of  air,  they  will  remain  sound  until 
spring.  The  truth  is,  too  much  is  left  to  guess- 
work, and  hence,  while  at  sometimes  the  tempera- 
ture may  be  up  to  fifty  or  sixty,  it  may,  on  the 
other  hand,  run  down  below  freeiing  on  the  occur- 
rence of  a  cold  snap,  the  owner  or  attendant  not 
always  being  able  to  judge  by  his  peroeptioo. 
Thermometers  are  cheap  now-a-dsys,  and  sach 
cheap  ones  will  answer  the  purpose  well,  not 
usually  vaiying  more  than  a  degree  or  two  at  or- 
dinary temperatures.    Hang  one  near  the  cefliog» 


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FRUIT    CULTURE   FOR    LADIES. 


239 


and  another  near  the  gronnd.  Iiet  the  windows 
of  the  fruit  room  be  hung  on  hinges,  so  that  they 
may  be  opened  to  any  degree.  By  means  of  these 
windows  and  the  thermometers,  the  temperatnre 
may  be  kept  down  to  wiihin  a  few  degrees  of  freez- 
inity  if  they  are  examined  say  twice  a  day,  or  night 
and  morning,  and  the  fruit  kept  sound  and  fresh, 
and  the  owner  no  longer  work  in  the  dark  or  by 
guess-work.'* 


N 


RAISING  OBAPES  FROM  S£ED. 

EW  Tarietiee  of  grapes  are  constantly  being 
Introdnoed  t<»  the  attention  of  the  public. 
Those  of  our  readers  who  may  desire  to  try  tlie 
experiment  for  themselves  of  producing  new 
varieties,  can  do  so  by  observing  the  following 
directions.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind,  however, 
that  for  a  single  really  valuable  new  variety  many 
worthless  ones  will  be  produced.  Wash  the  seed 
of  well-ripened  grapes  from  the  pulp,  and  mix 
them  with  moist  sand  or  half  mold.  Bury  them 
in  the  ground,  and  let  them  remain  until  spring, 
that  the  frost  may  have  opportunity  to  aet  upon 
them.  Do  not  allow  them  to  become  dry  or  to  re- 
main water- soaked.  In  the  spring  plant  an  inch 
deep,  in  beds  of  deep,  rich  soil,  in  drills  a  foot  or 
eighteen  inches  apart»  an  inch  or  two  apart  in 
the  drills.  Shade  the  yonng  plants  for  the  first 
few  weeks.  Mulch  the  surface  with  an  inch  or 
two  of  good  fine  manure,  and  tie  the  young  plants 
to  stakes.  If  the  weather  is  dry,  give  the  bed  a 
thorough  drenching  at  least  once  a  week.  Lay 
down  and  cover  in  winter.  Let  the  soil  be  rich 
and  deep,  and  do  not  neglect  the  watering  in  dry 
weather,  as  it  is  desirous  that  the  plants  should 
make  a  vigorous  growth. 


HINTS  FOB  THE  MONTH. 

STonnia  Wnttsn  Fruits. — In  October,  the  or- 
chardist  will  begin  to  store  such  of  his  fruits  as 
<say  be  expected  to  keep  in  good  condition  till  the 
earlier  days  of  winter.  Where  his  erop  is  large 
enough  to  warrant  the  expense,  an  apartment  de- 
voted especially  to  this  one  purpose  should  be 
selected. 

Apples  should  be  hand-picked,  and  barrelled 
with  care.  Those  to  be  stored  for  winter  should 
^  kept  as  cool  as  possible.  The  same  advice  may 
^  given  with  regard  to  pears.  Keep  varieties  dis- 
tinct, and  store  all  in  such  a  manner  that  they  may 
be  readily  examined  from  time  to  time.  Winter 
fruits  should  be  placed  in  a  dark  plaee,  with  dry, 
even  temperature,  say  from  sixty  to  sixty-five 
degrees,  and  even  cooler,  if  possible,  if  it  be  de- 
Birable  to  retard  ripening. 

Plahtiho  Axn  Tbahsplavtiho.— Where  the  falls 
us  mild,  October  is  a  good  season  for  planting 


and  transplanting  all  fruits  except  stone  fruits. 
Fall  planting  is  much  more  likely  to  succeed  than 
spring  planting.  Do  not,  however,  move  your 
trees,  either  from  the  nursery  row  or  from  unde- 
sirable locations,  until  their  leaves  are  off.  Mulch 
at  once  with  refuse  straw  or  long  manure.  In 
planting  an  orchard,  put  trees  of  the  same  variety 
together,  and  do  not  trust  to  the  labels  of  the 
nurseryman,  but  make  a  record  of  the  place  in 
which  such  tree  is  planted. 

GaAPBs. — Orapes  for  winter  use  should  be 
packed  carefully  in  small  boxes,  and  kept  in  a  dry 
room,  at  a  cool  temperature.  Of  the  different 
varieties,  the  best  for  keeping  are  the  Isabella, 
Catawba— if  yon  can  find  sound  bunches — ^and 
Diana.  The  Delaware  and  Concord  cannot  be 
kept,  even  with  the  most  careful  handling,  but  for 
a  comparatively  short  time.  Vines  are  generally 
pruned  as  soon  as  the  leaves  have  fallen;  Febru- 
ary, however,  is  a  very  good  month  fur  this  opera- 
tion, should  you  not  be  able  to  perform  it  in  the 
fall.  The  tender  varieties  are  to  be  taken  from 
the  trellis,  pruned,  and  then  covered  with  earth. 
The  present  month  is  a  good  season  for  setting  oat 
vines,  care  being  taken  to  protect  the  new  plants 
by  drawing  the  soil  up  around  them  and  mulching 
them  with  leaves.  Cuttings  may  be  made  from 
the  portions  of  the  vines  out  off  in  pruning.  These 
should  be  five  or  six  inches  in  length,  tied  in 
bundles,  and  buried  in  the  cellar. 

Strawbbrbies. — Late  in  the  month  top-dress 
strawberry  beds.  Plants  that  have  been  started 
in  pots  may  be  set  out  now.  Early  in  the  month, 
if  the  weather  is  mild  and  not  too  dry,  new  beds 
may  be  readily  formed,  In  the  latitude  of  Phila- 
delphia. As  late  as  in  November  of  last  year,  I 
set  out  a  new  strawberry  bed,  which  grew  finely, 
and  bore  quite  as  well  as  a  bed  planted  in  the 
previous  August. 

Blackbbbbibs  akd  Raspbbrbibs.— Now  is  a 
good  time  to  set  out  new  plantations  of  black- 
berries and  raspberries.  However,  it  will  be  much 
cheaper  to  procure  root-cuttings  in  the  spring, 
and  start  your  new  plants  then.  These  cuttings, 
which  are  from  two  to  six  inches  in  length,  are 
made  in  the  fall,  packed  in  boxes  with  alternate 
layers  of  earth,  and  buried  out  of  the  reach  of 
frost,  where  water  will  not  stand. 

CuRBAiiTS  AND  GoosEBEBBiBS. — If  uot  already 
done,  the  pruning  of  currants  and  gooseberries 
may  be  performed  this  month.  Should  your 
bushes  be  crowded,  cut  out  old  wood,  and  shorten 
the  new  growth  one-half,  or  even  more,  but  do  not 
leave  less  than  two  buds.  Of  the  new  wood  taken 
off,  cuttings  may  be  made,  five  or  six  inches  in 
length.  Set  them  three  or  four  inches  apart  in 
trenches,  leaving  one  bud  above  the  ground. 
Press  the  earth  well  around  them,  and  when 
heavy  frosts  appear,  mnlch  with  leaves  or  coarse 
Utter. 


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NETV  PTJBLIO^TIOlSrS. 


PiNi  AXB  Whiti  Ttbakky,  A  Society  NotoI.  By  Mrs. 
Harriet  Beechor  Stowe,  author  of  '*UDole  Tom's 
Cabin,"  otc.    Boston :  Soberts  Broihert. 

One  of  the  moat  charming  etories  of  the  day  If 
Mrs.  Stowe's  "  Pink  and  White  Tyranny,"  which 
has  run  through  the  pages  of  Old  and  Hew.  It  is 
A  story  written  with  a  parpose,  as  she  takes  pains 
to  ezpIaiB  to  ns  in  her  preface.  That  pnrpoee  has 
heen  to  illvstrate  that  an  easy  dlsaoliition  of  the 
marriage  contract  would  nlways  work  i^Jnrioasly 
against  women.  There  is  another  moral  to  the 
story,  howeirer,  one  which  la  oren  more  fnlly  iUns- 
trated  than  this.  This  moral  will  be  detoeted  in 
the  following  qnotations  which  we  make  from  the 
stery: 

'*  The  wife  thnl  John  had  imaged,  his  drnm- 
wife,  was  not  at  all  like  his  lister,  though  he  loTod 
his  aister  heartily,  and  thought  her  one  of  the  best 
and  noblest  women  that  could  posaibly  be. 

**  But  his  sister  was  all  plain  prose— good,  strong, 
earnest,  respectable  proce,  it  is  trae,  but  yet  prose. 
He  could  read  English  history  with  her,  talk  ac- 
counts and  business  with  her,  and  rained  her 
opinions  on  all  these  topics  as  much  as  that  of  any 
man  of  his  acquaintance.  But  with  the  visionary 
Mrs.  John  Seymour  aforesaid,  he  nerer  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  either  reading  history,  or  settling 
acoounta,  or  talking  politics;  he  was  off  with  her 
in  some  sort  of  enchanted  cloud-land  of  happiness, 
when  she  was  all  to  him,  and  he  to  her — a  sort  of 
rapture  of  proteotive  Iotc  on  one  side,  and  of  con- 
fiding devotion  on  the  other,  quite  inexpressible, 
and  that  John  would  not  hare  talked  of  for  the 
world.  •  0  •  •  • 

**  Like  most  good  boys  who  grow  into  good  men, 
John  had  unlimited  faith  in  women.  Whaterer 
little  defects  and  flaws  they  might  hare,  still  at 
heart  he  supposed  they  were  all  of  the  same  sub- 
stratum as  his  mother  and  sister.  The  moment  a 
woman  was  married,  he  imagined  that  all  the 
lorelj  domestic  graces  would  spring  up  in  her,  no 
matter  what  might  hare  been  her  previous  disad- 
rantages,  merely  because  she  was  a  woman.  He 
had  no  doubt  of  the  usual  orthodox  oak-and-iry 
theory  in  relation  to  man  and  woman,  and  that 
bis  wife,  when  he  got  one,  w6uld  be  the  dinging 
iry  that  would  bend  her  flexible  tendrils  in  the 
way  his  strong  will  and  wisdom  directed.  He  had 
nerer,  perhaps,  seen,  in  southern  regions,  a  fine 
tree  completely  smothered  and  killed  in  tbo  em- 
braces of  a  gay,  flaunting  parasite,  and  ao  reoeired 
no  warming  from  r^getablo  analogios* 

**  Somehow  or  othor,  he  wsa  persaaded,  he  should 
gradually  bring  his  wife  to  all  his  own  ways  of 
thinking,  and  all  his  schemes,  nnd  plans,  and 
opinions.  This  might,  he  thought,  b«  dllBcult, 
were  she  one  of  the  pronounced,  strong-minded 
sort,  accustomed  to  thinking  and  judging  for  her* 
(240) 


self.  Such  a  one,  he  could  easily  imagine,  there 
might  be  a  risk  in  encountering  in  the  close  inti- 
ma^  of  domestic  life.  Eren  in  his  dealings  witk 
his  sister,  ho  was  made  aware  of  a  force  of  charac- 
ter and  a  rigor  of  intellect  that  sometimes  made 
the  carrying  of  his  own  way  orer  hers  a  matter  of 
some  difficulty.  Were  it  not  that  Grace  was  tke 
best  of  women,  and  her  ways  always  the  reiy  belt 
of  ways,  John  was  not  so  sure  but  that  she  might 
prore  a  little  too  mntterful  for  him. 

•'But  this  lorely  bit  of  pink  nn4  white;  tbU 
downy,  gensy,  airy  little  elf;  this  creature  ao  alin 
and  slender  nnd  unsubstantial — surely  he  need 
hare  no  fear  that  he  could  not  mould  and  control 
and  manage  herl  Oh,  no  I  He  imagined  her 
melting,  like  a  moonbeam,  into  all  manner  of 
sweet  compliances,  becoming  an  image  and  reflec- 
tion of  his  own  better  self,  and  repeated  to  himielf 
the  lines  of  Wordsworth : 

**  *  I  saw  her,  on  a  nearer  riew, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman,  too— 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free. 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty. 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  pleaeuree,  simple  wtle^ 
Praiso,  blame,  lore,  kiases,  tears,  and  smOee.' 

"John  fancied  he  saw  his  little  Lillie  subdned 
into  a  pattern  wife,  weaned  from  fashionable  fol- 
lies, eagerly  seeking  mental  improrement  under 
his  guidance,  and  Joining  him  and  Grace  in  all 
sorts  of  edifying  works  and  ways." 

But  John  discovered  that  an  "oak-and-ivy" 
marriage,  though  beautiful  in  theory,  was  very 
disastrous  in  practice;  that  there  was  no  strength 
so  strong  as  the  weakness  of  a  foolish  woman,  and 
that  of  all  persons  the  most  wilful  and  unreason- 
able is  a  woman  who  eaonot  er  will  not  reason. 

We  will  not  spoil  the  story  for  our  readers.  IC< 
eharaetors  are  well  drawn  nnd  true  to  life.  We 
have  known  ''Johns,"  and  we  hare  personal  se- 
quaintance  with  •'  LiUies,"  graoefnl,  clinging,  pet- 
ted beauties,  whose  seeming  submisf  ion  to  and  de- 
pendence upon  the  stronger  sex  oonatitntes  their 
greatest  charm  in  the  eyes  of  that  sex. 

The  numerous  pictorial  illustrations  are  not  of 
the  first  order  of  merit,  and  detract  from  rather 
than  add  to  the  ralne  of  the  book.  We  might  nj 
something  about  the  anachronism  committed  by 
both  author  and  artist  in  describing  and  sketohiof 
costumes  of  the  present  day,  while  the  story  ii 
renlly  dated  a  dosen  or  more  years  back;  but  thii 
matter  is  only  of  socondary  importanoe. 

GoLBKN  Gbaims.    By  Emilie  M.  Eiebl.    Philadelphia: 
*  J.  B.  Lippineott  d  Ob. 

The  author  of  this  little  rolume  of  poems  doec 
not  display  any  extraordinary  poetic  genias.   The 
jn^st  attraotire  feature  of  the  book  is  the  photo- 
Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS, 


241 


graph  of  an  attractive  yoaog  lady— the  author — 
which  facet  the  title-page. 

TBI  FcDSRAKGovERBiirKifT;  Itfl  Officers  and  their 
Dotiee.  By  Baasom  H.  QSllet.  Hew  York:  Woot- 
worth,  AuMwarth  «•  Cb. 

The  avthor  of  thia  work,  a  lawyer  of  eminence,  \ 
•ad  a  man  who  has  been  oonneoted  in  offioi^l  > 
eapaoities  with  yarlons  goTernmentat  departmenU  I 
at  tVaahingtoB,  ha4  prepared  this  volume  for  th« 
pprpoM  of  supplying  accurate  and  reliable  koowU 
edgeoonoeming  matters  and  positions  about  which 
the  information  is  of  tiie  vaguest  and  most  uncer- 
tain sort.    '*  Its  object,"  he  says,  "  is  to  enable  tbe 
rising  generation  to  understand  the  structure  of 
oor  government,  what  officers  are  employed  in  its 
twsctieal   operatfen,  and    their  general  duties." 
The  book  is  a  valuable  one  for  refereneei   and 
ikould  be  placed  in  every  private  library.    For 
isle  by  the  Ceatral  News  Co.,  Philadelphia. 

We  have  raceived  from  the  Kational  Temper- 
aaee  Soelety  and  Publication  House  at  New  York, 
two  pamphlets,  entitled  respectively :  "Self-Denial 
for  the  PromoUon  of  Temperance  a  Duty  and  a 
Pleasure."  A  Sermon.  By  Rev.  J.  P.  Norman,  D.D. 
And.  **  Is  Alcohol  a  Necessity  of  Life  r  By  Henry 
Uanroe,  M.  D.,  F.  L.  8.  From  the  latter  we  quote 
tbe  following  en  the  subject  of  alcohol  as  oontrasted 
with  food : 

"  The  term  Food  is  generally  understood  to  mean 
those  aliments  which,  when  taken,  nourish  the 
Mj,  repair  its  waste,  sustain  its  force,  and  keep 
vp  its  heat  The  different  organiiable  principles 
contained  in  food  possess  different  powers  oftissue- 
nakiog  and  heat-giving.  Our  bodies  are  formed 
sod  sustained  out  of  our  food  and  drink;  how 
neeessary,  then,  that  they  should  be  of  the  purest 
and  most  wholesome  kind !  It  is  a  well-known 
£iot  that  if  a  person  eats  an  ounce  of  pudding,  it 
is  never  seen  again  as  pudding,  but  very  soon  goes 
to  form  blood-cells,  plasma,  tissue,  and  ftiel  to 
ttoaridh  the  body,  to  repair  the  waste  continually 
going  on,  and  to  keep  up  its  warmth.  If  a  person 
take  an  ounce  of  alcohol,  it  is  immediately  thrast 
out  again  as  an  intruder  by  every  eliminating 
organ  of  the  body  in  greater  or  less  quantities.  Is 
it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  body  will  treat 
one  portion  of  alcohol  as  a  rogue  and  vagabofnd, 
or  an  inveterate  foe,  and  retain  the  other  portion 
M  a  weleome  friend,  when  the  action  of  alcohol 
Biut  ever  be  the  same  ?  Can  alcohol  build  up  or 
vopair  nitrogenous  tissue,  when  alcohol  contains 
act  a  partieke  of  nitregen  in  Its  composition  t  It 
>*  AA  acknowledged  fact  that  nitrogenous  food 
nourishes  the  body,  in  tbe  sense  of  assimilating 
^If  to  the  tissues;  alcohol  does  not.  Plastic 
food  feeds  the  blood-eelle;  mioroscopie  Investiga- 
tioa  shows  thai  alcohol  destroys  them.  Food  ex- 
oHes  in  health,  to  normal  action;  alcohol  tends 
^^7«  te  feverishness,  inflammation,  and  abnor- 
"*•!  Aotbn,   J<M)d  gives  force  to  the  body;  alcohol 


excites  reaction  and  wastes  force  in  the  first  place, 
and  in  the  second,  as  a  true  narcotic,  represses 
vital  action  and  corresponding  nutrition.  Dr. 
Lees,  who  has  devoted  a  lifetime  to  the  study  of 
the  various  aspects  of  temperance,  has  eloquently 
summed  up,  in  one. sentence,  the  character  of  this 
health-destroying  agent,  afcohol,  which,  he  says, 
'  is  utterly  foreign  to  the  human  body  and  its  nor- 
mal wants — one  that  never  gives  power  like  food, 
nor  aids  circulation  like  water,  nor  produces  heat 
like  oil,  nor  purifies  like  fresh  air,  nor  helps  elimi- 
nation like  exercise— an  agent,  the  sole  perpetual 
and  inevitable  effects  of  which  are  to  arrest  blood 
development,  to  retain  waste  matter,  to  irritate 
mucous  and  other  tissue,  to  thicken  normal  juices, 
to  impede  digestion,  to  lower  animal  heat,  to 
deaden  nervous  filament,  to  kill  moieeular  life, 
and  to  waste  through  the  exeitemeat  it  creates  in 
heart  and  head  the  grand  oontrolling  forces  of  the 
nerves  and  brain.* " 

The  author  of  this  treatise,  an  eminent  English 
physician,  bears  the  following  testimony  as  to  the 
use  of  alcohol  as  a  medicine : 

"  I  have  had,  for  the  last  seven  years,  much  ex- 
perience in  the  medical  attendance  upon  persona 
who  are  total  abstainers.  During  that  period  hun- 
dreds of  that  class  of  persons  have  been  under  my 
o^re.  I  find  that,  as  a  class,  thej:  do  not  suffer 
from  anything  like  the  amount  of  sickness  ex- 
perienced by  moderate  drinkers  of  intoxicating 
drinks ;  that  when  they  are  sick,  the  sickness  is 
much  more  amenable  to  treatment,  and,  neces- 
sarily, they  are  sooner  well^  again.  Moreover,  I 
am  convinced  that,  in  many  cases,  the  patient's 
recovery  was  entirely  owing  to  a  life  of  previous 
abstiaenoe  from  intoxicating  beverages.  On  com- 
paring the  results  of  sickness  and  death  occurring 
in  two  large  friendly  societies  under  my  care,  the 
one  composed  of  total  abstainers  and  the  other  of 
non-abstainers,  I  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  the  total  abstainers  have  much  better  health, 
are  liable  to  a  much  less  amount  of  sickness,  and 
have  fewer  deaths  than  the  moderate  drinkers.  In 
the  non-abstinent  society  I  find  that  the  average 
amount  of  sickness  experienced  last  year  was 
eleven  days  twenty-one  hours  per  member,  and 
that  the  number  of  deaths  was  about  one  and  a 
half  per  eent.  In  the  total  abstinenee  society  the 
amount  of  sickness  experienced  last  year  did  not 
amount  to  more  than  one  day  and  three- quarters 
per  member^and  that  the  number  of  deaths  was 
only  two  in  five  years,  or  less  than  one-quarter 
per^cent  per  annum.  I  ought,  perhaps,  in  justice 
to  myself,  to  add  that.  In  the  treatment  of  the 
various  diseases  in  both  societies,  no  alcoholic 
liquor  was  administered.  It  is  now  seven  years 
since  I  have  ordered  any  alcoholic  drink  either  as 
a  medicine  or  diet ;  and  the  sneoess  attendant  upon 
its  disuse,  in  oases  where  in  former  years  I  should 
have  ordered  it  largely,  and  condemned  myself  if 
I  had  not  done  so,  is  ss  S'aUfying  as  to  lead  me 


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242 


ABTEUB'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


to  ita  entire  abandonment  in  the  treatment  of  dis- 
ease. In  typhoid  fever,  as  well  as  in  other  eases 
of  fever  of  the  worst  character,  in  cholera,  in  sad- 
den and  violent  hemorrhages,  In  delirium  tremens, 
in  rheumatism,  in  goat,  and  in  many  other  dis- 
eases, the  success  of  this  treatment,  without  the 
use  of  alcohol,  has  been  most  marked  and  satis- 
factory. Our  profession  is  now  beginning  to  doubt 
the  vaunted  efficacy  of  alcohol  as  a  therapeutic 
agent.  Its  reputation  for  the  cure  of  disease  is 
becoming  exceedingly  problematical.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  in  a  few  years  alcohol  will  no  longer 
be  administered  as  an  internal  medicine,  but  will 
take  its  proper  place  as  an  external  remedy/' 
In  referring  to  the  title  of  his  treatise^  he  says : 
''I  wovld  ask,  then,  Is  aleohol  a  neoessary  of 
life?  The  almost  universal  answer  to  this  in* 
portant  question  would  be  in  the  aiiraiative ;  and 
there  are  few  persons,  unacquainted  with  physi- 
ology, stirring  about  in  this  work-a-day  world,  but 
would  arrive  at  such  a  conclusion.  Travel  by  rail- 
way, and  you  will  see  numbers  of  passengers 
swallowing  bitter  beer  or  spirituous  liquors  at 
every  station,  as  if  their  rery  existence  to  the  end 
of  the  journey  depended  entirely  upon  the  amount 
imbibed.  Visit  for  a  short  time  any  of  the  large 
dram-shops,  which  abound  so  plentiftilly  in  the 
great  metropolis  and  In  other  large  towns^noiioe 
the  thousands  of  all  classes  who  press  up  to  the 
eonnter,  and  with  eager  lips  drink  down  the  in- 
toxicating draught — and  you  will  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  as  almost  every  one  drinks,  every  one 
cannot  be  wrong,  that  alcohol  is  a  necessary  to 
life.  Visit,  also,  our  criminals  in  Jail,  our  paupers 
In  the  workhouse,  our  lunatics  in  the  asylum,  apd 
ask  them  the  question  if  they  believe  that  aleohol 
is  a  necessary  of  life,  and  the  almost  universal 
reply  will  be  that  '  drink  and  bad  company  had 
lodged  them  there,  blasted  their  reputation,  de- 
based their  minds,  debilitated  their  bodies,  mined 
their  brightest  hopes  of  happiness  in  this  world, 
and,  too  often,  of  that  which  is  to  come.'" 

Mr.  T.  A.  Smith,  a  London  ohemist,  furnishes 
an  essay  on  "The  medical  TTse  of  Alcoholic 
Drinks."    He  says: 

"  The  greatest  objection  to  the  routine  presorip- 
tion  of  alcoholic  drink  is  not  that  it  is  unscien- 
tific, but  that  it  is  a  great  causa  of  intemperance. 
It  upholds  the  popular  delusions  as  to  the  virtues 
of  strong  drink  \  it  has  led  many  to  become  drunk- 
ards; and  has  induced  many  who  had  been  re- 
claimed from  intemperance  to  return  to  tjieir 
former  evil  habits.  It  is,  then,  the  duty  of  all  who 
wish  well  to  the  cause  of  temperance  to  set  their 
faces  against  the  common  and  indisorim'inate  pre- 
scription of  alcoholic  liquors." 

fle  says  furthet,  in  his  diseusslon  of  tlie  sub- 
ject: 

**  Dr.  Habershon,  physician  to  Guy's  Hospital, 
although  advocating  the  use  of  alcohol  In  certain 


eases,  yet  recognises  the  danger  connected  with 
its  use.  At  page  109  of  his  work  on  *  Diseases  of 
the  Stomach,'  he  says:  'Great  responsibility  at- 
taches to  medical  practitioners  in  their  recommen- 
dation of  ardent  spirits  in  the  treatment  of  disease ; 
and  the  public  are  too  prone  to  resort  to  them  for 
the  immediate  relief  of  gastric  symptoms  and  of 
weakness.'  I  wish  that  medioal  men  felt  the  re- 
sponsibility eonneeted  with  the  preseription  of 
aleohoiie  drinks.  I  eannot  help  thinking  that,  if 
the  fatal  eonsequences  of  aleohoiie  medieatiea 
were  duly  considered,  the  practioe  of  advising  the 
sick  to  take  wine  or  beer  would  be  giren  up,  sad 
more  rational  and  mere  eflcient  remedies  woald 
be  employed.  I  hare  a  deep-rooted  eonvietion 
that  aleohoiie  liquors  are  never  required  in  hesltk, 
and  are  seldom  of  any  service  In  disease.  Tbii 
conviction  Is  the  reenlt  of  more  than  thirty  years' 
careful  study  of  the  effects  of  alcoholic  liquors  in 
health  and  sickness.  In  support  of  this  view,  I 
might  cite  the  discordant  opiotoM  of  medical  msa 
as  to  the  mode  of  action  of  aleohol ;  I  might  rsfsr 
to  the  fsct  that  many  medical  men  have  almost 
entirely  abandoned  the  prescription  of  these 
liquors ;  and  that  others  have  greatly  reduced  the 
quantity  employed,  and  with  great  advantage  to 
their  patients.  I  know,  too,  that  those  mediesi 
men  who  have  ceased  to  prescribe  intexicatfaig 
drinks  are  quite  as  rncoessfnl  (if  not  more  so)  in 
their  treatment  of  disease  as  the  doctors  who,  st 
the  risk  of  making  drunkards,  recommend  slco- 
holic  drinks.  The  absurdi^  of  placing  importaaes 
upon  the  use  of  strong  drink  in  the  treatment  of 
disease  is  often  strikingly  illustrated  at  hydro- 
pathic ettablishments,  in  the  case  of  persons  who 
have  recovered  their  health  without  aleohol  after 
having  tried  in  vain  to  gain  health  with  it  There 
is  also  another  way  in  which  the  erroneous  views 
of  some  medical  men  as  to  the  value  of  strong 
drinks  are  sometimes  demonstrated,  namely,  in  the 
ease  of  teetotalers  who  have  been  ordered  to  take 
alcoholic  drink,  and  have  been  assured  they  could 
not  possibly  recover  without  it;  but,  not  having 
faith  in  public-house  medicine,  they  have  refased 
to  Uke  it,  and  have  got  well  without  it,  whilst 
others  who  have  obeyed  in  similar  oircumstance* 
the  orders  of  the  footers  have  remained  the  slaves 
of  alcohol  for  the  rest  of  their  lives." 

In  oondusion  Mr.  Smith  prooeede  to  divide  tee- 
totalers into  five  classes.  The  first  class  who  are 
glad  of  an  excuse^  in  the  shape  of  a  medical  pre- 
scription, to  take  aleohoiie  or  malt  liquors;  the 
second  class  who  leeeive  the  prescription  with 
regr«^  J<t,  nevertheless,  follow  it;  the  third  slsss 
who  consider  the  matter  in  doubt,  in  hesiUUcn, 
and  while  they  are  doubting  and  hesitating,  re- 
cover without  the  use  of  aleohoiie  drink. 

«  The  fourth  class  is  made  up  of  perseni  who 
have  had  a  long  experience  of  teetotalism,  who 
have  Hudled  the  qvestion  of  absdnenee  in  aU  it» 
phases,  and  who  have  aeqmind  a  suflsient  m- 


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EDITOBB'    DEPARTMENT. 


248 


qnalotanee  with  ebemittry  and  physiology  to  en- 
able them  to  nnderitand  the  nature  of  food  and 
drink,  and  aomethiog  of  the  laws  of  health.  If  I 
belong  to  any  olaas  of  teetotalers,  I  hope  I  belong 
to  thla  elate.  When  any  of  thfs  olaas  find  it  neees- 
sary  to  caII  for  medical  aid  (and  that,  of  course, 
is  very  seldom),  they  prove  troablesome  patients. 
For,  if  their  doctors  order  them  to  take  wine  or 
bitter  beer,  instead  of  receiving  the  order  with 
thankfulness,  they  begin  to  denbt  the  doctor's 
science,  and  want  to  know  the  why  and  the  where- 
fore, .and  a«  the  doctors  generally  are  not  well  up 
in  the  '  alcoholic  controrersy,'  and  break  down  in 
their  attempts  to  show  the  necessity  for  alcoholic 


drink,  the  teetotalers  belonging  to  the  fourth  olase 
refuse  to  take  it,  and  live  and  die  without  iL  We 
of  the  fourth  class  are  willing  to  take  alcohol  when 
it  can  be  ehown  to  be  really  necessary ;  but  I  have 
never  seem  any  real  necessity  for  it,  and  I  am 
now  In  my  thirty-fifth  year  of  abstinence  from 
aleohol,  in  health  and  in  sickness." 

Mr.  Smith  says  in  eonclnsion :  ''  Of  this  I  am 
eertain>  that  alcohol  is  never  of  service  in  health, 
and  very  seldom  of  any  use  in  sickness." 

These  pamphlets  of  the  National  Temperance 
Sooiety  are  designed  to  do  an  excellent  work  ha 
the  tempemnoe  field,  and  should  be  largely  oirc«* 
lated. 


EDITORS^   DEPA.IITMKNT. 


PHCBBB  CAHT. 

The  freshness  of  our  grief  for  the  death  of  Alice 
Cary  has  searoely  passed  away,  when  we  are  called 
upon  to  moam  for  that  of  her  sister  and  life  com- 
panion, Phoebe.  United  in  life,  in  death  they  were 
not  long  divided. 

Phoebe  Cary  was  burled  from  All  Bout's  Church, 
in  New  York  City,  the  funeral  sermon  being 
preached  by  Rev.  A.  O.  Lowrie,  of  Brie,  an  early 
friend  of  the  Cary  sisters.  8he  was  buried  beside 
her  sister  Iq  Greenwood. 

The  press  of  the  country  are  striving  which  shall 
do  this  talented  woman  most  honor.  The  Inde- 
pendent  contains  an  able  and  exceedingly  interest- 
ing article  firom  the  pen  of  Mary  Clemmer'  Ames, 
who  was  a  personal  friend  of  Mies  Cary,  and  a 
lady  well  qualified  to  speak  of  the  literary  and 
social  qualifications  of  the  deceased.  In  the  open- 
ing paragraph  of  her  article  she  says : 

'*  The  writtiest  woman  in  America  is  dead.  There 
■re  many  others  who  say  many  brilliant  things; 
but  I  doubt  if  there  is  another  so  spontaneously 
and  pointedly  witty — in  the  sense  that  Sydney 
Smith  was  witty— as  Phcebe  Cary.  The  drawback 
to  almost  everybody's  wit  and  repartee  is  that  It 
so  often  seems  premeditated  and  prepared.  -  It  Is 
e  fearful  chill  to  a  laugh  to  know  that  it  Is  being 
watched  fbr,  and  had  been  prepared  beforehand. 
But  there  was  an  absolute  charm  in  Phoebe's  wit; 
it  was  spontaneous,  so  eormsoating,  so  '  pat.'  Then 
it  was  full  of  the  delight  of  a  perpetual  surprise. 
She  was  Just  as  witty  at  breakfast  as  she  was  at 
dinner,  and  would  say  something  just  as  astonlA- 
ingly  bright  to  one  companion,  and  she  a  woman, 
IS  to  a  roomf\iil  of  oultlvated  men,  doing  their  best 
to  parry  her  flashing  eimeters  of  speech.  Though 
•0  liberally  endowed  with  the  poetic  uttetanoe  and 
inlght,  she  first  beheld  every  object  Uterally,  not 
A  ray  of  glamor  about  it  i  she  eawiu  practical  snd 
ludicrous  relations  first,  and  from  this  absolutely 
matter- of.faot  perception  came  the  spariding  utter- 


ance which  saw  It,  caught  it,  played  with  it,  and 
held  it  up  in  the  same  instant  It  is  pleasant' to 
think  of  a  friend  who  made  you  laugh  so  many 
happy  times,  but  who  never  made  you  weep." 

We  believe  there  are  many  writers  for  the  pub- 
lic who  will  feel  the  thrilling  of  a  sympathetic 
chord  when  they  read  the  following,  which  we 
also  extract  fVom  Mrs.  Ames's  article ; 

"As  it  is  to  all  self- distrusting  persons,  personal 
approbation  was  dear  to  her.  The  personal  tt» 
spouses  which  many  of  her  poems  calledy  forth 
made  her  genuinely  happy,  and  was  to  her  often 
the  most  precious  recompense  of  her  labor.  Noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  ingenuous  or  modest 
than  the  pleasure  which  she  showed  at  any  spon- 
taneous response  from  another  heart,  called  out  by 
some  poem  of  her  own.  She  told  me  two  years  ago 
of  the  delight  she  felt  when  for  the  first  time  she 
saw  one  of  her  own  verses  in  print  She  was  not 
more  than  fourteen  years  of  age.  She  had  never 
been  Arom  home,  or  known  a  higher  culture  than 
the  district  school  could  give  her.  She  wrote  her 
verses  in  secret,  and  sent  them,  unknown  of  any 
one,  to  a  Boston  journaL  She  knew  nothing  of 
their  acceptance  till  she  saw  them  copied  into  the 
Cincinnati  paper,  published  eight  miles  away.  She 
wept  and  laughed  over  them.  '  What  wouldn't  I 
give  if  anything  that  I  write  now  could  look  to  me 
as  those  verses  did !'  she  said.  '  I  did  not  care  any 
more  if  I  were  poor  or  my  clothes  were  plain. 
Somebody  had  cared  enough  for  my  verses  to 
print  them,  and  I  was  happy.  My  joy  was  better 
than  fame.'" 

The  last  literary  effort  of  Miss  Cary  which  ap- 
peared in  print  was  a  personal  sketch  of  her  sister 
Alice,  which  was  published  in  the  Ladie^.B^ 
jfoeitary  at  CIneinnatL 

Mrs.  Ames  says  of  Miss  Gary's  poems : 

*'  No  singer  was  ever  more  thoroughly  identified 
with  her  own  songs  than  Phosbe  Cary.  With  but 
f^w  exceptions,  they  distilled  the   deepest  and 

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ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


aweet«8t  mnsio  of  her  soul.  They  uttered  beeldee 
the  cbeerfnl  philosophy  which  life  hafd  taught  her, 
and  the  sonny  faith  which  lifted  her  out  of  the 
dark  region  of  doaht  and  fear  to  rest  forever  in  the 
loving  kindoess  of  her  Hearenly  Father.  There 
were  few  things  whioh  she  ever  wrote  fbr  which 
she  cared  more  personally  than  for  her  'Woman's 
Conelttsions.'  The  thought  and  the  regret  came 
to  her  sometimes,  as  they  do  to  most  of  as,  that  in 
the  utmost  sense  her  life  was  inoomplete^ODfnl- 
Alled.  Often  and  long  she  pondered  on  this  phase 
i€ existence;  and  her  <  Woman's  Cttnelasions'  were 
in  reality  her  final  eonolosion  oonoeming  that 
problem  of  human  fate  which  has  baffled  so  many." 
We  copy  entire  the  poem  to  which  Mrs.  Ames 
refers : 

"A  WOMAITS  CONCLUSIONS. 
'*  I  said,  if  I  might  go  back  again 

To  the  very  hour  and  place  of  my  birth ; 
Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  chose, 
And  lire  it  in  any  port  of  the  earth ; 

**  Put  perfect  Sunshine  into  my  sky, 

Banish  the  shadow  of  sorrow  and  doabt; 
Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied. 
And  all  my  suffering  stricken  out ; 

"If  I  could  have  known,  in  the  years  now  gone. 

The  best  that  a  woman  comes  to  know ; 

Could  have  had  whatever  will  make  bee  blest» 

Or  whatever  site  thinks  will  make  her  so ; 

**  Have  found  the  highest  and  purest  bliss 
That  the  bridal  wreath  and  ring  enclose; 
And  gained  the  one  out  of  all  the  world 
That  my  heart  as  well  as  my  reason  chose; 

•'And  if  this  had  been,  and  I  stood  tonight 
By  my  children,  lying  asleep  in  their  beds. 
And  could  bount  in  my  prayers,  for  a  rosary, 
The  shining  row  of  their  golden  heada ; 

"Yea!  I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 

Could  be  wrought  for  me  at  my  bidding,  stilt 
I  would  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it  is, 
And  to  let  my  ftiture  oome  as  it  wiU  t 

**  I  would  not  make  the  path  I  have  trod 

More  pleasant  or  even,  more  straight  or  wide ; 
Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of  a  hair, 
This  way  or  tfaak  way,  to  either  side; 

**  My  post  is  mine,  and  I  take  it  oil ; 

Its  weakness— its  follyj  if  you  please— 
Kay,  even  my  sins,  if  you  come  to  that, 
May  have  been  my  helps,  not  hindi^nces  \ 

'    **  If  I  saved  my  body  from  the  flames 

Because  that  ohoe  1  hod  burned  my  hand; 
Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By  doing  a  less -you  will  understand; 

'*  It  was  better  I  suflTered  a  little  pain. 
Better  I  sinned  for  a  little  time. 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  baok  Arom  death, 
And  the  sting  of  sin  withheld  fromr  ocime. 

«  Who  knows  its  strength  by  trial  will  know 
What  strength  must  be  set  against  a  sin ; 
And  how  temptation  is  overcome 
Be  has  learned,  who  has  felft  its  power  within  I 


*'And  who  knows  how  a  life  at  the  last  will  showT 
Why,  look  at  (he  moon  from  where  we  standi 
Opaque,  uneven,  you  say;  yet  it  shioes, 
A  luminous  sphere,  complete  and  grand. 

** So  let  my  past  stand.  Just  as  it  stands. 
And  let  me  now,  as  I  may,  grow  old; 
I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best— or  it  had  not  been,  I  hold." 


BARI.T  aiSIVG. 

Do  yon  writers  and  brain  workers,  or  yon  when 
nerves  are  worn  and  unstrung  all  day  by  the  petty 
yet  wearing  cares  of  yonr  daily  occupations— do 
you,  I  ask,  take  delight  in  yonr  morning  nap? 
Do  yon  lie  wide  awake  through  the  hours  which 
precede  midnight ;  do  yon  toss  restlessly  through 
the  wee  sma'  hours,  and  then,  perhaps,  jait  as 
daylight  U  breaking,  sink  into  a  sweet,  restfht, 
and  dreamless  slumber,  which  causes  those  early 
morning  hours  to  be  to  yon  all  the  night  should 
have  been,  and  without  whieh  th»  night  were  no 
night  at  all  ?  When  you  at  last  awake  refreshed 
and  invigorated,  to  find  that  the  hands  of  the 
clock  have  not  bean  sleeping,  too,  but  have  already 
hegnn  the  aseant  of  the  dial  j  do  yon  have  any 
kind,  early  rising  friend  at  yonr  albow,  always 
nady  ta  quota  stale  proverbs  for  your  edification  7 
Do  you  hear  about  that  notorious  "early  bird;" 
and  do  your  aars  beoome  familiar  with  that  coup- 
let which  informs  na  as  to  the  time  when  lasy 
folks  like  best  to  work  ? 

Psy  no  heed  to  yonr  fViand.  Take  your  nap  b 
comfort,  and  do  not  even  attempt  to  ourtail  iti 
proportion,  for  in  so  doing  you  may  be  sure  yea 
are  ourtailing  your  life  itsalf.  Quiet  sleep  is  a 
necessity  for  the  enjoyment  of  perfect  health.  If 
one  eannot  sleep  in  the  night  they  must  sleep  m 
the  morning.  If  they  do  not,  they  will  certaialy 
and  speedily  break  down. 

The  fpUowing  paragraph  we  qnete  for  the  com- 
fort of  those  who  require  thU  morning  slumber, 
and  for  the  aonfiisioQ  of  thpsa  who  would  deprive 
them  of  it: 

"  The  fact  is,  that  as  life  beoomes  more  concen- 
trated, and  its  purauits  nkore  eaf  ar,  short  sleep 
and  «av)y  rising  become  impossible.  We  take 
mora  sleep  than  onr  anoestors,  and  take  more  be- 
oause  we  want  more.  Six  hours  sle^  will  do  veiy 
well  for  a  plowmna  or  a  brieklayar,  or  any  other 
man- who  has  ao  othar  ajdiaustion  than  thatpro- 
dnoed  by  manual  labor,  and  the  nooner  he  takes 
it  attar  bU  labor  is  over  the  better;  but  for  a  man 
irhoae. labor  is  mental,  the  atreas  of  work  is  on  his 
brain  and  narvona  syitom,  and  he  who  is  tired  in 
the  evening  with  a  day  of  mental  application,  fur 
his  veitheff  ^arly  to  bed  ner.  early  to  rise  is  whole- 
fova.  Ha  needa  letting  down  to  the  level  of 
repose,  XtHB  longer  interval  between  (he  active 
nae  9f  the  brain  and  hia  retirement  to  bed,  the 
better  his  ehpaiee  of  sleep  and  lefieshnent.  To 
him  ^  hour  after  midnight  is  probably  aa  good 


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EDITORS'    DEPARTMENT, 


S45 


M  two  lioun  before  It,  end,  even  tbea,  his  elaep 
will  not  10  eompleCely  end  qnSoklj  restore  him  es 
it  will  his  neighbor,  who  is  physically  tired.  Ue 
mnet  not  only  go  to  bed  Inter,  bnt  lie  longer.  Bis 
best  sleep,  probebly,  is  in  the  enrly  morning  hoars, 
when  nil  the  nervous  ezoitement  has  passed  en- 
tirely away,  and  he  is  in  absolute  rest." 


THK  I.ADIK8  Iff  THJB  TRSASVRT  DK- 
PAB.TMKST. 

It  is  with  intense  gratifloation,  in  riew  of  the 
slanderous  reports  which  have  been  eironlated  in 
regard  to  the  lady  clerks  in  the  Treasury  Depart- 
ment at  Washington,  that  we  read  in  a  Boston 
paper  a  letter  from  a  young  lady  in  Washington, 
in  whieh  she  says :  **  Two  months  in  the  Treasury 
I>epartment  have  made  me  feel  proud  that  I  hold 
n  position  there.  I  know  whereof  I  afirm  when 
I  say  that  no  better,  more  intelligent  or  refined 
elass  of  women  can  be  found  in  any  eirele  of 
life." 


I^ITKRART  WOMBV. 

The  Ckrittian  Union  gives  a  wise  decision  in 
the  case  of  "  Literature  ttrtut  Housework :" 

**  Says  a  contemporary,  in  speaking  of  a  new 
book  on  household  matters,  by  a  well-known  au- 
thoress, '  It  inspires  us  with  the  greatest  respect 
for  the  housewifery  of  a  literary  lady.' 

"  It  is  truly  refreshing  to  know  that  something 
has  at  last  inspired  somebody  with  a  respect  fur 
the  housewifery  of  a '  literary  lady.'  For  a  score 
of  years  literary  women,  with  a  versatility  and 
adaptiveness  really  wonderftil,  have  written  stories 
and  mended  stockings,  compounded  poems  and 
pastry,  played  the  maternal  to  some  unappreoia- 
tive  man's  babies,  and  the  mentor  to  tlie  public, 
all  at  the  same  time. 

''In  oases  where  a  literary  husband  has  been 
added  to  the  trials  of  those  devoted  'females,' 
they  have  been  obliged  t6  make  herculean  efforts 
for  his  comfort,  going  almost  to  the  point  of  com- 
mitting  infanticide  for  the  sake  of  insuring  quiet 
In  his  sanctum.  They  have  known  all  the  receipts 
for  colic,  and  have  been  posted  as  to  the  best 
method  with  the  measles ;  they  have  made  their 
own  olotiies  and  a  part  of  their  husbands'. 
Yrfends  (?)  have  partaken  of  their  graocfii]  hospi- 
tality, and  praised  their  sponge-cake  rhapsodically ; 
yet  after  all,  everybody  says  and  everybody  seems 
to  believe  that  iiteraiy  women  are  a  set  of  hopeless 
ineompetents.  60  dU&onIt  is  it  to  efradicate  a  pre- 
judice, in  competition  With  which  proof  has  no 
chance  whatever ! 

*'  But  a  new  em  is  slowly  dawning.  One  editor 
k  eonvineed.  It  is  -unfortunate  that  his  eonvie- 
tions  oome  fVom  theorgr  rather  than  pmotiee.  We 
have  known  women  who  could  give  an  excellent 
reeeipt  for  piekles,  who,  aa  actual  pioklers,  were 
an  ignominious  failure.    It  is  just  possible  that 


the  housewifery  qualities  of  the  literary  lady  in 
question  are  of  this  kind.  If  our  critic  should 
venture  too  much  on  her  Jams  and  jellies  he  might 
repent  But  let  us  hope  that  his  laith  is  not  vain. 
In  the  meantime  we  call  for  a  soeie^  that  shall 
protect  the  housewifely  repntaAion  of  'literary 
ladies.'  Per  our  own  part,  we  lisil  to  see  the  obli- 
gation resting  on  women  to  be  two  things  at  a 
time,  when  no  sneh  obligntion  rests  upon  man ; 
bnt  as  the  werid  demands  that  she  shall  be  artist 
and  bonsewif^  and  as  she  generally,  by  her  great 
elastieity  of  mental  temperament,  complies  with 
t^  demand,  it  is  well  that  an  this  respeot  she 
should  be  appreciated.  Let  us  have  the  truth  on 
this  subject.  If  necessary  we  would  have  prize 
exhibitions  of  literary  housewifery.  Anything  to 
get  at  the  facts.  Let  editors  be  encouraged  to 
have  inspirations  of  'respect'  Their  respect  is 
helpful  to  the  housewife  who  ekes  out  her  hus- 
band's small  income  by  writing,  while  her  irons 
are  heating,  or  the  joint  roasting.  Nobody  can 
tell  what  may  happen,  and  it  may  come  to  pass, 
by  and  by,  as  the  millennium  draws  near,  that 
everybody  will  have  a  'respect  for  the  housewifery 
of  literary  ladies.'" 

Local  prohibition. 

In  1869  nearly  fiire  hundred  voters. of  the  town- 
ship of  Chatham,  N.  J.,  petitioned  the  Legislature 
for  a  local  option  temperance  law,  like  that  of 
Yineland  in  the  same  State;  but  their  petition  was 
refused.  In  1870,  however,  519  out  of  723  voters 
in  the  township  signed  the  petition,  and  the  Legis- 
lature could  not  well  do  otherwise  than  grant 
it  On  the  second  Tuesday  in  June  of  each  year, 
the  people  are  to  determine  by  ballot  '*  Whether 
license  shall  be  grente4  to  eell  malt,  vinous,  spirit- 
uous, or  intoxieatiag  liquors;"  and  if  a  majority 
vote  "No  license,"  then  no  license  shall  be  granted. 
At  the  last  June  election,  the  vote  stood  a  majority 
of  167  against  lioense,  so  that  now  Chatham  is  to 
become  practically  a  temperance  town. 

We  wonder  that  the  fp^nds  of  temperance  have 
not  turned  their  efforts  for  procuring  state  prohi- 
bitory laws,  to  the  passage  of*  Local  Option  Laws," 
which  we  believe  would  prove  far  more  easy  to 
obtain,  and  be  quite  as  effective  in  their  working. 
The  large  cities  will  always  ^e  thrown  in  the  bal- 
ance against  prohibitory  laws ;  and  now  if  they 
were  to  be  passed,  within  the  limits  of  these  cities, 
they  would  be  scarcely  more  than  dead  letters. 
But  in  the  rural  districts,  and  In  the  smaller  cities 
and  towns,  the  "  Local  Option  Law  "*  would  secure 
to  the  inhabitants  the  full  benefit  of  a  prohibitory 
measure,  and  would  perhaps  be  more  obligatory 
on  them,  as  having  once  voted  "No  license,"  they 
would  feel  bound  in  pride  and  honor  to  sustain 
their  own  action  In  the  matter. 

Yineland,  to  which  we  have  already  referred  as 
possessing  a  law  of  this  ehamoter,  is  a  bright  ex- 
ample of  what  temperanoe  men  may  effeot  in  this 

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ARTHUB'8   LADY'S   EOME   MAGAZINE. 


manner.  The  law  is  strict  in  regard  to  the  selling 
of  liquor,  and  those  who  attempt  to  evade  it  are 
regarded  as  the  enemies  of  the  pablic  welfare ;  and 
every  inhabitant  of  Vinelaad  feels  it  a  matter  of 
personal  interest  that  the  law  shall  be  sustained, 
and  its  infraotion  panlshed. 

In  Vineland  the  vote  is  nnanimons  eaeh  year 
against  legalising  the  sale  of  liqnor.  In  Chatham 
there  stood  a  vote  of  201  In  faror  of  lieease ;  bat, 
as  time  shall  prove  the  benoflta  ef  the  no-lieense 
plan,  we  feel  it  a  matter  of  certainty  that  this 
minority  will  beeome  eonverted,  and  before  many 
years  shall  pass  the  people  will  stand,  as  one  n|||i, 
unanimously  in  favor  of  "  No  Lioense." 


A  BKAUTT  OF  MOOKRIT  GRSKCS. 

{Stt  Ettgratinff.) 
Grecian  dames  of  ancient  story. 

Beauties  of  the  Attic  prime, 
Radiant  in  the  golden  glory 

Of  that  noble  classic  time- 
Poets,  scolptors,  heroes,  sages. 

Paid  their  homage  to  your  charms ; 
Sang  of  them  in  deathless  pages ; 

At  your  bidding  flew  to  arms. 

Gone  the  nymphs  Apelles  painted, 

Only  left  to  art  and  song — 
Art,  that  in  the  effort  fainted 

All  their  beauty  to  prolong. 
Gone  the  nymphs  in  woodlands  hidden 

Sporting  where  the  fountains  play ; 
Hasting  back,  by  memory  bidden, 

As  we  think  of  Greece  to-day. 

Blushing  maidens,  matrons  eomely, 

Still  are  found  In  Greoian  land ; 
Tender  hearts  and  virtues  homely. 

Smiling  face,  and  open  hand : 
Beauty  lives  along  the  ages, 

Never  fails,  and  never  dies ; 
All  its  charm  our  heart  engages, 

Foaiid  in  liring  woman's  eyes. 


OUR  PRBHIXTM  FOR  1879. 

Instead  of  an  engraving,  our  premium  for  next 
year  will  be  a  new  and  beautiful  Gkromo,  made 
expressly  for  us  by  Hessrs»  Duval  A  Son,  of  this 
oity.  It  is  entitled  the  "  Church  Mouse/'  and 
represents  two  sweet  little  girls  In  a  church  pew, 
startled  by  the  appearance  of  a  mouse  on  the 
enshions.  The  quaint  serioasness  of  their  faces, 
as  they  look  sidelong  over  their  book  at  the  little 
Intruder,  is  very  amusing.  The  picture  is  rich  and 
attractive.  It  will  cost  us  more  than  double  what 
we  have  paid  for  our  fine  engravings. 

Every  one  who  sends  us  a  club  for  1872,  will 
receive  a  oopy  of  this  charming  new  picture. 

fi^^  Clubs  fob  1872.~Begiii  early  to  make  up 
your  clubs  for  next  year. 


<«A  VISIT  TO  THB  ARXORBR.** 

The  picture  which  we  give  this  month  is  from  a  • 
painting  by  G.  B.  O'Neill,  an  English  painter  ef 
repute.  It  eibibks  a  stalwart  armorer  eiplaining 
the  construction  and  uses  of  a  crossbow  to  two 
youthf\iil  visitors,  who  are  probably  the  children 
of  the  lord  of  the  eastle,  in  the  lower  halls  of 
which  is  his  armory.  He  is  manifestly  eloquent 
in  its  praise;  the  boy  listens  with  a  thoughtful 
and  curious  expression,  while  the  little  lady,  his 
sitter,  looks  wondcrlngly  \nd  faalf-fearfuUy  into 
the  face  of  the  man,  and  holds  the  arm  of  her 
brother  as  if  for  protection. 

The  figures  of  the  youthful  pair  form  an  elegant 
contrast  with  that  of  the  rough  and  stout  armorer, 
and  the  trio  are  most  effectively  grouped. 

In  the  picture  we  see  bits  of  armor  under  re- 
pair, swords  to  be  refurbished,  and  the  furniture 
and  tools  of  the  smithery,  all  reminding  us  of  s     | 
past  age  when  crossbows  were  in  warfare  what 
rifles  are  now. 


HOW  TO  ACilUIRB  A  GOOD  MRHORT. 

As  a  general  Ibiag,  we  read  too  iimeh,and  think 
about  what  we  read  too  little;  the  consequence  if, 
that  most  of  the  people  we  meet  know  something 
in  a  superficial  way  about  alnipst  everything,  sod 
very  little  in  a  thorough  way  about  anythhi^. 
Not  a  tenth  part  of  what  is  read  is  remembered 
for  a  month  after  the  book,  magasine  or  news- 
paper is  laid  aside.  Daniel  Webster,  who  had  a 
rich  store  of  information  on  almoat  every  snbjcet 
of  general  interest,  on  being  asked  how  it  wsi 
that  he  could  remember  so  accurately,  replied, 
that  it  had  been  his  habit  for  years  to  reflect  for  a 
short  time  on  what  he  read,  and  so  fix  all  the  fseti 
and  ideas  worth  remembering  in  his  mind.  Auy 
one  who  does  this  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  re- 
tentive his  memory  will  become,  and  how  long 
after  reading  a  book,  or  interesting  article  the 
best  portions  thereof  will  remain. 

I  have  used  a  Grover  k  Baker  Hachine  for  sevea 
years  for  all  kinds  of  family  sewing,  quilting  bed- 
quilts,  and  embroidering,  and  have  made  heavy 
beaver-oloth  cloaks.  I  have  .no  trouble  with  tbs 
under  thread  wearing  off,  neither  will  the  stitch 
break  on  bias  seams  in  washing  and  ironing.  I 
have  used  mj  machine  more  than  a  year  without 
resetting  the  needle,  and  have  used  it  six  jesis 
without  any  repairs  more  than  I  could  do  myselt 
JdBs.  Bb.  W.  J.  Scott, 
364  Prospect  Street,  Cleveland,  0. 


Mr.  Beecher,  discussing  the  need  of  "using  one's 
life  for  others,"  said :  '*  There  are  thousands,  end 
thousands,  and  thousands,  who  oonld  be  saved  if 
there  waa  anybody  to  wrap  a  warm  heart  about 
them ;  if  there  was  anybody  to  take  them  up  sad 
care  for  them,  and  cling  to  them,  throngh  good 
report  and  through  evil  report 


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THE  CHILDREN'S  OFFERING. 


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CAROLYN  OVEllSKIRT. 

<»se  who  are  tired  cf  the  exoos^ive  drnping  of  last  season,  or  who  ndmire  j)Iain  overakirts,  cannot  fail  to 
«ed  with  the  one  illustratod  above.  The  indispensable  full  tournure  in  the  back  is  contributed  by  the 
which  proceed  from  the  sides  of  the  apron,  the  upper  one  termtnatiiiv  under  a  bow  at  the  belt,  and  the 
one  forming  a  pretty,  plaited  po,'«tillion.  falling  over  two  wide,  pointed  sash  ends.  The  trimming  illos- 
narrow  side-plaiting  surmounted  by  rows  of  velvet  ribbon,  is  suitable  for  any  of  the  ordinary  seasona- 
•ds  ;  bat  fringe  with  a  handsome  heading  may  be  effectively  substituted  on  rich  materinlM. 


T 
nakii 
Iflani 
silk,] 
4«rk, 


MARQUISE  M\N1LE. 

is  style  of  garment,  matle  in  cashmere,  has  to  a  great  extent  replaced  the  loose,  and  half-fitting  j^^jj? 
Bhave  been  so  generally  used  for  demi-saison.  It  is  arranged  with  a  loose  sacque,  without  sleeves,  sloped 
miity  under  the  arms,  worn  under  n  talma  reaching  a  little  below  the  waist.  Although  usually  roftdem 
ror  a  trimmed  with  soutache  embroidery  and  fringe,  very  pretty  ones  are  made  in  gray,  dark  brown.  «p°  "*' 
lunat  green,  braided  with  a  shade  lighter,  or  darker  than  the  material,  with  the  two  shades  combined  in  tne 
nnai  This  declgn,  open  and  rounded  in  the  back,  is  conr^idered  more  dressy  and  youthful  thnn  those  witn 
fSf  O '"'  '"*^"°**  **'""*'  ^^"^  '**  ^  favorite  style  with  young  ladies.  Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


A  stylish  basque,  eapeciallvl 
the  seMonablc  materials.  A  m 
silk  folds,  of  plain  velvet,  or  ol 
«r  without  ft  hea  V y  f  1  i  n  PTC .    H  e  i 


A  simple,  half-tight  jacke 
or  thin  cloth.  The  plainest 
of  bright  scarlet,  or  blue,  wil 
in  addition  to  or  without  the 


No.  1.— WIN 
No.  2. — Tber©  i**  an  n,ppc 
and  winter  wear.    It  ^11  be 
materiAlB.    The  trimming  i 
or  the  material. 

No.  2.~A  simple  stvie  o 
or  street  garments.    Flat  trp 
dressy,  fHnge  may  be  adde<  * 
opper  and  outer  ed<re^ 


a  uuMJjc  ttu-tped  t^iiic,  inmmed  witb  three  ratUee  of  black  silk,  headed  by  a  bias 
dress.  Black  silk  cloak,  trimmed  with  folds  of  the  same  Mid  pasaementeris 
silk  bonnet,  trimmed  with  feathers. 

Irl  of  white  piqa6,  cloak  of  black  relyet,  trimmed  with  sOk  braid  and  frioge. 
black  feather  and  relyet 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


F^SHIOlSr   IDEP^RTMEISTT. 

FASHIONS  FOR  NOVEMBER. 

present  month  insngnrates  the  winter  fashions.    Snmmer  fahrics  and  colors  hare  been  entirely 
*  e,  and  even  the  lighter  fall  goods  hare  been  superseded  by  poplins  and  serges,  and  other  heavy 
oods. 

re  is  a  constantly  increasing  demand  for  Scotch  plaids,  particularly  all  wool,  which  is  more 
Ae  than  the  silk  and  wool.  The  new  plaids  of  the  season  are  varied  and  handsome.  The 
88  Metternich/'  in  silk  and  wool  poplin,  is  the  leading  style.  The  newest  effects  are  produced 
Dlors,  black  snd  purple,  black  and  green,  black  and  brown,  black  and  blue,  and  the  like.     The 

Campbell,"  the  plaid  of  the  clan  of  the  Marquis  of  Lome,  is  green,  blue,  and  black,  crossed 
te. 

;k  velvet  put  on  flat  is  the  only  allowable  trimming  for  Scotch  plaids,  except  where  the  plaid  is 
pie,  when  a  bias  band  or  fold  of  the  same  material  as  the  dress  may  be  used  with  very  good 
\  Scotch  dress  for  house  wear  should  be  cut  with  a  slight  demi-train,  to  which  tapes  are 

underneath,  so  as  to  tie  it  up  walking-length.    A  basque  trimmed  with  bands  of  velvet,  and  a 
fr  of  velvet  at  the  back,  will  complete  the  dress.  ' 
1  fringes  supersede  all  other  styles  of  trimming.     If  heavily  finished,  they  require  no  other 

outer  garment  for  winter  is  to  be  the  Polonaise  in  velvet,  the  pelisse  in  cloth.    The  pelisse  will 
ape,  or  even  two  capes,  and  hanging  sleeves,  with  tight  sleeves  underneath, 
'et  will  make  the  richest  suits  to  be  worn  the  coming  season,  but  it  is  better  to  go  without  velvet 
9uy  a  poor  quality. 

indications  are  that  street  dresses  will  be  sobre,  and  evening  dresses  gay,  for  the  coming  season; 
evening  silks  are  very  light  in  color  and  rich  in  quality.  They  w-ill  be  worn  with  long  over- 
•f  lace,  caught  up  with  trails  of  flowers  arranged  upon  hanging  loops  of  ribbon  or  velvet, 
re  is  an  effort  to  increase  the  size  of  bonnets;  consequently  we  predict  that  hats  will  be  more  in 
in  ever.  For,  after  ex^oying  the  advantages  of  the  light,  comfortable  bonnet  of  the  past  few 
This^  are  hardly  inclined  to  go  back  to  the  "coal-scuttle"  shape. 

In  the  loj  —-o* 

'  S)iJ%d^  HATS  AND  BONNETS. 

(See  douhU-page  JSngraving,) 
1. — Bonnet  of  black  velvet,  trimmed  with  rouleaux  of  black  gros-grain  ribben,  black  lace,  and 
of  blush  roses  and  blue-bells  nestling  nnder  a  tnft  of  black  ostrich  tips. 

of  the  new  shapes,  a  sort  of  modified  gypsy,  the  crown  rising  rather  high  and  strught,  with  a 
brim  aoross  the  front,  and  a  short,  fluted  cnrtain  in  the  back.  The  laee  It  arranged  across  the 
1  left  side,  standing  against  the  crown  above  a  rouleau  of  ribbon,  and  forms  a  sort  of  pompon  at 
f  the  left  string.  A  smaller  rouleau  is  continued  across  the  top  of  the  curtain,  terminating 
,th  the  elnster  of  flowers  and  feathers  which  is  placed  far  back  on  the  right  side. 
2. — Hat  of  gray  straw,  the  crown  high,  slightly  receding,  and  perftctly  flat  en  the  top,  and  the 
row  and  straight  back  and  front,  but  slightly  rolled  at  the  sides.  The  brim  is  lined  with  deep- 
et,  which  forms  a  narrow  binding  on  the  edge,  and  a  broad  velvet  band  encircles  the  crown.,  A 
;>lue  er6pe  de  Chine,  edged  with  rich  fringe,  is  fastened  on  the  top  of  the  crown,  at  the  right 
ong,  traUing  esprays  of  carnations,  and  is  gathered  on  one  side  and  confloed  by  the  velvet 
<ving  the  rest  to  fall  in  a  deep  point  in  the  back. 

i, — Hat  of  brown  straw,  with  a  perfectly  straight,  high  crown,  flat  on  the  top,  an4  a  brim  rolled 
d.  The  brim  is  bound  with  brown  velvet,  and  the  rest  of  the  trimming  consists  of  a  cluster  of 
joses  on  the  top  of  the  crown,  and  overlapping  bands  of  gros-grain  ribbon  of  two  shades,  lighter 
jstraw,  disposed  around  the  orown  near  the  top,  and  terminating  in  a  full  bow  at  the  side,  from 
pend  long  streamers. 

i. — Hat  of  a  new  shape,  without  any  brim,  the  orown  high  and  receding,  and  the  back  cut  out 
t  in  the  shape  of  an  old-style  bonnet,  with  the  ears  tied  together  in  the  back.  The  one  illue- 
of  Dunstable  straw,  trimmed  with  frillings  of  gray  and  scarlet  ribbons  intermixed,  edged  with 
lack  lace,  a  large  ribbon  bow  placed  in  the  back  part  of  the  crown,  and  another  fastening  the 
itber  in  the  back.  A  very  long  scarf  of  spotted  lace  is  fastened  far  forward  on  the  crown,  one 
lich  is  allowed  to  fall  straight  on  the  back,  while  the  other,  much  longer,  forms  a  sort  of  festoon 
e,  and  is  to  be  used  as  a  scarf,  or  veil,  at  pleasure. 

>. — Bonnet  of  garnet  silk,  intended  to  be  worn  with  a  costume  of  the  same  color.    The  front  has 

EMI  brim  which  fits  on  the  head  something  like  a  fanchon,  and  the  crown  is  coveted  by  a  puff  of 

Thi^  f'B^l^B  from  the  back  in  a  full  onrtain,  edged  with  lace,  being  confined  at  the  base  of  the  crown 

msse  ecet  of  velvet  loops  surmounted  by  black  laoe,  matching  that  across  the  front.     Streamers  in  the 

the  front  a  cluster  of  ostrich  tips  on  the  left  side.     Brides  of  black  spotted  lace,  carelessly  tied. 

be  n  or?'~^*^  of  gray  felt,  without  any  decided  brim,  the  crown  high,  and  perfectly  fiat  on  the  top. 

sew  on  t  ^'  bound  with  a  puffing  of  brown  gros-grain  ribbon,  and  a  rouleau  of  the  same  ribbon  encircles 

the  pocH  near  the  top,  finished  on  the  right  side  by  a  pompon  of  ribbon  surmounted  by  brown  and  gray 

ps.     Long  streamers  and  loops  at  the  back. 

r. — Bonnet  of  gray  felt  with  a  rolling  brim  in  front,  drooping  at  the  sides,  and  a  rather  high, 
I.    The  brim  is  faced  with  gray  velvet,  and  a  fluted  curtain  of  the  same  material  falls  deep  over 
A  rouleau  of  gray  velvet  and  gros-grain  ribbon  intermixed  encireles  the  crown,  and  confines 
>rs  of  ostrich  tips,  i^ich  are  placed  at  the  back  and  directly  in  front. 

Fashionable  round  hats  have  high,  straight  crowns,  and  tumed-up  brims,  the  latter  standing  out 
t  from  the  crowns',  not  lying  dose  to  it  like  the  turban.  There  are  two  which  have  a  special 
le  **  Diva,"  which  is  oval,  and  the  "  Roland,"  which  is  round.  Both  have  high  crowns,  both 
led  mainly  with  bias  folds  of  velvet  and  plumes  of  black  ostrich  feathers,  with  a  veil  which  can 
over  the  face. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


Musio  selected  l>y  J.  A.  GETZE. 


mmmss  m^  ^e-M£^M%. 


Words  by  G.  W.  Birdseyb. 


Music  by  J.  H.  Boss. 


i 


11 u ?_ 


1.  Meet  me  to 
1.  Meet  me  to 


-#-#-    -#-#-    -#- 


I 


^ 


r=f^ 


S=t 


5^^ 


:fc:ls: 


P=? 


DO' 


±tstL 


ipzfatt 


night, 
night, 


dearest,  Down  by  the  gate  I 
dearest !  Day  will  soon  close, 


Anxiously,  long 
Yonder  the  aun 


ingly,  for  thee  ril 
Bort-Iy  uinkfi  to  re- 


T?=¥'-^-=^T^a--=±:tz=^ 


m 


rail. 


Sils 


^w^^^m 


beam 
shine 


:^^-^ 


int;  ere  lovingly  shines, 
through  tHy  dreamy  blue  eyes.^ 


??: 


In  sweetest  dreams  of  thee  h:.ppv  I'll 
Vis-ions  of  joy  will  be       mine  as  1 


Office  of  the  Librarian  of 

Digitized  by  CjIJOQIC 


[Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  a.  n.  1871,  by  F.  A.  North  it  Co.,  in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Ooa* 

^8,  at  Wa8^■' — "'-  ^  '^ '' 


VOL.  xxxvni.— 17. 


gross,  at  Washington,  D.  C] 


256 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S    HOME    MAGAZINE. 


-!-r#- 


3=E?r 


-7^ 


wait, 
wait. 


^ 


Eager  to    meet  thee,  love,    down      by     the 
Eager  to    meet  thee,  love,    down      by     the 

dtj. ! ^ 


( ^j_ilaj^^^j=i4j53^iilg 


gate  I 
gate ! 


colla  voce. 


•#-    /^        •-#- ' 


Meet  me  to  night,  dearest,  down  by  the  gate.       Anxiously,  long   •  ingly,  for  thee  V\\  wait, 


In  swecte**. 


:!::^^gEE^3{gE^igEJj 


down  by  the  gate,         Meet  me  to-night 


down  by  the  gate, 


S^p^33[e|^^=?^=^^^^E£B: 


Meet  me  to-night 


dowb  by  the  gat«.        Meet  me  to-night 


down  by  the  gat©, 


^p3{gs?:-^^i:4g^^^"^^' 


Jdsid 


Ee2;:?ifS5SsE3: 


Meet  me  to-night 


down  by  the  gate. 


( 


Meet  me  to-night 


down  by  the  gate, 


fei3lH*3J3^^JF?t^^^J^1^33l^^ 


M — 2 — i — ' — "*'-' ^ — si=ipp ^ — ti;ri 


^=t 


-^-^ 


^•^ 


^: 


33=p 


:P^ 


-^i- 


!fe 


?^5q^3 


of  thee  happy  ru  wait. 


^ 


thee,  love,  down  by  the  g«t<». 


droaraa 


I 


Eager  to    meet 
rit. 


^EE 


icitjs: 


H^^^^^^^^^i 


#  # 


In  sweetest  dreams, 


♦-^: 


rtlnai 


i 


happy  ril  wait,     -^       Eager  to  meet  thee,  love,   own  bythe  gato. 


t^lJnlT 


r^*^  "onr-^F^: 


^E^^^33E:1E  2S^Ei5ESEE  Ee^S 


3: 


In  sweetest  dreams. 


happy  I'll  wait,     •»       Eager  to  meet  thee,  love,  down  by  the  t^Atc 


P#-^#— • 


In  sweetest  dreams, 


happy  ril  wait.  Eager  tc  meet  thee,  love,  down  by  the  gate. 


— rp--^-»;^ 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


B 


ARTHUR'S  LlDY'S  HOME  MAGAZINE. 


NOVEMBER,    1871. 

THE  PREAOHEB'S  DAUGHTERS. 

A  STORY  FOR  GIRLS. 

BY  EOSELLA   RICE. 

UB  came  in  from  the  village,  with  hright  )  good ;  it  is  the  heartiness  and  cordiality  ex- 

ejes  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  said:  "Just  -^  tended  to  one — the  good,  warm,  loving  wel- 

guess  who  will  be  here  pretty  soon  ?"  come.    Now  we  have  room  enough  to  enter- 

I  looked  up  at  the  clock— it  was  a  quarter  I  tain  eighty  persons  in  pretty  good  style— things 
past  ten  then,  and  I  said :  "  Oh,  dear,  I  don't  ;  good  enough  to  eat  at  any  time ;  and  I  believe 
want  to  see  anybody ;  here  it  is  Saturday,  and  '\  nobody  could  come  and  find  any  of  you  appear- 
not  near'  all  our  work  done  yet,  and  we  were  -,  ing  slovenly — you  are  always  neat,  with  clean 
all  away  gypsying  yesterday,  and  everything  \  collars  and  smooth  hair.  Fact  is,  I  don't  see 
is  out  of  order !"  /  any  women,  let  me  ffo  where  I  will,  who  always 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  be  glad  to  see  the  dearest  '  look  as  well  as  you  three  do,  and  I  don't  say 

folks  in  the  world,"  gaid  Ida,  and  her  pretty  ^  this  to  flatter  you,  either." 

red  lips  stuck  out  a  good   deal  worse   than  ,       We  cast  glances  at  each  other,  and  the  sweet 

usaal.  ',  little  bit  of  commendation  coming  from  our 

"I'll  go  over  to  Cbusin  Hat's,"  said  Lily.  •  brother,  a  boy  of  few  words,  made  us  all  feel 

"Shame  on  you  all,"  said  Bub;  "but  why  .   better, 

don't  you  ask  who  it  is  ?"  ^       "  Well,  I  presume  the  women  are  alike  the 

"Well,  who  is  it?"  said  Ida;  "let  the  worst  -  whole  world  over,  after  all,"  I  said;  "the  key 

come."  ^,  that  opens  one  heart  will  unloc^  all ;  so  let  uh 

"Why,  the  preacher  came  in  his  carriage  )  do  as  we  would  others  should  do  unto  us ;  let 

this  time  across  the  country,  and  brought  both  r  us  make  the  best  of  it,  and  see  how  kindly 

his  daaghters."  ■   we'll  treat  them,  and  how  happy  we  can  make 

"  Well,  I'll  not  be  glad  to  see  them,"  replied  •  them  after  their  long  up-hill  and  down-hill 

Ida.  (  ride  across  the  country." 

"Nor  I,"  said  I,  compressing  my  lips  and  <^ Agreed,"  said  Ida. 

trying  to  look  severe.  "  And   I  guess  I'll  not  go  to  Hat's,"  said 

"I'll  go  to  Hat's,"  said  Lily,  twirling  her  "   Lily. 

bonnet  by  the  strings.  "  Now,"  I  said,  "  one  of  you  will  see  that 

And  there  we  all  sat,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  '  everything  is  in  good  living  order  in  the  sit- 

and  growled  like  three  old  cats,  until,  at  last,  ,   ting-room,  and  the  other  one  will  set  the  table 

Ida  said :  "  Now  this  is  too  bad — suppose  we  '  all  ready  in  the  dining-room,  bo  we  won't  have 

were  all   going  visiting   them,   at   good  old  /  that  to  do  after  they  come,  and  I  will  see  what 

Brother  Newton's  house,  and  his  girls  would  (  therei8handyfordinner;andwhen  they  arrive, 

talk  this  way  when  they  heard  we  were  com-  '   let  us  try  which  will  be  the  cleverest  and  treat 

ing,  and  we  would  get  to  hear  about  it.    Oh,  /  them  the  most  cordially.    You  know  their 

how  miserable  we  would  feel  I"  ^  father  always  calls  them  by  their  first  name:*, 

"That's   sensible    talk,"    said  Bub;   "you  )  so  good  and  old-fashioned, Hanner  and  Marier. 

know  it's  not  the  house,  or  the  food,  or  the  \  Now  they  are   sensible   girla^  I   know,  and 

farnitore,  or  fine  clothes  that  makes  the  visit  \  it  will  please  them,  and  make  them  feel  at 


Digitized  by 


UBBgle 


258 


ARTHUR'S    LADY'S    HOME    MAGAZINE, 


home,  if  I  lay  aside  all  formality  and  call  them 
Just  as  he  does ;  so  don't  laugh  at  me.  And  I 
guess,  because  they're  tired  and  strangers, 
we'd  better  kiss  them  in  a  hearty,  jolly 
manner.*' 

Then  we  all  grew  chatty,  and  said  we  would 
try  which  could  be  the  kindest ;  and  while  we 
were  yet  laughing,  Bnb  said  we  must  hurry,  or 
they  would  test  our  hospitality  before  we  were 
ready  for  them. 

I  had  just  taken  a  deep  dishful  of  baked 
meat  and  beans  out  of  the  oTen,one  of  my  best 
puddings  was  cooling  in  the  pantry  window^ 
I  had  pickled  a  head  of  cabbage  the  day  be- 
fore, and  there  was  a  whole  panful  of  baked 
sweet  apples.  This,  with  good  bread  and  hard 
yellow  butter  and  nice  coffee,  with  real  honest 
country  cream,  was  a  dinner  good  enough  for 
anybody. 

The  carriage  soon  came  whizzing  up  the  road 
from  the  village,  and  our  dear  old  preacher 
agisted  his  daughters,  two  pretty  girls  in  lus- 
trous alpaca,  to  alight.  They  came  up  the 
path,  timidly  walking  behind  their  father.  I 
met  them  before  they  came  in,  and  when  I  was 
inti^oduced  I  shook  hands  cordially  and  kissed 
them  heartily,  with  a  "Bow  do  you  do,  Marier; 
liow  do  you  do,  Hanner  ?  " 

They  laughed,  and  lot>ked  surprised,  and 
pleased,  and  sweet.   Ida  and  Lily,  emboldened 
by  my  example,  met  them  as   though  they 
were  old  cronies.    We  three  were  amused  and 
d slighted  with  «ach  other,  and  charmed  with 
the  genial,  pretty  manners  of  the  preacher's  ' 
<laughters.     They  were  very  womanly  girls,  ; 
nothing  sham  about  them,  just  really  lovable  I 
and  gracious. 

We  laid  aside  all  the  surface- talk  about  the  ; 
weather,  and  the  country,  and  the   general  ^ 
health,  which  is  always  chapter  first  in  the  ; 
making  up  of  new  acquaintances.   I  said,  ''Now 
that  you  cannot  stay  long,  let  us  talk  like  old  ] 
friends,  and  lay  a^side  all  ceremony,  and^see 
wherein  we  are  similar — compare  notcf^,  and 
see  what  are  our  likes  and  dislikes."     The  ; 
wish  was  mutual.     So  we  began  to  visit  in 
earnest. 

Ida  showed  her  collection  of  butterflies  and 
beetles,  and  told  how  she  caught  them,  and  ! 
how  she  made  them  die  without  ever  thinking 
of  such  a  thing.  Lily  tried  on  Hanner'd  new  ' 
,coat  with  pockets  in  it ;  and  Hanner  stepped  ; 
l)efore  the  mirror  in  Lily's  new  hat  with  the  ; 
drooping  lily-bell  in  it.  Bub  got  his  trigo-  ^ 
nometry,  and  Marier  showed  him  how  far  she  S 
had  progressed  before  she  was  called  home  ( 
from  college.  S 


Then  they  all  played  their  favorite  songs  on 
the  piano,  and  Hanner  sang  *'  Old  John  Chi- 
naman," and  Ida  sang  and  played  the  plaintive 
wailing  song  of  the  "  Old  Sexton."  Bub  went 
to  the  patch  and  brought  in  some  of  his  finest 
melons ;  and  while  they  all  sat  out  on  the  po^ 
tico  and  partook,  he  told  a  funny  story,  in  hi<) 
droll  way,  about  watching  for  bad  boys,  once, 
in  the  melon-patch.  He  carried  his  bed  out 
to  the  lot,  and  made  it  in  a  sly  fence  corner, 
while  he  stretched  a  clothes-line  on  low  sticks 
around  and  across  the  patch  in  every  direction ; 
and  on  the  end  of  the  line,  beside  his  pillow, 
was  hung  a  little  bell  that  would  give  the 
alarm.  His  gun,  loaded  with  paper  wads,  lay 
beside  him.  He  was  enjoying  a  profound 
slumber,  when  the  bell  gave  a  ting-a-ling,  and 
he  bounced  oat  and  shot  a  boy,  in  a  white- 
linen  coat,  in  the  back,  just  badly  enough  to 
make  it  sting  a  little.  The  boy  ran,  and  he  fol- 
lowed him  home,  and  going  in  one  minute  after, 
he  found  him  in  bed  behind  his  mother,  snoring 
loudly.  The  coverlet  was  flipped  03*88  lightly 
as  a  rose  leaf,  and  the  lad  was  in  full  dress,  white 
coat  and  all,  scared  and  tired  and  sweating. 

After  the  feast  of  melons,  I  showed  Marier 
my  collection  of  fossils,  and  shells,  and  petri- 
factions, and  curiosities,  from  all  parts  of  the 
world.  The  ones  that  pleased  her  most  were 
a  bit  of  coral  from  the  Red  Sea,  a  golden 
quartz  lump  from  Australia — a  receipt  for  money 
received  for  MSS.  in  the  handwriting  of  Han- 
nah More,  dated  1794— and  a  package  of  alma- 
nacs from  the  year  1800  down  to  the  present 
time.  The  Indian  relics,  that  I  so  much  prize, 
did  not  elicit  the  interest  that  the  other  things 
did.  I  observe  that  no  two  people  are  inter- 
ested in  the  same  things.  One  will' sit  and 
ponder  over  the  pure  bit  of  stalactite  that 
came  from  the  Mammoth  Cave,  while  another 
will  balace  dreamily  on  his  forefinger  the  curi- 
ously carved  pewter  spoon  that  was  ploughed 
up  on  the  grounds  of  the  old  Indian  village 
more  than  fifty  years  ago,  and  his  eyes  will  grow 
big  with  wonderment  and  guesses.  Another 
will  touch  to  his  cheek,  caressingly,  the  trans- 
lucent stone  that  was  picked  up  in  the  raihoad 
path ;  while  another  will  stare  at  the  strange 
earth  coral,  of  pure  gray,  that  the  workmen 
dug  out  of  neighbor  Enos's  cellar. 

"  This  is  such  a  pretty  place,''  said  Hanner ; 
"  the  air  seems  so  good  and  pure,  and  the  view 
is  so  fine ;  but  if  I  lived  here  there  is  one  room 
I  would  want  for  my  own,  and  that  is  the  up- 
stairs corner  one  facing  the  south  and  the  west. 
One  window  looks  down  into  a  rustling  young 
maple-tree,  and  the  other  down  into  the  tangles 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE    PRBACEER'S    DAUGHTERS.  25^ 

of  yon  multlflora ;  and  the  view  in  the  distance  v      He  told  them  just  to  be  natural,  that  therein 

is  so  beautiful  I    That  is  mj  room,"  said  she,  ^  lay  the  great  secret  of  being  agreeable,  and  for 

decidedly.  \  them  not  to  go  to  putting  on  airs  and  making 

"  It  is  called  my  room,"  said  Bub,  a  tall  )  presences ;  that  there  are  no  rules  for  polite- 
young  man ;  and  the  blush  that  overspread  his  \  neas  and  good  behavior.  He  said  no  arts 
&ce  made  him  look  really  handsome.  "  I'd  \  could  compare  with  nature ;  that  every  person 
like  to  see  you  take  it  from  me,  too !  If  I'd  '  of  good  sense  admired  simplicity,  and  it  always 
come  home  from  school  sometime  and  see  \  found  a  response  in  every  true  heart,  and  that 
dreeses  hanging  in  my  closet,  and  gaiters  in-  )  it  elicited  admiration  from  every  one.  Now 
tftead  of  my  boots,  and^a  knapsack  of  false  hair  (  this  is  all  true. 

lying  on  my  table  instead  of  Webster's  tin-  )       The  girls  twisted  about,  and  grew  as  red 

abridged,  you'd  find  them  scattered  among  the  \  as  beets,  and  looked  very  uncomfortable  and 

limbs  of  the  maple  and  the  snarls  of  the  gad-  S  ashamed. 

ding  rose-bush  before  you    could   Bay  Jack  (|      But  our  turn  came  next.    I  tried  to  hold  my 

Robison."  \  hand  over  Bub's  mouth,  and  I  ha-a-a-Kd  and 

And  so  the  cross-fire  of  words  went,  back-  S  made  long,  loud  noises,  but  he  only  pitched 

wards   and    forwards,  interspersed  with    the  \  his  voice  a  few  octaves  higher,  and  woxdd  tell 

jolliest  of  laughter.  b  the  story. 

I  met  Ida  in  the  kitchen  door  with  a  basket  (^      He  said  it  was  no  more  than  fair ;  and  then 

of  pippins,  and  she  smiled  as  she  whispered  :  \  he  told  how  we  dreaded  to  have  the  preacher's 

"Oh,  aren't  they  happy  and  free — the  preach-  ;  daughters  come ;  that  we  could  not  behave  well 

er's  daughters,  of  whom  we  were  so  afraid  ?  (  enough ;  that  our  house  was  not  in  the  best  of 

This  has    taught   us   a   good  lesson,  hasn't  ^  order,  and  we  had  not  very  much  to  eat,  and 

it?"  !j  our  clothes  were  common,  and  we  wouldn't 

When  I  went  into  the  room,  Marier  had  ^   know  what  to  talk  about ;  and  the  boy  held  us 

Harper's,   and  fibrifr/ier's,  and  Arthur's  maga-  |;  up  in  a  light  that  made  us  seem  very  super- 

xines  on  the  floor  beside  her,  and  a  pile  of  ^   ficial  and  flimsy,  and  almost  unwomanly, 

books,  prominent  among  which  was  Whittier's  S      We  all  laughed  at  the  similarity  of  the  two 

"Among  the  Hills."    I  leaned  over  her  shoul-  \  pictures  held  up  so  truthfully  by  the  men,  and 

der  and  pointed  out  to  her  where  he  says  in  \  I  am  very  sure  we  were  all  taught  a  good 

his  quaint,  tender,  charming  way :  ,  \  lesson. 

„  „             ,,   ^,       ,   ,   ^  *  .1  '^       Oh,  the  paltry,  cowardly  fear  lest  they  do 

"  How  wearily  th«  grind  of  toil  goes  OQ  /        "^">  ^        r       j>          ,     ,.''             ,     ,       /% 

Where  love  is  Wftotiog;  how  the  eye  and  ear  )  "ot  quite  come  up  to  the  Ime  marked  out  by  a 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  very  \   class  of  people  who  should  rank  as  "  squeeaed 

Plentitude  of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless  I   oranges,"  is  little  short  of  abasement ! 

Is  life  without  an  atmosphere."  ^       Glear-seeing,  generous  people  will  not  allow 

When  Brother  Newton  had  made  some  calls  {  such  ideas  to  find  a  place  in  their  hearts,  and  it 

in  the  village,  he  returned  with  the  carriage  >  is  not  worth  while  to  be  friends  with  any  other 

for  his  daughters ;  and  finding  them  so  perfectly  X  class,  unless  it  be  to  lift  them  up  and  do  them 

at  home  and  in  the  full  tide  of  enjoyment,  he  ^>  good. 

said :  "  Well,  now,  girls,  I'm  going  to  tell  on  ^       "  Will  you  ever  come  again,  Marier  f  I 

you,"  ')  said,  as  I  saw  her  safely  tucked  in  the  carriage. 

They  both  jumped  up,  and  blushed,  and  en-  >>       "I  wish  I  could  come  back  to-morrow,"  she 

treated  him,  saying :  "  Oh,  now,  father,  don't  1  {  said,  "  and  begin  where  I  leave  off"  to-day." 

Come,  now,  don't  tell,  that's  a  good  father  !"  \       She  said  this  so  sincerely  that  I  felt  my  eyes 

But  he  persisted;  and  Bub,  divining  what  ^  glisten  when  I  kissed  them  good-by  and  watched 

was  to  come,  said :  "  You  tell  on  your  girls  and  )  the  carriage  roll  out  of  sight. 

rU  tell  on  ours."  ^       Oh,  this  is  such  a  nice  way  of  visiting,  to 

We  began  to  coax,  but  the  two  men  would  ^  dodge  all  ceremony  and  preliminaries,  to  be 

not  be  moved  with  entreaties.  \  perfectly  natural,  and  meet  each  other  like 

Their  father  said  he  could  hardly  coax  them  ^  women,  face  to  face,  understandingly,  and  with 

to  come-with  him;  they  said:  ** Oh,  they  are.  '   the  full  conviction  that  you  are  understood — 

such  grand,  fashionable  people  that  we  won't  c^  that  you  are  all  women  of  the  same  kind  of 

know  how  to  behave,  or  what  to  say  and  do,  S  material — women  subject  to  the  same  feelings, 

and  we'll  have  to  sit  there  as  dumb  and  as  (  and  aches,  and  pains,  and  sad  hours  of  gloom, 

prim  as  dolls,  and  we  won't  know  how  to  be  so-  \  who  have  had  the  same  experience  in  joy  and 

ciabick  and  appear  well  and  make  them  like  us."  /  grief,  who  have  planned  and  managed  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


260  ARTRUR'8    LADT8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 

worried  the  same   ways,  travelled  the  same  )  of  His  creation  with  the  means  of  self-prcacr- 
paths,  and  gone  in  sorrow  to  the  same  Fountain  ^   vation. 

to  drink  of  the  water  that  never  faileth.  ^      Sensitive  plants  not  onlj  close  their  leaveR 

Women  are  alike  all  over  the  world ;  the  (  at  stated  periods,  as  some  other  plants  do,  but 


white-hrowed  poetess,  who  dwells  in  realms  S  this  movement  can  be  produced  at  any  time, 

enchanted,  is  no  truer  a  woman  than  the  poor  )  by  only  gently  toaching  the  leaves ;  they  wDl 

widow  who  toils  at  the  washtub,  and  stifles  the  I  instantly  recoil,  and  fold  themselves  together, 

KJghs  that  her  fatherless  children  may  not  hear.  /  as  if  for  self-protection,  and,  at  the  same  time, 

True  womanhood  is  lovely — angelic ;  crowned  c  the  small  twig  which  sustains  the  leaves  ap- 

with  motherhood,  she  is  the  saintly  Madonna.  }  proaches  the  main  stem,  and  if  the  touch  hat> 

We  love  and  reverence  the  true  woman,  and  I  been  forcible  this  motion  is  communicated  to 

see  in  her  the  shadowy  semblance  of  the  pure  f  the  whole  plant.    It  is  very  difficult  to  touch 

Christ,  the  Sacrificed,  a  tinge  of  that  same  un-  )  the  leaf  pf  a  healthy  sensitive  plant  so  lightly 

selfish,  marvellous  love  that  He  evinced  in  k  as  not  to  make  it  closcj  and  after  the  leaves  aie 

His  death.  ^  closed  it  requires  some  time  for  them  to  regain 

mm^        —  (  their  original  position.    A  sensitive  plant,  on 

nyrsx?  oTTXTOTrrTtrT?  t»t        m  '  being  taken  from  its  usual  situation  into  a  dark 

IHt  SENSITIVE  PLA^T.  ^^^^  ^Jq^^  it^  1^,^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^^p^^ 

®Y  c.  i^  for  a  day  aud  night,  even  moderately,  and  then 

7£  are  indebted  to  the  wanderings  of  the  )  remained  in  the  same  state  for  three  days;  at 


A^' 


botanist  for  many  interesting  descrip-  (  the  end  of  which  time  it  was  brooght  into  the 

lions  of  the  amusing  and  varied  treasures  in  )  light  and  air,  when  the  leaves  recovered  their 

the  world  of  flowers.    One  cannot  fail  to  sym-  ?  natural  periodical  motions, 

pathize  with  that  genuine  adventurous  spirit  ',  Sensitive  plants,  with  all  other  beautiful  aod 

which  induces  a  person  to  travel  alone,  un-  >  lovely  productions  of  nature;  can  be  studied 

known  and  uncared  for,  except  by  his  Heav-  \  with  pleasure  and  profit  by  all  "  who  look 

enly  Father,  over  hill  and  dale,  in  sunshine  S  through  nature  up  to  nature's  God,"  and  thank 

and  rain,  through  forests  and  swamps,  to  pro-  \  Him  for  all  their  beauty  and  blessings, 

cure  specumens  never  before  discovered,  and  )  I>ei.afield,  Wis. 
thinks  himself  fortunate  if  he  adds  even  one  to 


those  already  known.  \       .  .   ^  ,    ,  . ,      » 

But  mere  descriptive  botany  &ils  to  give  S  ^  "^  ^'^  ""'f  ^^  "? ^  ^""ff"  ]  T" 
such  interest  to  the  general  reader  as  the  his-  )  go«gto  say,  nev«  had  mwihood.  What  cUt 
tory  of  some  curious  or  wonderful  production  'i  »>«*»•*  "  "  baked,  that,  gen«ally,  m«.«e 
of  nature.  The  large  flowering  sensitive  plant  )  ^^"^  ^^^  •»*!«  ^  ^'^-  J^"  f^.  ^" 
is  such  a  producUon.  It  was  found  in  the  *«  Vf'P',  '"I'l^  \r^  «^  *'  T  * 
mountains  of  Jamaica,  in  the  West  Indies,  by  ^  .»'.*"^f '»*.  ^?"?\  ^IfT"?  I.''*  T.'^f"' 
«>  English  gentleman,  who  describes  it  .»  I  tiqnity;  it  u  fair;  but  what  ^  it  worth?   Itu 

grand  and  very  beautiful,  and  says:  "It  is  a  ;  ""'^ '**  '^^7-    ?'  "  "«*  ""'»' »'  ^"  «*""*!"=" 
goodly  sight  to  see  this  splendid  shrub,  with  )  the  furnace  and  been  burned;  it  is  not  until  it 

its  large  and  curious  flowers,  and  the  power  it  {  ^««  ^/^  P'^""*"  trough*  "PO"  »»,  "^i,^ 
has  of  closing  them  on  the  slightest  approach  )  ?'"«^>  "".^  ."^f  P"'  "?>  the  furnace  agam ; « 
of  danirer "  ^^^  "'^^  ^*  ^^**®  ^^^  three,  foor, 
We  must  aU  have  noticed  the  folding  back  J  ^^'^'^  times,  and  been  burmshed  by  the  haid 
of  the  leaves,  and  the  rolling  up  of  the  flowers,  .  ""^^  *f>  "^  *^«  workman  that  it  coma  out, 
of  many  well-known  plants  in  the  evening,  or  <  "*"  '"'J^  "^"V*^"*  i°  l'^^  ^\  V^^«>^  I" 
at  the  approach  of  rain,  and  their  st.beequent  ;  '°™'  <J««>«ted,  and  with  tints  laid  m  upon  «. 
expansion  in  the  morning,  or  after  the  passing  ^"'^.'"'"y  ^^J^  ^"^l  *""*  ""^T  i 
by  of  the  shower.  But  the  sensitive  plants  }  ^J""  'r""**'"  ^^^ich  they-  have  gone  through 
have  a  power  of  motion  far  exceeding  this,  and  '  have  been  God's  fashioning  or  adorning  hand- 
approaching,  in  appearance,  the  voluntary;  frtoinly  God's  ^a«o«*hand.-i/.  K.B«efc., 
movements  of  an  animal.  The  origin  of  this  (  *"  **«  Ohrustum  Lmon. 
singular  power  has  never  yet  been  discovered,  ;  _  •o«<o.— — 
though  numerous  experiments  have  been  made  i  Uow  easy  it  is  to  please  and  to  be  pleased, 
to  ascertain  the  fact.  These  experimects  all  {  as  well  as  edified,  if  one  will  take  the  fragrance 
show  the  infinite  variety  of  ways  in  which  the  '  of  the  rose  instead  of  the  thorns,  and  hold  the 
Creator  of  all  things  has  furnished  every  object  <  knife  by  the  handle  and  not  by  the  edge. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


ONLY  A  SPRIG  OF  JASMINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  mid- day  in  the  height  of  summer. 
The  sun  was  blazing  from  a  cIoadlesB  sky. 
The  stems  of  the  stone  pines  in  the  Grand 
Bucal  gardens  gleamed  like  burnished  copper 
in  the  glare.  The  roses  were  fainting  with  the 
heat,  and  scattering  their  petals  in  soft-Bcented 
showers.  Only  the  rows  of  tall  pyramidal 
cypresses  stood  cold  and  sombre  as  when  they 
watch  over  graves.  The  birds  were  silent  in 
their  coverts;  not  so  the  noisy  cicadas,  that 
kept  up  an  incessant  chaOer;  and  now  and 
then  the  light  thud  was  heard  of  an  over-ripe 
pear  or  plum  falling  to  the  ground. 

It'  was  a  sleepy  time ;  bedides  it  was  really 
the  hour  of  siesta,  and  Paolo,  one  of  the  under 
gardeners,  gladly  laid  aside  his  tools,  and 
threw  himself  down  under  a  canopy  of  vines 
twined  and  twisted  about  the  boughs  of  a 
spreading  ilex  tree.  Though  Paolo  could  rest 
from  hoeing  and  digging,  he  could  not  sleep. 
Thought  was  too  busy  in  his  anxious  brain. 
He  was  poor  and  in  love;  and  Paolo  was 
not  the  first  who  had  foimd  that  situation  in- 
i^npportable. 

The  girl  he  loved  was  as  poor  as  himselfl 
She  lived  with  a  widowed  aunt ;  and  the  two 
women  managed  to  support  themselves  by  silk 
Hpinning.  Paolo's  wages  and  Bona's  earnings 
together  would  not  maintain  a  household; 
besides,  Paolo  did  not  wish  that,  when  he 
married,  his  wife  should  spend  her  days  in 
spinning  silk.  Yet  the  day  when  he  might 
be  able  to  support  her  in  comfort  seemed  so 
far  off  I  No  wonder  he  was  sad,  and  that  sleep 
would  not  always  come  when  he  laid  himself 
down  for  hb  siesta. 

How  he  hated  those  noisy  cicadas  —  the 
litUe  selfish,  unsympathizing  creatures,  that 
went  on  chattering  about  their  delight  in  the 
sunshine,  as  if  there  were  no  such  being  m 
Bona  in  the  world  I  Paolo  pelted  the  tree 
with  unripe  grapes  to  silence  them,  but  he 
only  made  himself  hotter,  and  soon  wearily 
laid  his  head  back  again  on  his  clasped  hands. 
There  was  a  strange,  powerful  fragrance  round 
the  spot  Paolo  had  chosen  for  his  resting-place. 
Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  ilex  tree  was  an 
alcove,  the  grand  duchess's  favorite  place  of 
reaorU.  A  favorite  place  it  well  might  be,  com- 
manding as  it  did  a  view  of  the  lovely  Val 
d'Arao,  and  the  distant   hills.     Bound  the 


pillars  that  supported  the  roof  of  the  alcove 
and  all  along  the  frieze,  clung  a  rare  variety 
of  jasmine  just  imported  from  Goa.  Its  flowers 
were  pink-tipped,  and  nearly  twice  the  size  of 
the  ordinary  jasmine,  and  its  scent  was  deli- 
cious. The  grand  duchess  had  no  particular 
love  for  flowers,  but  she  prized  this,  not  because 
it  was  beautiful  and  sweet,  but  because  it  was 
rare ;  and  the  grand  duke  had  given  orders 
that  none  of  the  gardeners,  on  pain  of  dismissal, 
should  presume  to  give  or  sell  a  slip  from  the 
duchess's  jasmine-tree. 

The  drowsy  influence  of  the  heat  was  just 
beginning  to  get  the  better  of  his  brooding 
fancies,  when  Paolo  thought  he  heard  his  name 
called. 

"It  is  old  Benzo,"  he  said,  to  himself. 
"  He  has  no  right  to  disturb  me  at  this  hour. 
Why  cannot  he  take  his  own  rest  and  be 
quiet?" 

But  again  the  voice  sounded  nearer.  "Paolo, 
Paolo,  where  art  thou  then  ?" 

It  was  a  deep,  manly  voice,  certainly  not 
the  half-cracked  falsetto  of  Messer  Benzo,  the 
head  gardener,  as  Paolo  perceived  as  soon  as 
he  was  wide  awake. 

"Here!"  answered  Paolo  back  again,  ris- 
ing to  his  feet  at  a  fresh  summons;  "who 
wants  me  ?'' 

A  quick,  firm  tread  sounded  on  the  gravel 
walk,  and  presently  the  ilex  boughs  that  con- 
cealed Paolo's  resting-place  were  put  aside, 
and  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  man, 
bronze- visaged,  and  black-moustached,  stepped 
on  to  the  sward  where  Paolo  stood  in  expecta- 
tion. 

"  Why,  lad,  thou  art  as  hard  to  find  as  a 
needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay,"  exclaimed  the  new- 
comer, with  a  hearty  dap  on  the  young  gar- 
dener's shoulder. 

"Beppol  is  it  possible?  Hast  thou  fallen 
from  the  skies  ?"  was  Paolo's  response. 

"  Nay,"  replied  the  other,  laughing.  "  Vm. 
no  skylark,  not  I.  I  like  to  keep  my  feet  on 
good  mother  earth;  it  is  enough  to  do  that 
without  tripping  in  these  troublous  times.  If 
one  comes  ofi*  with  a  well-filled  purse,  and  a 
whole  skin— why  well.  If  not,  a  bullet  makes 
short  entrance  to  a  better  world,  as  the  priests 
call  it,  though  I  do  not  see  that  they  are  in 
any  greater  hurry  to  get  there  than  we  sinners." 

"  But  in  sober  seriouenees,  Beppo  mio,  where 

Digitized  by  G(^8^le 


362 


ARTEVB^S    LADY'S    HOME    MAGAZINE. 


have  70a  been  these  three  years  past,  and  where 
have  you  come  from  ?" 

**  In  sober  seriousness — from  the  wars," 
"Per  Dio,  but  Pm  heartily  glad  to  see  thee 
back  again,  old  comrade ;  and  with  a  whole 
skin  as  thou  sayesf 

"Aye,  and  that  is  not  all,"  answered  Beppo, 
with  a  twinkling  eye,  as  he  drew  out  a  long 
purse,  through  the  meshes  of  which  gleamed 
gold  coin. 

The  blood  seemed  to  tingle  in  Paolo's  veins 
»t  the  sight  of  the  coin.  Where  that  came  from 
was  there  not  more  to  be  had?  How  long 
should  he  have  to  toil  at  spade  and  hoe  before 
he  could  save  even  one  of  those  gold  pieces  ? 

Beppo  noticed  Paolo's  changing  color,  and 
laughed  again.  "I  fancy  thou  hast  never 
found  a  pot  of  gold  amongst  thy  flower-roots, 
friend  Paolo,"  said  he ;  **  'tis  a  sorry  trade  for 
such  as  thou.  Corpo  di  Bacco,  it's  dry  work 
talking,  and  here  comes  Measer  Benzo,"  con- 
tinued the  soldier,  lifting  his  cap  to  the  old 
man  as  he  approached.  "  Hark  ye,  Paolo ;  I 
and  some  of  our  fellows  will  be  down  at  Gab- 
bia's  osteria  this  evening*  Come  and  take  a 
glass  of  the  padrone's  best ;  though,  by  my  soul, 
it's  but  sorry  stuff  after  the  vintages  of  Bur- 
gundy. Then  thou  shalt  hear  how  to  better 
thy  fortune  if  thou  hast  a  mind.  Dunqiie  a 
rivtrdertV  So  saying,  Beppo  strode  off  to  the 
gates  of  the  garden,  humming  the  air  of  a 
drinking-song  as  he  went  along. 

Old  Renzo  was  rather  deaf,  and  had  not  dis- 
tinctly heard  all  that  passed ;  but  he  shook  his 
head  as  he  watched  the  retreating  figure. 

"There  goes  a  good-for-nothing,"  he  said. 
'^  Beppo  was  always  an  idle  scamp.  Don't  let 
him  mislead  thee,  lad.  War  is  a  barren  tr^ e, 
and  bears  no  good  fruit"  Renzo  gave  Paolo 
some  directions  for  work  to  be  done,  and  then 
hobbled  off  again  toward  the  roses  that  were 
the  delight  of  his  life. 

Beppo  had  returned  to  his  native  place  with 
a  recruiting  party.  He  did  not  find  it  at  all 
necessary  to  state  that  the  money  he  threw 
about  him  so  plentifully  was  not  all  his  own ; 
nor  in  describing  the  freedom  and  jollity  of 
€amp  life,  did  he  dwell  on  the  reverse  side  of 
the  picture.  Paolo  was  restless  and  discon- 
tented. He  listened  with  eager  ears  to  the 
proi^pect  held  out  to  him ;  it  is  so  easy  to  be- 
lieve what  we  wish.  He  was  obliged  to  ac- 
knowledge to  himself  that  the  parting  frem 
Bona  would  be  hard — ^but  was  not  cruel  pov- 
erty separating  them  as  it  was  ?  And  in  a  few 
yeart) — a  very  few  years,  perhkps — ^the  fortune 
of  war  might  shower  some  such  rich  booty  into 


his  lap  as  that  Beppo  had  so  lavishly  dis- 
played. 

It  was  thus  Paolo  argued  with  himself.  The 
soldiers  took  care  to  ply  him  with  wine,  while 
they  talked.  His  imagination  was  dazzled, 
his  better  sense  laid  to  sleep;  and,  in  fine, 
when  the  party  separated  for  the  nighty  Paolo 
had  pledged  himself  to  enlist. 

Old  Benzo  shook  his  head  when  he  heard  oo 
the  following  morning  what  had  occurred,  but 
it  was  too  late  to  interfere,  and  Paolo  was  deter- 
mined to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  to  look  onlj 
on  the  hopeful  side.  Perhaps  he  had  been 
rash— that  much  he  allowed ;  but  some  change 
he  had  been  determined  to  make;  and  the 
sooner  he  left,  the  sooner  he  would  return. 

One  painful  task  remained  to  him — the  task 
of  telling  Bona  what  ke  had  done.  He  was  to 
meet  her  that  evening.  It  was  her  file  day, 
and  she  would  be  released  for  a  few  hours  from 
that  everlasting  silk-spinning.  Paolo's  work 
was  not  very  efficient  that  morning ;  it  is  to  be 
feared  the  flowers  sufiered ;  his  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  At  length  the  sun  sank  behind  the 
stone  pines.  How  often  on  festa  days  had  he 
hailed  the  lengthening  shadows,  thinking  of 
the  evening  dance  and  song,  and  the  ramble  in 
the  cool  shade,  to  be  shared  with  Bona  I  But 
this  afternoon,  in  spite  of  the  hopes  he  wv 
building  upon  his  new  career,  his  heart  was 
heavy,  and  he  almoist  felt  as  if  the  flowers  he 
was  gathering,  as  a  name-day  gifl  for  Boni, 
were  funeral  flowers;  for  he  knew  how  her 
tears  would  fall  on  them  when  she  heard  that 
he  was  going  far  away  from  her,  for  yean 
perhaps. 

As  he  was  passing  the  duchess's  alcove,  oo 
his  way  to  the  gates,  the  scent  of  the  Indian 
jasmine  came  wafted  toward  him  on  the  light 
summer  breeze.  He  hesitated  a  moment. 
"This  is  so  sweet,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
pure  and  simple,  like  Bona's  self.  There  can 
be  no  harm  in  gathering  just  one  sprig ;  it  is 
not  like  giving  a  cutting."  As  he  reached  op 
to  pull  a  spray  of  the  fragrant  blossoms,  he 
fancied  he  heard  a  step  approaching.  In  his  ^ 
haste  he  tore  off  a  larger  piece  than  he  had  in- 
tended. As  the  step  came  nearer,  he  did  not 
stop  to  separate  the  flowering  sprig  from  the 
green,  but,  bending  it  up,  he  half-buried  it 
amongst  the  roses  and  carnations  he  held  in 
his  hand,  and  hurried  away. 

It  is  needless  to  dwell  upon  the  scene  that 
followed.  Lovers  have  parted  before,  and  will 
again,  and  the  parting  must  always  be  the 
same— the  same  tearing  asunder  of  two  human 
hearts — the  same  [inward  bleeding — the  same 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


ONLY   A    SPRIG    OF   JASMINE. 


263 


aching  void.  Bona  Icept  Paolo's  parting  gift 
of  flowers  till  they  faded.  Bat  as  she  was  sor^ 
rowfally  placing  her  nosegay  in  water,  she 
took  out  the  sprig  of  jasmine. 

Pabto  had  told  her  its  history ;  how  much 
the  grand  duchess  prized  it ;  and  had  held  it 
up  to  her  thkt  she  might  inhale  its  delicious 
perfume.  It  had,  thet'efore,  an  individuality 
for  her  beyond  that  of  the  other  flowers ;  and 
in  order  to  preaerye  the  sprig  as  long  as  possi- 
ble, she  determined  to  place  it  in  a  garden- pot 
full  of  light  soil,  such  as  Paolo  had  taught  her 
to  use  in  potting  plants.  First  she  picked  off  < 
the  flower-spray,  and  placed  it  in  the  centre; 
**that  shall  stand  for  our  love,  Paolo*s  and 
mine/'  she  murmured.  Then  she  slipped  the 
little  green  offshoots  from  the  long  stem,  and 
placed  them  round  the  edge  of  the  pot,  giving 
them  pretty,  fanciful  names,  such  as  speranza, 
bnona  fortuna,  and  the  like. 

She  could  scarcely  distinguish  anything  but 
a  maze  of  white  and  green,  through  the  tears 
that  would  keep  rising  to  h^  eyes;  she  touched 
the  flowers. with  her  lips  in  something  between 
a  ki<«  and  a  sigh,  and  then  placed  the  pot,  with 
its  precious  contents,  in  a  shady  nook  on  the 
window-sill  of  her  little  chamber,  where  the 
overhanging  vineS  would  shelter*  it  from  the 
burning  sun. 

Night  and  morning  Bona  watered  her  jas- 
mine pot;'  but  soon  the  flowers  dropped  off, 
and  most  of  the  sprays  withered  away.  Two 
of  them  recnained  green,  however,  and  Bona 
would  not  part  with  them  as  long  ias  a  symp- 
tom of  life  was  left.  After  a  time,  to  her  bqi> 
prise  and  joy,  tiny  green  points  biecame  visible 
on  the  stems  as  the  old  leaves  dropped  off;  and 
Bona  fdand  that  the  two  slips  she  bad  named 
speranza  and  baonH  fortuna  had  taken  rOot| 
and  wdre  growing. 

Never  were  plants  tended  with  nK>re  loving 
care.  It  almost  seems  as  if  piarits  were  gifted 
with,  some' sort  of  sensibility,' and  were  aware 
vhen  they  ave  00  tended— «»  if  they  bloomed 
in  fuller  beauty  under  the  loving  touch  aud  the 
ftdmiring  eye.  Winter  passed  and  sprii^  eame, 
and  Bona  planted  out  her  jasmines,  one  on  eaah 
side  the  doorwfty,  making  a  fenoe  round;  their 
delicate  stems  to  protect  them  from  thegoatu, 
that  were  00  misohieVeas  among  the  young 
vines.  As  summer  advanced,  they,  like  their 
parent  tre6,  beeame  itf^rred  over, with  pink- 
tipped  white  floweiB.  As  Bona  sat  at  the  door, 
spimiiog,  she  ooaM  peeoeive  the  sweet  perfupi^^ 
uid  aknoBt  felt,  as  if  they  were  whi^ering  to 
her  of  Paolo,  aad  bidding  her  be  iaithflil,  and 
have  hope. 
VOL.  xxxvnr,— 18. 


One  afternoon,  just  a  year  after  Paolo's  de- 
parture, as  Bona  was  sitting  as  usual  in  her 
doorway,  spinning,  ahandseme  carriagestopped 
before  the  cottage.  A  young  and  elegantly  . 
dressed  lady  looked  out,  and  then  signed  to 
the  footman  to  bpen  the  carriage  door.  She 
alighted,  and,  to  Bona's  great  surprise,  came 
forward  as  if  to  speak  to  her. 

Bona  recognized  the  Countess  Guida  Rinaldil 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  beauties  and  leaders 
of  fashion  at  the  Grand  Ducal  court.  Paolo 
had  pointed  her  out  to  Bona  in  the  oaitino,  one 
festa  day.  It  was  whispered  that  the  Goon  tees 
Guida  was  no  great  favorite  with  the  grand 
duchess.  Certain  it  is  that  the  countess  had 
requested  a  slip  of  the  Indian  jasmine,  and 
had  been  refused.  This  refusal  rankled  in  her 
heart,  and  of  course  made  the  possession  of 
this  plant  an  object  of  importance  to  her  hap- 
piness. She  could  scarcely  believe  the  evir 
dence  of  her  senses,  whto,  returning  by  an  un- 
frequented road  from  her  country  villa,  she 
saw  the  jasmine  of  Goa  growing  at  the  door- 
way of  a  cottage.  It  is  needless  to  say  she 
determined  to  lose  no  time  in  purchasing  the 
plants  from  the  little  silk-spinner; 

Great  was  her  surprise  when  her  proposal 
was  met  by  a  modest  but  firm  refusal.  The 
countess  was  vexed  beyond  measure.  She  would 
willingly  have  given  the  diamond  ring  from 
her  finger  for  only  one  of  the  trees.  At  first  she 
supposed  Bona  was  only  waiting  for  a  higher 
ofifer;  she  raised  the  sum  she  at  first  proposed 
to  give,  but  Bona  was  not  to  be  moved.  Bona 
did  not  wish  to  appear  ill-natured  to  the  noble 
lady,  or  merely  obstinate ;  she  therefore  related 
her  aim  pie  story,  and  why  it  was  that  she  felt 
she  could  almost  as  soon  part  with  her  life  as 
with  her  jasmiiie  tree.  At  the  same  time  she 
gathered  a  few  of  the  treasured  flowers,  which 
she  tendered  for  the  signora's  acceptance. 

Though'  the  Countess  Guida  wiis  a  ^hion* 
able  lady,  she  had  a  heart,  and  she  was  touched 
by  Bdna's  story. 

''The  saints  forbid  that  I  should  rob  you  of 
your  buona  fortuna,"  she  said,  kindly.  "  Bathet 
would  I  help  you  to  make  it  answer  to  its 
namor  Can  you  not  raise  other  slips  from  your 
trees?  All  that  you  can  produce  I  will  pur- 
chase. See,''  she  continued,  drawing  a  gold 
coin  from  her  puiae^  <'if  yon  bring  me  three 
plants  when  spring  comes^  you  shall  have  one 
of  these  for  each  of  them.'    Is  it  agreed  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  I "  replied  Bona,  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  joy.  "It  ahail  be  as  the  noble  lady 
wishes ;  but--"  and*  a  shadow  of  anxiety  passed 
otmr  her  face  aa  she  spoke—-'' the  Signora  Con- 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


264 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S  SOME   MAGAZINE. 


tesBa  will  not  betray  Paolo  ?  She  will'  not  get 
him  into  difficulties  with  Messer  Renao?" 

The  coanteos  emiled.  Meaaer  Benzo  seemed 
to  her  a  person  of  fery  little  consequence.  She 
gaye  the  required  promise,  howerer.  ''And 
now,  little  Bona/'  she  added,  **  I  must  make  a 
stipulation  in  mj  turn.  You  most  keep  onx 
bargain  secret;  and  jou  must  screen  jour  jas- 
mines so  that  they  may  not  be  seen  from  the 
road.  I  am  to  be  the  first  possessor,  remem-^ 
her.''  Then  she  returned  to  her  carriage  scarce- 
ly so  well  pleased  as  she  would  haTe  been  could 
■he  have  carried  the  jasmine  trees  off  with  her 
in  triumph. 

As  soon  as  the  Coantess  Qnida's  carriage 
was  out  of  sight,  Bona  prepared  two  flower- 
pots as  before,  and  taking  as  many  cuttings  as 
the  young  trees  could  bear  withont  injury,  she 
sat  them  once  more  in  the  shade  upon  her 
window-sill. 

"Don't  you  be  a  fool  and  part  with  all  your 
cuttings  next  spring,  Bonina  mia,"  said  the 
aunt,  who  had  oyerheard  what  had  passed  from 
the  interior  of  the  cottage ;  "  the  Signora  Oon- 
tessa  will  show  her  jasmine  trees  to  every  one ; 
she  will  set  the  fashion,  and  yon  may  sell  yoor 
next  year's  cuttings  for  what  yon  choose,  or  I 
am  much  mistaken.'^ 


CHAPTER  n. 

Five  years  passed ;  not  one  word  had  been 
heard  from  Paolo  all  this  time.  News  trav- 
elled but  slowly  from  country  to  country 
in  those  days.  There  had  been  wars  and 
rumors  of  wara,  but  Bona,  in  her  quiet  oot* 
tage,  heard  but  little  of  what  was  stirring  in 
the  world. 

Bona's  cottage  was  now  embowered  in  jas- 
mine ;  and  the  garden  behind,  instead  of  pro- 
ducing nothing  but  a  few  cabbages  and  strag- 
gling gourds,  was  stocked  with  rare  roses, 
carnations,  and  other  brilliant  and  sweet 
flowers.  Ladies  in  carriages  came  for  flowers 
and  cuttings,  and  cavaliers  turned  their  horses' 
heads  toward  Bona's  cottage  to  procure  bou> 
quets  for  their  partners  In  the  evening— bou- 
quets of  which  the  jasmine^  when  in  bloom, 
always  formed  a  part. 

As  the  aunt  had  foretold,  it  had  become  the 
fashion,  and  Bona  was  making  her  iertitne. 
Suitors  were  not  wanting,  but  her  heart  re- 
mained faithful  to  her  early  love.  He  it  was 
who  had  brought  her  the  "  buona  fortuna,"  and 
he,  or  no  one^  should  share  it.  In  vain  her 
munt  chided,  and  called  hdr  foolish;  told  her 
•he  waa  wasting  her  best  yeara  for  a  man  who  I 


was  perhaps  dead,  or  who  at  any  rate  had  in 
all  probability  long  ceased  to  think  of  her. 
Bona  could  ntft  be  persuaded.  She  would  not 
believe  that  Paolo  was  dead;  neither  would 
she  believe  that  he  was  faithless  to  her;  her 
only  answer  to  all  ai^gumenta  and  solicitation* 
was,  that  the  '^buon  Iddio"  would  make  all 
right  in  the  end,  and  with  this  the  aunt  wu 
Adn  to  be  content. 

It  was  one  evening  in  early  summer;  a  fev 
of  the  jasmine  flowers  were  already  in  blopm. 
The  aunty  who  was  generally  the  mirht- 
woman,  had  hurt  her  foot,  so  Bona  had  let 
out,  basket  in  hand,  to  the  suburbs  to  provide 
for  the  evening  meal  and  the  coming  day. 
The  room  was  full  of  memories,  and  she  ling- 
ered amidst  the  lengthening  shadows.  There 
was  the  cottage  where  Paolo  had  lodged ;  yon- 
der, the  olive  tree,  beneath  which  they  had  n 
often  sat  on  summer  evenings ;  that  tall  row  of 
poplare  marked  the  road  by  which  Paolo  used 
to  return  from  his  work ;  and  just  before  ha 
the  white  walls  of  the  cottage  were  risiUe 
through  the  acacia  trees,  where  Beppo's  mother 
still  lived. 

As  Bona  pensively  walked  on,  taking  is  tU 
these  ejects  with  eye  and  hearty  she  suddenly 
started ;  for  coming  out  of  a  gate  between  the 
acacia  trees  she  saw  a  figure  she  leoogniiei 
The  man  she  saw  was  no  longer  jaunty  and 
careless  in  mien ;  no  longer  brave  in  attire. 
He  was  cadaverous  and  emaciated ;  his  dothO) 
Aided  and  soiled  with  many  a  stain,  hong 
loosely  on  his  shrunken  frame ;  and  yet  Bona 
knew  him  at  once,  and  sprang  toward  him 
with  a  cry  of  mingled  hope  and  fear. 

"  Beppo  I"  she  exclaimed,  breathlesely,  *Srhci 
did  you  eooae  home?  and  whereis  PtoloT" 

Beppo  seemed  inclined  to  shrink  out  of  sii^ 
instead  of  answering,  but  Bona  caught  his  ana 
with  a  firm  grip.  ''Answer  me,  Beppo^"  ehe 
said ;  ''what  have  you  done  with  Paolo?" 

'*  If  you  want  Paolo,"  replied  Beppo^  nl- 
lenly,  "yon  must  seek  him  where  I  cane 
from." 

Bona  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "He  sliU 
lives,  then?" 

"He  stin  lived  when  I  left;  that  is  alll 
know." 

" But  where?  and  why  has  he  not  retoned 
with  you?" 

"He  is  in  hospital,  if  yon  will  know.  We 
were  discharged  with  other  of  our  comrades; 
he,  with  a  gunshot  wound  through  the  fcme^ 
and  I — well,  never  mind  that  He^s  the  laek- 
ier  follow,  for  he  has  got  something  of  a  peo- 
sion  to  make  up  for  a  crippled  knee— ^' 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


aNLY.  A    8PM JQ    OF  JASMINE. 


269- 


"Oh,  never  mind  thaiP  interropted.  Bona, 
ID  her  impatience ;  "  tell  me  why  he  baa  been 
left  behind — ^he  is  ill?  djing,  perhaps?  Ok, 
^nta  Maria,  is  it  so  ?*'  and,  her  voice  broke 
down  as  the  terror  seized  upon  her,  tba^ 
even  now,  just  npon  the  point  .of  retain,  lie 
might  have  passed  awaj  forever  from  her 
reach. 

By  close  qneptioning,  she  drew  from  Beppo 
all  the  information  he  had  to  give.  The  poor 
discharged  soldiers  had  not  been  sufficiently 
recovered  from  their  wounds  when  they  set 
oat  on  their  homeward  joqrney ;  fever  had 
aude  havoc  amongst  then^  and  PiEK>lo  was 
Qow  lying  at  death's  door,  in  a  hospital,  a  day's 
joamey  from  Florence. 

Bona  flew,  rather  than  ran,  back  to  the  cot-, 
tage;  called  npon  a  neighbor  to  beg  her  to  see 
after  her  aunt  in  her  absence ;  pat  up  a  few 
things  in  a  bundle;  plucked  some  jasmine 
sprays,  wrapping  some  damp  moss  round  the 
stems  to  keep  them  fresh,  and  hurried  toward 
Florence,  vhere,  as  she  expected,  she  found 
the  husband  of  an  old  companion  of  hers,  just 
starting  for  the  frontier,  with  a  load  of  wine- 
ikios;  he  willingly  gave  her  a;  place  in  his 
cart,  and  night  saw  her  on  her  dreary  way. 

Hopes  and  fears  kept  chasing  each  ot^er 
through  her  mind,  and  agitating  her  out  of  all 
power  of  calmness.  The  mules  appeared  to 
crawl;  she  frequently  got  down  and  walked, 
fimcying  she  could  the  sooner  reach  her  jour- 
ney's end.  Daylight  seemed  as  if  it  had  for- 
saken the  earth ;  but  at  last  the  sun  rose,  and 
a  few  hours  after,  faint  and  sick  with  fatigue 
and  anjEiety,  Bona  descended  f^f^m  the.  carti 
and  inquired  her  way  to  the.  hospital. 

Here  a  new  obstacle  awaited  her.  It  was 
not  the  hour  at  which  v^itois  could  be  ad- 
mitted  to  see  the  patients;  she  must  wait  till 
three  o'clock,  the  porter  told  her,  in  cold,  busi- 
ness-like tones.  Four  houcs  to  wait,  when 
CTery  nerve  was  on  the  rack  I  Bona  burst  into 
tears. 

Did  he  know  the  name  of  Paolo  Memmi  ? 
Bona  asked ;  could  he  tell  her — but  herquiven- 
ing  lips  refused  to  ask  the  question  that  was  to 
decide  the  fate  of  all  she  held  dear.  She  sank 
on  a  seat,  overpowered  by  emotion. 

A  sister  of  mercy  happened  to  be  passing 
through  the  hall,  and  stopp^  to  offer  a  woird 
of  consolation  to  the  peasant  girl,  who  seemed 
in  such  distress.  Enoooraged  by  the  kind 
VMce  and  manner  of  the  good  sister,  Bona,  in 
faltering  accents,  repeated  her  question,  and 
Qfged  her  request. 

''Paolo  Memmi,"  repeated  the  sister.    "A 


soldier,  wounded,  and  ill  with  fever— oh,  yeel 
I  know  him ;  he  is  in  my  ward.  But  try  to 
calm  yourself,  my  popr  girl— hef  is  ve»y  Ul ;  he 
is  now  asleep,  and  bow  he  wakes  may  deter- 
mine whether  he  is  to  live  or  die.  But  there 
is  alwi^s  hope.;  and  the  buon  Dio  watches 
over  all."     * 

''Oh,  if  I  might  but  look  at  him  oncel" 
Bona  implored.  "  I  wiU  be  so  quiet.  I  wiU 
make  no  noise;  I  will  not  speak,  or  even  sob-*- 
only  just  to  aee  him— when  the  hour  pomes  for 
visitors  it  may  be*--too  late." 

She  uttered  the  last  word  in  a  low  voice, 
daaping  her  hands  tight  to  keep,  down  the 
hysterical  weeping  that  had  before  overpowered 
her. 

"  You  will  be  quite  quiet  ?  Yes ;  I  see  you 
have  self-control,"  said  the  sister,  regarding 
her  cpmpa^ionateiy.  "I  think  'y<>n  may  be 
trusted ;  wait  here,  and  I  will  see  what  can  be 
done." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  appeared  at  the  en- 
trance to  a  corridor,  and  beckoned  to  Bona. 
Asoending  a  Higbt  of  stairs,  she  led  the  way 
along  an  upper,  psssi^fe,  and  opened  the  door 
of  a  ward,  where  many  beds  were  ranged  side 
by  side.  Bona  followed.  At  length,  with  a 
waming  glan^  at  Bona,  her  fijager  on  her 
lips,  the  sister  stepped  behind  one  of  the 
pallets. 

Wan,  worn,  with  the  eyelids  closed  over  the 
weary  eyes,  the  dark  hair  clinging  damp  to 
the  pale  brow,  one  thin  hand  stretched  over 
the  coverlet,  he  lay,  so  aged,  so  altered,  but 
yet  Paolo  stilL  Bona  gaaed  through  the  tears 
she  did  not  dare  to  shed ;  and  then,  sofUy  plao* 
ing  the  jasmime  flowers  she  had  brought  with 
her  on  the  pillow,  she  obeyed  the  name's  ge8<- 
tare^  and  withdrew. 

The  subtile  fragrance  of  the  flower  seemed 
to  penetrate  the  sensee  of  the  invalid,  and  to 
give  shape  to  his  fever  dreama;  he  evidently 
imagined  himself  once  more  in  the  Grand  Du- 
cal gardens,  and  was  deprecating  the  anger  of 
Messer  Benxo. 

"  It  was  only  a  sprig  of  jasmine,  and  it  was 
for  Bona,"  he  murmured.  Then,  as  if  pleasant 
thoughts  of  home  and  of  his  old  oceupationa 
had  soothed  his  pain,  his  brow  oleared,  the 
restless  tossing  and  moaning  ceaaed ;  a  placid 
smile  stole  over  his  worn  fy^  and  he  slept 
peacefully. 

The  following  day  good  newa  iwalted  Bona. 
Paolo's  iUness  had  taken  a  £avorable  timi|  and 
he  was  out  of  danger. 

"It  woukl  almost  seem  as  if  the  soent  of 
that  strange  flower  yeo  brought  had  oalled  him 


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266 


ABTSUR^a   LADT'B   HOME   UAGAZINE. 


back  from  death  to  life,"  said  the  good  siater 
to  the  anxioiM  inquirer. 

Bona  was  soon  obliged  to  return  home ;  it 
wan  sererai  weeks  before  Paolo  waa  able  to 
iblloir,  and  months  before  he  recovered  hia 
strength.  He  remained  lame,  bat  not  so  much 
so  as  to  be  unsble  to  work  in  th^ cottage  gar- 
den, soon  to  be  his  as  well  as  Bona's.  The 
next  summer  thej  were  married,  Bona*s  bridal 
wreath  being  composed  of  jasmine  flowers. 

Since  that  time  the  voung  girls  of  Tuscany 
wear  the  jasmine  flower  on  their  wedding  day, 
either  in  wreath  or  bouquet;  and  it  is  a  saying 
in  Italy  that  "She  who  is  worthy  to  wear  a 
nosegay  of  jasmine  is  as  good  as  a  fortune  to 
her  husband." 


MAKING  CHILDREN  HAPPY. 


w 


''£  clip  from  an  exchange  the  following, 
which  we  recommend  to  the  perusal  of 
all  who  are  thrown  much  with  children. 

Let  the  reader  who  considers  children  as  only 
to  be  tolerated  as  a  sort  of  disagreeable  nece»- 
sity,  try  the  experiment  of  making  the  next 
child  he  meets  Happy,  and  see  if  he  does  not 
change  his  opinion.    It  is  strange  with  how 
little  pains  one  can  do  this.     Wealth  and 
honors  and  every  contrivance  which  ingenuity  ) 
can  invent,  often  fail  in  giving  happiness  to  ^ 
the  man,  but  a  few  moments'  thought  of  the 
mother  or  friend  will  suffice  to  give  happiness 
to  a  child.    So  simple  are  hie  pleasures  and  so 
few  his  wants]     See  that  little  fellow  lying 
upon  the  floor  in  restless  discontent    It  is  a 
stormy  day,  and  he  cannot  take  his  usual  walk 
with  his  nurse.    He  has  played  with  his  rock- 
ing horse  till  he  is  tired  of  that,  and  his  balls 
and  marbles  and  blocks  have  failed  to  give 
him  amusement,  for  he  thinks  they  are  stupid 
things  and  cannot  play  with  him.    He  wishes 
he  had  a  little  brother  or  sister,  and  then  they 
wouid  have  nice  timea*     Poor  little  follow  I 
His  mother  is  on  the  sofo  reading  the  last 
novel,  And  cannot  spend  time  to  amuse  him, 
and  he. feels  so  unhappy  that  the  tears  are  be- 
ginning already  to  start.    Just  at  this  moment^ 
the  doer  opens,  and  a  bright  face  appearl 
Willy  Sparta  up  and  throws  his  arms  round  the 
neck  of:  his  darling  Cousin  Ltssy,  who,  in  the 
midst  of  the  snow-storm,  has  oume  to  spend 
the  day  with  his  maitima. 

"  I  am  really  glad  to  see  you,  Liazy,''  rather 
languidly,  says  Willy's  mamoka.  ^'  That  boy 
has  been  fretting  ail  the  morning,  so  that  I 
oould  no^  Mad  with  any  comfort.    He  haa  a 


room  full  of  playthings,  and  ought  to  be  happy, 
I'm  sure.  Take  off  your  things  and  sit  down, 
and  ril.finish  my  book." 

Greatly  relieved  is  the  mother  to  be  able  to 
read  undisturbed,  and  greatly  delighted  is 
Willy.  Lizzy  takes  her  work  from  her  pocket, 
and  begins  to  sew,  but  she  talks  to  Willy  about 
his  picture-books  wlkile  he  holds  them  open  to 
the  pictures,  and  looks  perfectly  delighted. 
Then  Lizzy  shows  him  how  to  build  a  farm- 
house with  his  blocks,  and  taking  the  animals 
out  of  his  Noah's  ark,  she  distributes  them  in 
the  farm- yard.  Now  the  boy  claps  his  hands 
with  delight,  and  the  mamma  looks  up  from 
her  book  and  says:  "Lizzy,  what  a  won- 
derful faculty  you  have  for  entertaining  chil' 
dren." 

*<  Oh  I  Willy  is  very  easily  pleased,"  Lizzy 
replies,  ''if  one  only  knows  how." 

We  would  advise  every  one  to  learn  Aow  to 
make  diildren  happy. 


ADVICE  TO  WOMEN 

IN  the  world  I  see  unrest,  discontent,  strife, 
sin.  I  see  girls,  children  in  years,  from 
whose  cheeks  the '  first  blu^h  of  innocence, 
from  whose  soul  the  last  vestige  of  youth  has 
gone ;  women  sold  to  frivolity ;  women  wastp 
ing  most  precious  gifl^  women  whose  amla- 
tion  has  no  higher  object  than  to  misleid 
and  triumph  over  men ;  men  growing  hard, 
selfish,  and  wicked,  the  slaves  of  their  passions, 
going  down  to  death,  with  no  hand  to  save,  all 
for  the  Ikck  of  the  true  home. 

Then  I  remember  that  the  home  is  the  first 
kingdom  of  the  woman,  in  which  her  rights 
can  never  be  dethroned — that  all  pure  lov^ 
all  high  thoughts,  all  religion,  all  government, 
to  live,  must  have  their  roots  beneath  its 
altar.  Then  I  fbel  impelled  to  say  to  every 
woman  who  has  a  home,  before  all  things- 
First  your  home.  No  matter  how  your  ambi- 
tion may  transcend  its  duties ;  no  matter  hoir 
for  your  talents  or  your  influence  may  oatron 
its  doors,  before  everything  let  it  hefini  yu«r 
Aoms.  Be  not  its  slave ;  be  its  minister.  Let 
it  not  be  enough  that  it  b  swept  and  garnished, 
that  its  silver  glitlera,  that  its  food  is  delicioua 
Feed  the  love  in  it.  Feed  die  truth  in  it. 
Feed  thought  and  aspiration  in  it.  Feed  all 
charity  and  gentleiMss  in  it.  Then  shall  oome 
forth  from  its  irails  the  true  woman,  the  true 
man,- who  together  shall  rule  and  bless  the 
land.— ifory  Oemmer  Amu,  in  N.  Y.  JwUpar 
dent. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


NEW  SCHOOL-HOUSES. 


P*  is  hoped  tha^  next  irinter  the  Legislature 
will  do  something  to  facilitate  and  compeli 
if  necessary,  the  erection  of  new  school-housee 
where  needed.  The  following  is  a  true  descrip- 
tion of  a  certain  house  now  being  used  for 
school  purposes  in  this  State: 

The  yard  surrounding  the  house  and  the 
highway  join ;  no  fence  divides  that  portion 
travelled  over  by  animals  and  that  portion  des- 
igoated  as  the  school-house  grounds;  both  yard 
and  highway  are  occupied  in  common  by  ani- 
mals and  children ;  examining  the  outside,  we 
find  three  weather-boards  hanging  at  one  end 
by  the  only  remaining  nail,  and  seven  are  gone 
entirely — probably  long  since  used  for  kind- 
ling wood  ;  nearly  all  trace  of  the  coat  of  paint 
the  house  once  had,  has  disappeared ;  we  enter 
thr&ugh  a  door  hanging  on  bqt  one  hinge,  and 
nearly  ready  to  fall  to  pieces ;  everything  in- 
side presents  that  dilapidated,  forlorn,  and 
dingy  appearance  which  characterizes  the  out- 
side. There  are  forty  pupils  in  the  school ;  the 
room  in  wrhich  they  are  huddled  together  is 
about  large  enough  to  give  suflScient  space  for 
ten;  all  the  benches  upon  which  these  children 
sit  are  made  of  slabs,  set  upon  four  legs ;  they 
are  about  two  feet  high,  and  wholly  devoid  of 
any  support  for  the  backs  of  the  pupi  Is.  These 
poor  children  sit  hew  from  day  to  day,  sus- 
pended between  Heaven  and  earth,  with  feet 
dangling  in  the  air,  with  curved  backs  and 
contracted  lungs,  breathing  the  foul  air  and 
dust — poor,  suffering  victims  of  their  parents' 
short-sighted  penuriousness.  Seven  window 
panes  are  broken  out,  and  the  spaces  left  admit 
nearly  all  the  light  the  room  receives,  for  the 
portions  of  glass  remaining  have  ceased  to  be 
transparent,  on  account  of  the  dust  and  cob- 
webs gathered  upon  them;  an  old-fashioned 
"ten-plate  stove"  adorns  the  centre  of  the 
loom ;  a  piece  of  tin  is  fastened  with  wire  over 
a  hole  in  the  stove-pipe,  and  a  pan  is  placed 
tindemeath  the  stove  to  catch  the  sparks  of  fire 
which  sometimes  fall  through  the  crack  in  the 
bottom.  It  would  be  such  a  pity  if  this  pre- 
cious building  should  burn  down  I  In  several 
places  the  floor  is  worn  through,  but  all  the 
holes  except  one  are  covered  with  boards,  over 
which  the  children  need  not  stumble,  if  they 
are  careful  and  lift  their  feet  high  enough; 
large  patches  of  plastering  have  fallen  from 
the  side  walls  and  the  ceiling,  and  in  several 
places,  through  the  ceiling  and  roof,  the  sky 
may  be  examined  with  advantage  in  astronom- 
ical obsetrvalions;  when  it  rains,  the  children 


have  a  holiday,  for  during  9nch  times  the 
storms  inside  are  unpleasant ;  the  dirt  upon  the 
floor,  if  carefully  swept  up,  would  fill  a  half- 
bushel  measure  at  least,  and  after  that  there 
could  be  gathered  enough  old  paper  and  sticks 
to  fill  another  measure  twice  as  large;  the 
windows  are  supplied  with  shutters,  which  are 
kept  closed  at  night  by  placing  rails  against 
them. 

The  above  is  a  faithful  description  of  one  of 
our  school- houses ;  but  with  slight  modifica- 
tions, it  will  serve  to  convey  an  idea  of  the 
conditiota  of  no  less  than  ninety-eight  so-called 
school-buildings  in  this  State,  which  are  valued 
at  sums  ranging  from  fifty  cents  up  to  one  hun- 
dred dollars  I  Of  course,  these  buildings  con- 
tain no  blackboards,  globes,  maps  or  other  aids 
to  assist  the  teacher  In  his  work. 

Without  argument,  I  simply  repeat  that  it 
is  hoped  something  may  be  done  by  the  Legis- 
lature next  winter  to  secure  the  erection  of 
suitable  school- houses  in  these  districts  where 
the  Inhabitants  are  so  blind  to  their  own  in- 
terests. Our  children  spend  nearly  one-half  of 
their  waking  hours  in  the  school-room.  The 
school-room  is  their  home  during  several  years 
of  culture  and  development,  and  considerations 
of  health,  taste,  and  morality  require  that  this 
home  shall  be  made  comfortable,  neat,  and 
convenient.  If  necessary  all  State  aid  should 
be  withheld  from  those  districts  which  do  not 
provide  school  accommodations. 

We  would  not  have  the  reader  to  infer  from 
the  description  here  given,  that  our  school- 
buildings  in  general  are  poor.  During  the 
past  three  years  the  people  have  manifested 
great  interest  in  the  cause  of  education,  and 
in  no  respect  has  this  interest  shown  itself 
more  conspicuously  than  in  the  improvements 
that  have  been  made  in  our  school  accommo- 
dations. Since  the  year  1867,  $1,769,000  have 
been  expended  in  building  and  repairing 
school-houses,  and  the  total  value  of  our  school 
property  is  now  double  what  it  was  three  years 
ago.  Many  of  the  buildings  that  have  been 
erected  are  models  in  capacity,  in  beauty  of 
finirth,  in  convenience  of  arrangement,  and  in 
the  manner  in  which  they  are  furnished.  For 
the  good  work  that  has  been  done  the  people 
deserve  great  credit,  but  this  good  work  should 
not  be  marred  by  the  existence  of  a  single 
building  such  as  the  one  described,  and  as  long 
as  we  have  any  such  remaining  our  work  in 
furnishing  proper  school  accommodations  is 
not  complete. 


Digitized  by 


(J^Bgie 


A  HEKDEB'S  EXPEEIENCE  IN  SQUTHEEN  OAUFOENIA. 


BY  DELIA  DAT, 


THE  freedom  of  a  rude  life  in  the  mountain 
recetnes  of  tlie  Coast  Kange  which  guards 
the  hroad  Pacific,  may  attract  some  men ;  the 
passion  for  adventure  may  be  strong  enough  to 
coax  a  few  restless  souls  away  from  civiliza- 
tion ;  but  it  was  not  entirely  romance  or  unrest 
that  made  me  choose  to  hertl  cattle  and  camp 
out  in  the  hills  of  Southern  California.  It  was 
not  exactly  the  poetry  of  the  calling  that 
tempted  me  into  various  uncomfortable  ex- 
periments and  defeats.  It  was  more  a  matter 
of  ^^  regular  bread  and  butter/'  with  leave  tp 
get  all  of  the  pleasure  and  experience  I  could 
out  of  my  occupation.  If  I  saw  some  things 
which  are  unnoticed  by  others  who  lead  this 
vagabond  sort  pf  life,  so  much  the  better.  To 
those  who  imagine  that  herding  cattle  and 
camping  out  is  one  continued  jxisear,  I  will 
say  that  **  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the 
view,"  and,  in  most  cases,  the  lovely  herder  in 
the  hills  is  a  subject  quite  too  ragged,  fragrant, 
and  greasy  to  be  at  all  suggestive  of  those 
sentimental  shepherds  of  whom  we  have  read 
and  heard  so  much.  The  white  tent  by  the 
brook  is  some  old  dirty  bit  of  canvas,  which 
scarce  affords  a  shelter  from  the  storm ;  and 
the  real  herder  does  not  lie  around  loose  under 
the  trees,  but  loafs  in  his  saddle,  and  com- 
plains of  a  soreness  in  his  joints.  Constant 
hallooing  does  not  improve  his  voice;  his 
ejaculations  are  more  expressive  than  musical 
or  poetical;  and,  finally,  he  develops  more 
muscle  than  sentiment — more  avoirdupois  than 
spirituality. 

Fine  gentlemen  and  thorough  scholars  have 
often  resorted  to  this  shift  for  a  livelihood  in 
Southern  California,  injagiuing  that  it  was  not 
work,  perhaps,  or  driven  as  strangers  in  a 
strange  land  to  accept  any  employment  that 
ofiers.  Upon  almost  any  of  the  large  ranchos 
in  the  Sute  may  be  found  all  of  the  diflerent 
professions,  as  well  as  most  of  the  diflerent 
nationalities.  I  have  seen  a  lawyer,  doctor, 
graduates  from  Cambridge  and  a  German  Uni- 
versity, and  a  relic  of  Southern  chivalry,  de- 
scended from  one  of  the  first  families  of  South 
Carolina,  employed  as  common  laborers,  and 
glad  enough  to  get  work  anywhere. 

There  have  been  so  many  pretty  pastoral 
pictures  of  this  lower  coast  country,  all  beau- 
tifully drawn  and  colored  by  enthusiastic 
(268) 


travellers,  that  it  is  almost  a  pity  t«  introdace 
the  herder  with  the  shocking  grease  spots  on 
his  jacket  and  the  fearful  rents  in  his  panta- 
loons. But  the  soft  coloring  of  the  landscape^ 
the  delightful  wealth  of  grass  and  flowers,  and 
the  sweet  intonations  of  the  Spanish  aeMrUn, 
have  been  exhausted  long  ago,  and  I  will  dwell 
on  homelier  scenes,  and  give  you  the  details  of 
my  life  **  on  herd"  and  in  "  the  camp." 

I  came  from  an  eastern  city,  leaping  in  one 
week's  time  across  the  continent — from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  shore — from  the  highest 
culture  and  refinement  to  the  sturdiest  life^and 
rudest  surroundings.     I  arrived  in  October, 
before  the  commencement  of  the  &I1  raim^ 
which  is  really  the  winter  season  of  this  coon- 
try.    The  land  was  resting;  the  hills  were 
brown  and  bare,  and  vegetation  was  as  dry  and 
dead  as  if  it  had  been  well  baked  in  a  brick 
oven.    Insignificant  little  streams  feebly  fboad 
their  way  from  the  foot-hills  to  the  sea.  There 
was  no  green  thing  to  relieve  the  eye  except 
the  live-oaks,  willows,  and  cotton  woods  along 
the  banks  of  the  arroyos.    Valley  and  hillfflde 
were  alike  barren,  dusty,  and  tawny.    There 
was  no  hint  of  the  magnificence  of  the  early 
spring.    The  earth  whispered  only  of  the  fiery 
heats,  cloudless  skies,  and  rainless  days  of  ths 
long  summer.  Looking  through  the  hazy  light 
of  that  October  morning,  I  realized  only  the 
bare  hills,  brown  pastures,  and  parched  val- 
leys; but  I  saw,  also,  large  herds  of  fat,  sleek 
cattle^  and  fleet,  handsome  horses,  busily  feed- 
ing upon  the  oily  seeds  of  the  burr  clover. 
How  the  very  animals  rejoiced  in  the  freedom 
of  the  hills  and  nature's  bountiful  provision  I 
Climate,  scenery,  and  coloring  formed  a  strik- 
ing contrast  to  our  eastern  autumns.    The 
softest  blue  filled  the  depths  above  at  noonda/i 
and  this  was  varied  by  a  gorgeous  flush  in  the 
mornings  and  a  purple  glory  in  the  eveningi. 
The  purity  and  serenity  of  a  sky  without  rain- 
clouds  cannot  be  described. 

Before  I  went  into  the  hills  I  took  a  few 
lessons  in  herding  of  a  native  Califomian,  a 
dark-eyed,  sun-browned  specimen,  who  hid 
grown  up  in  his  saddle  among  the  flocks  and 
herds  that  specked  the  broad  acres.  A  fine 
physique,  quite  innocent  of  the  toil-marks  of 
our  warped  and  stunted  American  laborer^ 
this  herdsman  was  nature's  own  free,  gracefiil 
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A  HEBDSR*8  EXPERIENCE  IN  aOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA.  269 


nobleman.  He  had  tended  the  cattle  in  the 
Talleys  and  upon  the  hills  from  his  earlitat. 
recollection;  he  knew  all  of  the  marks  and 
brands  of  the  different  owners;  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  all  of  the  mountain  fastnesses 
and  hiding-places  in  the  country.  He  could 
keep  his  seat  upon  the  most  vicious  horse  that 
ever  reared,  kicked,  or  bucked,  with  as  little 
apparent  eflbrt  or  concern  as  if  he  were  serenely 
sitting  in  his  chair ;  he  ooold  Uimo  any  beast 
that  roves  or  runs  with  such  ease  that  it  seemed 
his  pastime.  By  much  practice  had  come  that 
rare  whirl  of  the  dreadfbl  rtdto,  and  he  always 
held  his  struggling  captive  well  and  fiist.  This 
man  was  a  widower,  and  he  told  me  one  day, 
with  a  serious  face,  that  sometime  he  was  going 
to  '*  lano  one  wnoriUi^**  but  that  he  should  like 
an  American  Mfimto  best,  one  who  was  **hlaiiito 
and  6<mtta.''  Alas  for  the  ambitious  herdsman! 
his  taste  in  the  matter  of  feminine  liveliness  is 
nnquestionable ;  but  the  girl  he  fancies  must  be 
canght  in  some  invisible  slipknot 

When  I  had  become  somewhat  acquainted 
with  the  business,  I  took  a  drove  of  cattle  into 
the  hills,  pitched  my  tent,  and  lived  out.  The 
inevitable  frying-pan,  ooifee-pot,  and  camp- 
kettle,  with  the  addition  of  a  tin  plate  and 
cup,  and  a  knife,  fork,  and  spoon,  formed  my 
outfit.  I  bad  beef,  bacon,  and  bread,  with  tea, 
oofiee,  and  sugar,  in  the  way  of  luxuries.  At 
night  I  lay  down  upon  the  earth,  wrapped  in 
a  pair  of  woollen  blankets,  and  slept  as  sweetly 
and  awoke  as  refreshed  as  if  1  had  reposed 
upon  a  carved  bedstead  and  spring  mattress, 
with  all  the  ceremony  of  sheets  and  raffled 
pillow-cases.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  per- 
versity of  the  animals,  I  might  have  enjoyed 
the  novelty  of  the  situation.  I  awoke  that  first 
morniog,  amd  many  suooeeding  mornings,  to 
find  the  whole  herd  on  the  *' rampage."  In- 
habitivenefis  was  strangely  developed  in  those 
cattle.  Day  aAer  day  1  had  '* dissolving  view^* 
of  hundreds  of  them ;  I  beheld  a  moving  pano- 
rama of  hind  legs  and  tails  till  they  vanished 
in  the  distance.  I  put  my  persistance  against 
their  perverseness.  Daily  I  returned  them  to 
their  mountain  meadows.  The  stubborn  hu- 
man conquered. 

If  my  friends  do  not  wish  to  be  disenchanted, 
they  must  not  come  too  near  my  camping- 
place.  They  must  not  even  look  into  my  tent. 
1  was  deplorably  ignorant  of  the  various  com- 
pounds which  go  to  make  up  palatable  dishes 
when  I  oommenced  housekeeping.  There  was 
the  wildest  disorder  in  the  culinary  depart- 
ment, and  indigestible  messes,  which  might 
bave  proved  fatal  without  plenty  of  pure  air 


and  healthful  exercise*  At  last  the  owner  of 
-the  herd  sent  me  a  coioapanion,  who  rejoiced  in 
the  name  of  Stephen.  He  had  served  in  the 
army,  and  be  said  he  could  cook.  Stephen 
improved  my  condition  considerably,  and  I 
adored  him  as  the  *'  better  half"  of  the  house- 
hold. His  dishes  had  a  positive  character, 
and  were  in  the  likeness  of  compounds  which 
regular  cooks  honor  with  names.  The  man 
essayed  to  reach  my  heart  through  my  stomach, 
and  we  are  very  good  friends  to  this  day.  I 
did  love  him  for  this  talent,  and  encouraged 
and  praised  him  constantly.  Yet  I  would  not 
have  anybody  believe  that  the  people  who  live 
in  respectable  houses  and  employ  skilful  cooks 
are  really  so  much  to  be  pitied.  In  those  days 
I  could  not  refmin  from  looking  with  longing 
eyes  toward  every  good  housewife's  pantry,  and 
I  could  not  help  eating-  ravenously  whenever 
I  was  invited  to  my  employer's  table.  I  am 
obliged  to  confess  to  a  little  weakness  in  favor 
of  tablecloths  and  napkins  ^along  with  good 
dinners.  I  graceftilly  yielded  to  the  persua- 
sions of  my  hostess  to  ''  pack "  little  bundles 
from  her  storeroom  into  the  hills.  Pies,  cakes, 
and  loaves  of  light  bread  sometimes  found  their 
way  into  our  tent,  and  I  hope  we  were  not 
suspiciously  thankful  for  such  smiUi  favors. 
The  romance  was  mostly  worn  off  this  camping 
and  herdiog  business ;  my  appetite  was  increas- 
ing, and  I  surely  looked  the  sturdy  mountaineer 
when  Stephen  and  I  had  our  bear  hunt. 

A.  wise  old  griazly,  with  a  very  human  liking 
for  fresh  beef,  began  to  pick  off  our  young  cat- 
tle. To  this  civilized  taste  was  added  wonder- 
ful cunning,  which  successfully  eluded  the 
ordinary  traps  and  beguiiemeots,  Stephen 
and  I  were  in  despair  over  this  new  misfor- 
tune. He  was  more  than  a  match  for  us ;  he 
went  around  onr  traps,  he  kept  out  of  our  pits, 
and  he  left  our  poisoned  meat  and  honey  un- 
tasted.  But  the  enormous  tracks  and  mangled 
carcasses  assured  ua  of  his  proximity,  and  kept 
ua  in  a  constant  state  of  excitement.  We  re- 
called all  of  the  furious  attacks  and  narrow 
^eacapes  which  filled  the  fiivorite  volumes  of 
our  juvenile  libraries.  We  prudently  loaded 
our  rifies  and  sharpened  our  belt^knivea  be- 
fore going  out  for  the  day,  and  Stephen  pre- 
posed  the  orthodox  *'  bear  danoe"  of  the  famous 
Sioux,  in  order  to  ooiiciliate  the  evil  spirit,  and 
•  ensure  our  safety  and  success. 

My  ardor  for  dangesone  inddenta  and  haa- 
ardous  explorations  might  have  cooled  entirely, 
had  not  an  old  Missoorian  who  had  hunted  and 
trapped  his  way  over  the  Bocky  Mountains 
long  yeacB  before  the  gold  diaeovery,  vobm- 


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270 


ABTMUR'8   LADY'S   MOMS   MAGAZINE. 


leered  his  asdstance  Id  capturing  the  ebemj. 
He  declared  that  "he  jest  liked  to  git  right 
after  them  critters ;"  and  we  were  not  loath  to 
resign  the  dangers  of  pursuit  and  the  honors 
of  capture  to  an  experienced  hunter.  He  told 
us  how  be  had  feigned  sleep  "  onst^  while  the 
yarmint  was  a  look  in'  at  him  an*  a  emellin'  of 
him/'  and  when  she  retreated  without  molest- 
ing hiiUi  how  he  had  followed  and  succeeded 
in  killing  the  creature.  "  She  weighed  'leven 
hundred  an'  twenty  pound,  an'  I've  kep'  her 
skin  as  a  sort  of  trophy,  like  the  Injun  does  a 
scalp,  you  know.  Bence  I'm  gittin  old,  I  fight 
'em  mos'ly  in  self-defence ;  but  grizzly  huntifi' 
used  ter  be  one  of  my  luxuries,  sir.  Ever 
senoe  my  tramp  'croes  the  oont'nent  I've  liked 
ter  git  back  ter  nater  an'  fust  principles,  'cause 
it's  good  for  a  fellow's  soul  an'  body.  I  kin 
tell  ye,  he  gits  somethiu'  out  in  the  hills  alone 
that'll  feed  an'  expand  an'  strengthen  'im. 
I've  bin  rale  hungry  for  a  savage  life,  some- 
times, an'  hated  folks,  an'  liked  animals  a 
derned  sight  better'n  humans— fur  a  change  I 
s'poee.  A  man  may  think  he's  suthin  power- 
ful ;  but  I  reck'n  'im  putty  small  compared  with 
some  things.  It's  amazin'  now,  how  much  sense 
some  wild  animals  has.  X  b'leye  a  grizdy  b'ar 
knows  more'n  some  hull  fam'lies,  durned  ef  I 
don'l."  Thus  the  old  hunter  told  stories  and 
philosophized  in  his  own  qu^r  way,  and  con- 
vinced us  that  he  had  an  education  which  we 
need  not  deHpise.  He  was  an  enthusiast  on 
the  subject  of  uncivilized  life. 

Missouri  finally  planned  his  attack  upon  our 
neighbor  •  grizzly.  He  resolved  to  Icum  the 
creature^  "jest  to  show  the  raw  recruits  how 
'twas  dun,  an'  hev  some  fun,"  he  said ;  and 
then,  fully  armed  and  equipped,  he  set  off, 
while  Stephen  and  I  followed  at  a  safe  and 
respectful  distance.  We  might  assist  or  play 
spectators,  whichever  r61e  should  suit  us  and 
the  occasion  best.  We  followed  our  brave 
leader,  who  seemed  to  be  a  man  without  fear. 
We  hunted  our  enemy  in  likely  and  unlikely 
places ;  we  ascended  perilous  steeps,  and  we  de- 
scended fearful  gulches.  We  skulked  in  the 
ravines,  dashed  through  eheaUaai  thickets,  and 
floundered  in  muddy  vunUes,  We  found  owls 
in  the  bushes,  trout  in  the  streams,  and  deer 
upon  the  mountain  ;  but  the  olject  of  our 
search  kept  himself  out  of  sight.  Perhaps  he 
had  got  wind  of  the  conspiracy  against  him.* 
He  certainly  gave  us  a  merry  ^ase  that  day ; 
but  the  luck  we  had  before  its  close  satisfied 
us.  We  saw  Missouri's  horse  rearing  and 
snorting ;  we  saw  a  coiled  rope  descending,  and 
a  noose  dropped  over  the  grizzly's  neck.    We 


hastened  forward  to  see  him  choked  down, 
and  Stephen  and  myself  both  levelled  oor 
pieces  at  the  animal's  neck,  and  two  buUeta 
finished  the  buainess  for  the  infuriated  beast 
What  mighty  hunters  we  werel  We  could 
tell  our  bear  story  now,  and  boast  of  this  feat 
among  novices,  or  where  grizzlies  are  unknown. 
Stephen  hints  that  I  have  a  way  of  teliing  U 
that  makes  it  seem  like  a  new  story  every  tim«. 
He  is  imaginative^  too ;  but  I  have  thought  lie 
listens  with  considerable  interest,  for  one  of 
the  actors.  Take  it  all  around,  it  was  one  of 
those  exhilarating  little  entertainments  which 
is  calculated  to  make  a  fellow  forget  prudence, 
at  the  time,  and  lead  to  some  mixing  of  facts, 
afterward. 

We  proceeded  to  the  camp,  where  we  feasted 
on  bear-steak,  and  then  went  off  into  such  fo^ 
getfulness  as  waits  upmi  fatigue.  How  we  did 
sleep  in  the  hills  I  What  delicious  nights  fol- 
lowed  those  busy  days  1  What  tunes  Stepheo 
and  Missouri  snored  in  those  stilly  eves!  and 
with  what  pugnacious  feelings  I  listened ! 

The  hero  of  the  hunt  departed,  and  we  were 
left  alone  again.     The  cattle  became  recon- 
ciled, and  munched  the  dry  feed  with  evident 
satisfaction.    How  swiftly  and  pleasantly  the 
time  passed  I     Every  day  we  saw  something 
new,  strange,  and  interesting.     Once  we  fol- 
lowed an  old  trail  to  the  top  of  an  ai^piring 
peak,  where  we  rested  beneath  the  pines,  and 
beheld  the  loveliest  landscape  we  had  ever 
imagined  —  hills  and  valleys  smiling  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  shimmering  sea  in  the  dis- 
tance.   At  another  time  we  galloped  down  the 
bald  slope,  across  the  valley,  and  over  the  coast 
hills  to  the  white  sand-beach  of  the  Pacific^ 
where  we  refreshed  us  with  the  biggest  bslh 
we  have  ever  taken.    Then  we  had  little  skir- 
mishes with  wild-cats,  badgers,  skunks^  and 
coyotes.    As  pioneers  we  were  bound  to  teach 
these  animals  to  respect  our  rights.    There 
was  an  old  mission  building  to  explore,  and  an 
olive  orchard  to  visit,  and  always  a  watchfial 
eye  to  be  kept  upon  the  herd^  lest  they,  too, 
take  to  rambles  and  explorations.    At  last  the 
rainy  season  set  in  ;  the  earth  was  well  washed, 
and  the  herders  were  thoroughly  drenched. 
The  thirsty  earth  drank  her  fill,  and  appeared 
refreshed.   Ashamed  of  her  sober-hued  naked- 
ness, she  proceeded  to  put  on  her  greenest,  ^f- 
est  garments.   The  grass  sprang  up,  the  flovers 
budded,  and  Spring,  with  all  her  beautj  and 
freshness  arrived  in  mid-winter.    It  seenieda 
mistake  in  time — as  if  a  seanon  Jbad  been  lost 
in  this  sudden  transfer  from  the  ripeness  and 
repose  of  autumn  to  the  most  joypos  period  in 


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PLANT   8TRUCTURE^THE    HILLS. 


271 


the  jear.  Eyerything  was  vastly  improved 
except  our  camp.  The  accumalations  around 
that  romantic  spot  were  not  of  a  character  to  be 
improved.  The  rents  in  our  tent  were  wider^ 
if  not  higher,  and  the  water  came  through  in 
little  rivulets.  For  the  variety  of  baths  we 
took  in  a  single  night  our  establishment  might 
vie  with  any  water-cure  in  the  land.  The  out- 
ward demoralization  was  complete,  and  it  was 
with  a  positive  grin  of  satisfaction  that  we 
heard  and  obeyed  the  order  !'  to  break  up  our 
camp,  and  move  the  cattle  down  into  the  val- 
ley." Two  coyotes  and  several  skunks  were 
fonnd  dead  near  the  old  tent  a  few  days  after 
oar  departure.  Near  one  of  these  unfortunate 
tnimals  was  a  piece  of  Stephen's  bread.  We* 
only  looked  wise,  and  laughed  immoderately, 
whenever  the  cause  of  this  catastrophe  was 
discussed  among  oar  fellow  herders. 


PLANT  STRUCTURE. 

ALL  plants  that  grow,  from  the  microscopic 
mould  which  lends  age  to  the  mouldering 
fnin,  to  the  gigantic  iore^t  trees  which,  in  the 
peoal  settlement  of  Norfolk  Island  and  upon 
the  slopes  of  the  grand  mountains  of  Califor- 
nia, soar  to  the  height  of  several  hundred  feet, 
are  formed  from  an  elementary  fluid  known  as 
the  "formeUM*  or  "orgamic  mucus**  which  Jb 
the  Boul  sovrce  of  every  tissue  found  in  their 
organixatioin.  This  is  the  semi-transparent 
fluid  known  as  otunbium,  when  found  between 
the  bark  and  wood  of  trees  in  the  early  spring ; 
tod  it  then  separates  those  parte  so  as  to  per- 
mit the  bundles  of  wood  fibre  to  pass  down 
from  the  leaves,  and  thus  enable  the  tree  to 
grow.  From  the  cambium  is  first  fiwmed  a 
solid  stnictureless  fabric  called  elementary 
membrane,  and  a  modification  of  that  fabric 
termed  elementary  fibre.  Elementary  mem- 
brane is  sometimes  thin  and  translucent,  as  in 
the  covering  of  the  gourd-seed,  and  sometimes 
dose  and  thick,  as  in  the  structure  of  bark  and 
fruits,  and  is  then  lined  by  a  deposit  of  hard 
Mdementary  matter  of  great  power  of  resist- 
ance, in  order  to  increase  its  strength  and  to 
resist  decomposition.  This  hardened  tissue  is 
called  se^sro^sik 

Elementary  fibre  is  asually  solid  and  trans- 
parent, of  a  rounded  figure,  and  its  use  is 
clearly  that  of  supporting  the  more  extended 
membrane,  and  preventing  aay  folds  of  it  from 
approximating  too  closely. 

But  the  most  widely  distributed  of  all  tissues 
is  thai  termed  eeUuiar,    It  is  made  tip  of  hol- 


low cases  or  cells,  of  various  shapes,  and  is 
found  in  all  plants,  either  in  masses  or  in  de- 
'tached  cells.  A  cell  may  be  compared  to  an 
orange,  the  rind  forming  the  walls,  and  the 
pulp  tiie  contents ;  or  to  an  egg,  when  the  shell 
will  represent  the  walls,  and  the  white  with  the 
yelk  the  contents.  The  egg>  therefore,  and  all 
similar  inclosed  bodies,  are  magnified  cells. 
The  walls  of  cells  are  formed  from  elementary 
membrane,  but  the  contents  are  not.  They 
are  of  three  kinds :  first,  a  lining  upon  the  inner 
side  of  the  walls ;  second,  a  round  body,  called 
nue/eus  or  cyioblastf  usually  found  near  some 
part  of  the  cell  wall ;  and,  thir:dly,  some  lesser 
bodies,  varying  in  size,  shape,  and  number, 
and  termed  nuUeoli,  formed  within  the  nucleus. 
To  observe  these  parts,  take,  with  the  point  of 
a  needle,  a  piece  from  a  ripe  peacli,  strawberry, 
or  any  juicy  fruit,  not  larger  than  a  pin's  head. 
Place  it  in  the  glass-slide,  and  add  a  drop  of 
water.  Pull  it  to  pieces  by  the  help  of  two 
needles,  and  place  it  under  the  microscope.  It 
will  be  found  to  consiHt  of  a  mass  of  cells  with 
transparent  walls,  and  a  slightly. colored  fluid 
inclosing  the  large  roiyided  nucleus.  We  think 
this  little  experiment  will  give  those  of  our 
readers  not  already  familiar  with  the  study  of 
botany  a  desire  for  further  inventigation,  and 
perhaps  open  up  to  them  a  new  source  of  pure 
and  exquisite  enjoyment. 


THE  HILLS. 

COME,  for  the  mitts  are  rising  from  the  vale 
Like  clondfl  of  iDoensa  from  a  rhriae  of  prayer . 
Come  up  among  the  hills ;  the  free,  strong  gale 
Is  blowing  freshly  there. 

There  bloomi  the  purple  heather  in  iti  prime, 

There  boms  the  wild  bee  in  its  happy  flight; 
There  soand  the  sheep-belli  like  a  fairj  obime, 
Drifting  from  height  to  height 

There  float  the  light  oIodd-Bhadowa,  and  the  bine 

Of  the  eternal  dome  above  is  nigh ; 
There  are  no  leafy  boughs  to  sereen  from  view 
That  arch  of  sapphire  sky. 

Cfome,  for  the  wild,  fVee  sollende  it  sweet. 

And  far  below  shall  lie  the  world  of  care  $ 
No  soand  of  strife,  no  tramp  of  restless  feet 

Can  ever  reaeh  thee  there. 
Come,  when  thy  toni  within  thee  Is  opprett 

With  vagae  miigivings  and  with  musings  sad ; 
For  In  the  sense  of  freedom  there  it  rest— 
The  hUls  shall  make  the  glad. 

Come,  for  eaoh  breath  inspires  tome  lofty  thought, 

When  the  pure  mountain  air  thy  tpirit  fills; 
The  lessons  that  the  aneisBt  sagos  taaght 
Were  learned  among  the  bills. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A  DOLLAR  A  DAT. 


Wt  YIBGIXIA  P.  TOWNBBND. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MORE  than  a  week  had  elapeed  since  Ram- 
sey Fonyth  had  made  his  midnight  flight 
from  Thomlej.  During  this  time  no  tidings  of 
the  missing  youth  had  transpired,  and  the  town 
had  been  in  a  state  of  chronic  excitement  with  its 
nine-day's  wonder.  His  appearance  would,  of 
course,  have  been  the  sfgnal  for  his  arrest,  and 
far  and  near  officers  of  the  law  were  on  the 
look  out  for  him.  Th^  talk  went  that  Forsyth 
was  gradually  recovering  of  his  wound,  and 
there  was  a  strong,  general  impression  that  the 
father  would  not  interfere,  but  would  allow  the 
law  to  take  its  own  course  with  his  son.  There 
wlu  a  wide  impression,  too,  that  the  young 
outlaw  was  still  skulking  in  some  hiding-place 
around  Thornley ;  and  amid  all  the  talk  and 
gossip  and  wonder  that  was  going  on  at  this 
time,  beneath  high  roofft  and  low  ones,  the  only 
one  which  could  have  thrown  any  light  on  the 
matter  was  that  old  "lean-to,"  where  the 
young  souls  beneath  it  guarded  their  secret 
well. 

One  day,  a  little  more  than  a  week  after 
Ramsey's  disappearance,  a  farmer,  living  in 
the  outskirts  of  Thornley,  was  cutting  wood  on 
a  strip  of  land  which  sloped  down  to  the  bank 
of  the  river.  It  was  a  dismal  winter's  day»  as 
you  can  imagine,  with  black  moods  breaking 
out  every  now  and  then  in  fierce  gnsts  of  wind 
and  squalls  of  snow.  Farmer  WoodhuU,  how- 
ever, was  not  given  to  sentimentaluung  over 
the  weath^,  or  anything  else,  for  that  matter. 
The  tall,  heavily-built,  round-shouldered  man 
and  his  chore  boy  worked  with  a  will,  felling 
scrub-oak  and  white- birch,  and  dragging  them 
to  the  ox  sled  which  was  drawn  up  on  a  patch 
of  burnt  land  just  on  the  edge  of  the  woods. 

This  clearing  commanded  a  view  of  the 
river  a  few  rods  distant,  and  in  the  midst  of 
loading  his  sled,  fiirmer  Woodbnli  caaght 
sight  of  some  small,  round  object  lodged  on 
the  underbrush  and  flapping  in  the  wind. 

"  What  can  the  thing  be?"  calling  the  hired 
boy's  attention.    ''It's  too  large  for  a  bird's 
nesL    Your  iimbe  are  spryer  than  mine,  Sam ;  \ 
go  and  see." 

Sam  went  and  returned,  bringing  an  odd 

expression  of  curiosity  and   triumph  on  his 

freckled  moon-face,  and  in  his  hand  a  man's 

cap,  which  had  been  soaked  by  the  rains  and 

(272) 


hustled  by  the  winds,  bat  whidi  nevertheless 
had  an  air  of  faded  gentility. 

Farmer  WoodhuU  took  the  cap  in  his  lisg 
red  hands,  and  surveyed  it  curiously  and  with 
a  little  awe-struck  feeling.  There  was  some- 
thing mysterious  and  suggestive  of  tragedy  in 
the  sight  of  that  cap  fluttering  there  on  the 
bank,  close  to  the  river,  which  took  more  or 
less  possession  of  his  dull  imagination.  Hot 
did  the  cap  get  into  that  strange  place  ?  It 
had  evidently  once  covered  a  human  head! 
To  whom  had  it  belonged  7  These  questions, 
in  one  form  or  another,  kept  working  in  the 
man's  mind  as  he  fumbled  at  the  cap,  and,  at 
last,  fingering  at  the  inner  lining,  he  came 
upon  a  name  written  there  in  a  legible  hand; 
he  read  it  over  two  or  three  times,  then  he 
took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  face  in  a  kind  of  mechanical  way,  and  the 
big  hand  shook  a  little,  for  the  name  which 
farmer  WoodhuU  had  read  on  the  inner  lining 
of  the  cap  was  that  of  Ramsey  Forsyth. 

Farmer  WoodhuU  knew  all  that  the  rest  of 
Thornley  did  about  the  young  man's  recent 
history.  *'Sam" — shaking  his  head  and  speak- 
ing in  a  kind  of  scared  nndertone — "then 
things  have  a  black  look  here.  I  shan't  do 
another  stroke  of  work  to-day.  You  jest  drive 
the  team  home,  and  be  kind  on  the  beasts. 
I've  got  other  business  on  hand  now." 

Two  hours  later,  fiirmer  WoodhuU  knocked 
at  the  front  door  of  the  house  on  the  hill, « 
Richard  Forsyth's  handsome  residence  usaaily 
went  in  Thornley  Yernacular.  The  servtnt 
had  the  same  answer  for  the  shaggy-headed, 
iumbering»bttUt  fiirmer  that  he  had  for  eTery- 
body-  else  who  had  applied  at  that  door  dor 
ing  the  last  week,  with  a  shade  of  curtuen 
thrown  in,  perhaps,  seeing  the  sort  of  nuo 
whom  he  addressed. 

But  the  man  stared^  when  the  farmer  added, 
in  a  bungling  way,  "  that  he  had  something  in 
hand  which  it  might  eoaoern  the  gentlemao  to 
know  regarding  his  son ;"  and,  after  a  moment's 
hesitancy,  the  odd- look  ing  stranger  was  ush- 
ered in,  and  the  message  carried  up  to  the 
master. 

A  few  montents  later  fttrmer  WoodhuU  wta 
ushered  up  to  the  sick  man's  chamber.  He 
found  him  lying-  on  a  lounge,  bis  arm  in  a 
aiing.     He  had  grown  thin,  and  looked  st 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    BO^LLAE   A    l>Ar. 


27S 


least  ten  years  older  than  h^e  did  a  fortnight 
1^;  but  the  wound  might  account  for  all 
that ;  yet  any  penetrating  glance  at  Forsyth's 
fiice  would,  at  once,  have  convinced  a  shrewd 
observer  that  the  man^s  illness  did  not  proceed 
wholly  from  physical  causes. 

Farmer  Woodhull  was  a  good  deal  shocks 
at  the  sight  of  the  sick  man — a  good  deal 
dazed  by  the  nnaccnstomed  splendor  about 
him ;  and  his  embarrassment  was  not  dimhi- 
iebed  at  the  sight  of  the  boy  and  girl,  one 
standing  near  the  mantel,  the  other  by  the 
looDge,  who  turned  on' him  curiouR,  startled 
iaces  as  he  entered  the  room. 

Since  that  dreadtul  night,  more  than  a  week 
»go,  everything  had  seemed  to  come  to  a  stand- 
fitili  in  the  Forsyth  household.  It  was  much 
IS  though  somebody  lay  dead'  all  this  time 
under  the  roof.  £ven  the  servants  went  about 
vith  bated  breath  and  grave  faces,  speaking  to 
each  other  in  whispers. 

As  for  Cresfly,  since  that  dreadful  moment 
when  she  heard  her  fathers  muttered  words  on 
recovering  from  his  swoon,  she  had  not  lost 
that  wide-eyed  horror,  growing  white  and  los- 
ing flesh  at  a  fearful  rate. 

The  last  week  seemed  ages  to  the  girl ;  and 
the  old,  happy,  careless  life  when  Ramsey  was 
amongst  them,  and  they  all  lived  together  and 
had  their  fun  and  quarrels,  seemed  to  belong 
to  another  state  of  existenee.  The  very  foun- 
dations of  things  seemed  to  have  given  way. 
She  went  about  in  a  kind  of  nightmare,  with 
those  dreadful  words  of  her  father's  ringing 
through  her  days  and  down  into  her  dreams 
at  night.  An  earthquake  rocking  all  around 
her  would  hardly  have  startled  Creasy  For- 
syth at  this  timel  Had  not  a  more  awful 
earthquake  than  any  physical  one 'yawned 
suddenly  into  her  life,  and  her  brother  gone 
down  in  the  pride  and  hope  of  hia  youth  into 
its  black  charms? 

Yet  it  was  wonderfiil  with  what  a  grave 
steadiness  Cressy  carried  herself  through  this 
awful  time.  There  must  have  been  some  in- 
nate forces  of  character  and  will  in  this  little 
Sirl  which  the  great  sorrow  developed,  for  she 
Was  always  quiet  and  dignified  now,  before 
the  servants  or  anybody  else  who  chanced  to 
■ee  her. 

If  her  young  imagination  magnified  the 
Slackness  of  the  disgrace  which  had  fallen 
upon  the  household,  and  in  which  she  believed 
^«  life  and  the  lives  of  all  she  loved  had  gone 
down,  this  much  may  be  said  for  her :  nobody 
^▼"er  heard  a  plaint  or  moain  from  thoae  lips, 
fhete  smiles  uaed   to  hover  as  their  nativid 


home,  and  which  bad  settled  into  such  a  grave 
old  line  during  this  week. 

Even  to.  her  father  Cressy  never  spoke  of 
Kamsey.  The  physicians  had  forbhiden  the 
introduction  of  any  exciting  topics  in  the  sick- 
room, and  Cressy  hung  around  the  couch  with 
a  totiching  tenderness  whenever  she  and  Proc- 
tor were  admitted  to  the  chamber;  but  the  one 
topic  in  all  their  thoughts  was  never  alluded  to. 

Each  irtstinctively  shrank  from  any  words 
on  the  matter  at  this  time,  and  yet  feeling  that, 
sooner  or  later,  they  may  come. 

That  midAighl  earthquake,  too,  had  quite 
shaken  Proctor  out  of  hb  shell  of  obstinacy 
and  sullenness.  He  was  a  kind,  thoughtful 
son  and  brother  as  possible  these  days.  What 
he  sufTered  could  only  be  guessed  by  his  loea 
of  appetite  and  flesh  at  this  period. 

Even  he  and  Cressy  seldom  alluded  to  Ram- 
sey. "I  haven't  shed  a  tear.  Proctor,"  whis- 
pered the  girl  to  her  brother  once,  with  bright, 
scared  eyes  that  half  frightened  him,  "I  can't 
talk  about  that  until  I'te  cried." 

Proctor  did  not  say  a  word,  bat  he  put  his 
arm  around  her  in  a  tender,  protecting  way, 
which  she  could  not  remember  his  ever  doing 
in  his  life  befoi'e. 

The  bdy  and  girl  had,  however,  an  instinct 
that  their  father's  heart  would  be  closed  to  all 
appeals  for  mercy ;  and  Ramsey's  crime  was  of 
such  awful  magnitude  in  the  eyes  of  both 
brother  and  sister  that  even  the  latter,  although 
she  might  have  laid  down  her  life  to  save  her 
brother  from  the  menacing  vision  which 
haunted  her  by  day  and  by  night,  hted  not  the 
courage  to  utter  one  word  in  his  behalf. 

Farmer  WoodhuU's  heavy  boots  bolted  into 
the  room,  and  then  he  stood  still,  and,  without 
saying  a  word,  began  to  draw  out  a  parcel,  in 
a  yellow  cotton  handkerchief,  from  his  pocket. 
*  The  others  watched  him  breathlessly,  the 
sick  man's  face  settling  into  a  livid  sternness, 
and  then  he  glanced  uneasily  toward  the  boy 
and  girl,  saying:  "Children,  you'd  better 
leave  now."  He  said  it  very  kindly,  though 
Forsyth  had  never  carried  himself  so  gently 
toward  his  children. as  during  this  illness. 

They  started  toward  the  door,  but  by  this 
time  farmer  Woodhull  had  removed  the  hand- 
kerchief, and  held  up  the  cap,  blurting  out : 
"'T'unt  mudi  that  1  have  to  show,  sir,  but  I 
came  across  this  an  hour  ago,  and  I  thought 
you'd  be  likely  to  know  who  it  belonged  to." 

There  it  was — the  little  cap,  fiided  and  limp 
with  wind  and  rain,  the  tassel  on  top  hanging 
forlornly  down.  They  all  knew  it  at  once;  it 
brov^ht  up  to  them,  clear  as  lile^  the  young 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


274 


ARTHUR'S   LADTS^  EOME   MAGAZINE. 


head  that  had  vorn  the  cap  alktle  on  one  side, 
with  the  jaunty  air.  Bui  no  sight  of  thin  kind 
conld  move  the  heart  of  the  father,  which  had 
been  hardening  itself  all  these  days  toward  bis 
son. 

'^  Where  did  yon  oome.  across  thatP*  be 
askedy  in  a  voice  so  strong  luid  stern  that  his 
boy  and  girl  trembled. 

Farmer  WoodhuU  fumbled  aa  awkwardly 
with  his  words  as  he  did  with  his  fingefs. 

*'It  was  close  to  the  river,  right  over  the 
water,  on  a  twig  of  swamp  willow*  I  was 
hanlin'  wood  when  I  epied  the  thing;  and  when 
8am  brought  it  to  me  I  found  the  name  in- 
side." 

From  the  moment  that  farmer  WoodhuU 
had  held  up  the  cap,  Proctor  and  Cressy  had 
stood  still,  spell-bound,  listening  to  the  words. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  the  sick 
chamber.  It  was  Gressy's  voice  broke  it  now, 
in  a  shriek  which,  it  seeteed,  miffbt  make  the 
very  stones  cry  out  for  fear  and  pity : ''  That  is 
Bamsey's  cap,  and  he  has  drowned  himself  in 
the  river  I" 

The  news  went  like  wildfire  through  Thorn- 
ley,  causing,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  decided 
revulsion  of  public  feeling  in  young  Forsyth's 
favor.  For  two  days  and  nights  that  followed, 
the  boats  were  out  dragging  the  river  for  the 
body.  No  pains  or  expense  was  spared ;  but 
there  was  plenty  of  voluntary  service,  the  town 
going  half  wild  with  the  new  excitement;  and 
in  the  wintry  nights  the  shore  for  a  mile  up 
and  down  presented  a  wonderfully  picturesque 
sight,  with  the  boats  out,  and  the  men  leaning 
over  the  sides  dragging  their  heavy  grappling- 
irons,  and  the  dark  river  below,  and  the  torches 
flaring  out  into  the  blackness. 

The  search  was  not  given  over  so  long  as  the 
faintest  hope  of  recovering  the  body  could  be 
entertained.  The  current  of  the  river  foi* 
several  miles  above  and  below  Thomley  was 
dangerously  rapid,  and  during  the  last  week  a 
rain  storm  and  freshet  had  flooded  banks  and 
meadows,  and  made  fripititful  damage  with  the 
roads  and  low-lying  farms.  80. when  the  boot- 
less search  ended  at  last,  men  settled  it  that 
the  great  freshet  had  forced  the  body  over  the 
dam,  and  swept  it  down  toward  the  sea. 

And  so  to  the  "grand  house  on  the  hill" — 
the  house  that  stood  fair  and  stately. in  the 
winter  sunshine,  amid  its  sloping  grounds,  and 
circling  walks,  and  pleasant  arborsr-^the  bitter- 
ness of  that  anguish  had  oome  which  binds  us 
ail  together,  making  ys  by  .the  mighty  sao- 
vedness  of  our  gri^f  of  one  kin. 

Across  that  threshold  now,  into  the  kush  of 


that  great  sorrow,  oh  I  my  reader,!  almost  fear 
to  lead  you.  Yet  out  of  the  fulness  of  some 
kindred  sorrow  you  have  earned  the  right  to 
enter  here  also. 

The  circumstances  of  Bamsey's  death — ht 
the  cap  on  the  swamp-willow  twig  told  the  aCoiT 
>f  the  tragic  end  to  father  and  brother  and 
sister,  in  a  language  that  left  no  room  fer 
•doubt— gave  an  unutterable  poignancy  to  their 
gtief. 

.  In  diat  flood-tide  all  bitterness  and  wrath, 
all  caose  of  oflence  even,  were  swept  away  Ibi^ 
ever.  He  was  no  longer  the  loud,  boJlyii^ 
overbearing  Bamsey  they  had  all  known,  but, 
set  apart  from  them  in  the  soft,  solemn  still- 
nesses of  death,  he  was  something  tender,  and 
beautiful,  and  noble,  which  he  never  had  been 
in  his  life,  but  which,  I  hope,  is  that  true  mhzI 
we  shall  all  find  our  beloved  when  we  meet 
them  somewhere  in  the  great  spaces  of  eternity. 

Most  wonderful  of  all  was  the  utter  change 
wrought  in  the  soul  of  the  father.  During  all 
these  days,  Forsyth  had  been  nursing  a  terrible 
vengean<ie  toward  his  eldest  bom,  and  eveiy 
twinge  of  his  wound  seemed  to  send  some  ad- 
ditional hardness  to  the  heart  of  the  father. 

In  his  horror  and  rage  at  Bamsey'a  crime^ 
Forsyth  actually  believed  that  he  was  ready  to 
let  the  law  take  its  course.  However  tht 
former  might  reason,  this  was  not  at  all  likelj 
to  be  the  case.  The  sight  of  the  miserable 
youth  would  probably  have  broken  down  the 
strong  man ;  but  so  long  as  he  was  alive,  and 
out  of  sight,  Forsyth  could  only  see  in  him  the 
wretch  who  had  so  nearly  consummated  that 
midnight  robbery. 

Forsyth  had  never  believed  from  the  begin- 
ning that  Bamsey  had  intended  to  shoot  ha 
own  father.  That  cry  of  wild  despair,  when 
he  discovered  toward  whom  his  pLsiol  had 
been  aimed,  afibrded  indubitable  evidencse  that 
Bamsey  had  mistaken  his  father  for  a  robber- 
a  mistake  natural  enough  in  the  terrible  ex- 
citement of  the  moment 

But  whatever  wrong  Bamsey  had  committed, 
the  poor  boy  had,  in  the  parent's  eyes,  mon 
than  atoned  for  by  bis  death.  He  was  agaia 
the  father's  pride  and  first  bom.  Once  moie 
he  was  smiling  and  crowing,  the  beautiful, 
innocent  boy  in  the  arms  of  his  happy  young 
mother;  and  now,  as  his  own  conduct  came  out 
in  dear,  sharp  lines  against  this  dreadful  back- 
ground of  his  son's  death,  the  heart  of  thfi 
fatlier  underwent  tortures  of  remorse  which 
drove  sleep  from  his  pillow,  and  sharpened  his 
face  as  all  his  aicknese  had  failed  to  do,  the 
latter  haviog  been  more  of  the  mind  than  the 


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A    DOLLAR    A    BAT. 


276 


body,  although  at  times  his  Wound  had  been 
snfficientlj  painfal. 

Through  the  long  days  and  sleepless  nights, 
the  man  was  haunted  by  the  white^  young  face 
in  its  frantic  despair,  going  down  under  the 
waves,  and  it  seemed  to  Forsyth  that  he  would 
giye  his  whole  fonun«  to  have  Ramney  come 
back  once  more,  in  order  that  he  might  say  (o 
him:  ** Father  forgiyes  you  everything,  my 
boy— everything." 

As  for  Cressy,  she  was  utterly  heart-broken. 
In  that  awful  wrench  of  sorrow,  she  went  into 
depths  of  self-abasement,  and  accused  herself 
of  all  sorts  of  wrong  toward  her  brother,  where 
ehe  certainly  hid  not  been  the  greater  sinnet. ' 
"I  do  believe,  papa,"  she  would  sob  out, 
''that  there  never  was  so  bad  a  sister  in  the 
whole  world  as  I  was  to  that  poor,  dear  Bam'> 
8cy.  Don*t  you  remember  how  hateful  and 
aggravating  I  used  to  be,  and  go  off  into  such 
tornadoes  with  my  horrid  temper?  Oh,  if  he 
would  only  come  back  now^  he  might  poke 
fan  at  my  old  ted  head  ail  day,  and  I'd  be  just 
as  patient,  and  not  get  mad  once.  But  he  can 
never  come  back — never  1"  her  tears  suiibcating 
ber  as  she  thought  of  the  form  so  alert  with 
life  and  youth,  tossed  about  helplessly  in  the 
dark  currents,  and  going  down  to  thepititesS 
sea. 

With  Proctor,  tod,  the  sorrow  went  to  the 
quick.  In  his  old  bouts  and  fights,  he  had 
often  felt  a  fierce  kindling  of  hatred  toward  his 
loud,  truculent  brother;  but  now  that  he  was 
gone  forever,  kad  gone  in  such  an  awful  way, 
a  fountain  of  mighty  tenderness,  whose  exist- 
ence he  had  never  siispected.  Opened  in  the 
soul  of  Proctor  Forsyth.  The  dreadful  silence 
and  blank  of  a  life  without  Ramsey  seemed 
something  insupportable — he  could  not  con- 
ceive of  it. 

Tve  been  a  brute  all  my  life,"  he  said  to 
CresAy,  in  one  of  his  paroxysms  of  grief  and 
remorse;  "but,Oe88y,  if  you  will  only  forgive 
me,  and  hive  faith  in  m«,  1  will  be  something 
better  and  nobler  than  I  hAve  ever  been  b^ 
fore." 

And  Cressy  would  oling  to  him  and  sob  oUt 
her  trust  and  love. 

"  You  are  all  the  brother  I  hiveib  the  world 
now,  Proctor^  We  shall  n^ver  quarrel  any 
more;  we  shall  never  have  any  more  tantrtims 
or  fighte ;  we  shall  love  and  be.sdrry  ail  our 
lites— "  The  girlish  Voice  choked  up  in  sobs. 
She  leaned  her  head  on  Phxjior's  knee  ahd 
cried.  While  she  cried  sheifelt  his  tear*  dtop- 
ping  softly  into  her  hair. 
Mdre  thian  once,  toio,  the  fttther,  looking  at 


hisr  children^  said,  with  an  unutterable  grief  in 
his  face  and  voice:  **  My  boy  and  girl,  you  are 
all  I  have  in  the  world  now." 

"  And,  papa,"  Cressy  would  burst  out,  "  we 
are  going  to  be  the  best  children  a  father  ever 
had— Proctor  and  I.  You  can't  imagine  what 
a  new  son  and  daughter  you  are  to  have ;  yott 
won^t  know  us.  it  seems  to  me  I  never  loved 
you  any  before  I  love  you  so  much  better  now 
this  great  trouble  has  come  upon  us." 

And  once  Proctor  rose  up  and  went  to  his 
father,  and  stood  before  him  with  an  air  of 
grave  manliness  which  one,  knowing  the  Proc- 
tor Forsyth  of  a  fortnight  ago,  would  scarcely 
have  deemed  possible. 

"Papa,  it  isn't  the  old  Proctor  any  more; 
It  never  will  be.  I  will  try  and  take' Ramsey's 
place  as  well  as  I  can  to  you,"  he  said. 

It  was  wonderful  how  this  grief  dfew  them 
to  each  other— set  them  apart  from  the  wotld 
in  a'  great  sacredness  of  sorrow,  as  no  joy  or 
prosperity  could  ever  have  done. 

One  day  Cressy  went  to  her  father,  too,  with 
a  sudden  Hght  in  her  face.  '*Papa,"  she  said, 
"  it  came  upon  me  last  night,  when  I  lay  awake 
and  the  moon  was  shining  brightly  into  the 
chamber,  that  perhaps  before  this  time  mamm& 
hfid  seen  Ramsey.  It  was  a  great  comfort  to 
me  tb  fifeel  that." 

••  Well,  dear  7"  said  the  man,  softly,  as  though 
he  would  like  her  to  go  on ;  and  Proctor,  who 
"was  writing  some  orders  for  his  father,  laid 
down  his  pencil  and  listened. 

*i  You  know  «A«  would  be  glad  to  see  her  boy 
and  fot^ive  him.  I'm  sure  God  has,  when  he 
was  so  sorry  that  it  drove  him  Crazy,  or  he 
never  would  have  done  that  last  thing,"  her 
'Wotds  trending  like  soft  feet  of  loving  watchers 
away  from  the  dreadftil  fkct.   ' 

There  Was  a  little  sharp  groan  from  Proctor, 
and  the 'father  leaned  his '^  head  upon  his  hand 
in  a  wa jr  that  was  pitiful  enough. 

**  Then,  too,"  continued  the  voice,  its  eager 
girlishness  so  in  contrast  with  its  pathos^ "I 
have' been  thinking  mamma  would  rather  have 
her  boy  safe  with  her  than  having  that  awful 
trial  and  be  going  to  prison.  Ah,  papa,  it 
seemed  as  though .  nothing  could  be  so  bad 
through  ali' those  dreadful  days  and  nights, 
when  I  stkried  at  every  sound,  dreaming  they 
had  brought  him  back;  and  how  often  I  said 
to  myseJf  then,  *  It  would  have  been  better  Jf 
you  had  died,  Ramsey  I' " 

She  hlid  to  break  off  here,  and 'Procter  was 
crying  softly  in  his  comer,  and  her  father  rose 
up  with  a  sharp  groan  or  two  and  walked  the 
room  feebly^;  yet  there  wa^   some  truth  in 


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276 


ARTHUR'S   lADr&EOMP   MAGAZINE. 


CreBsy'fl  words  which  8tru9k  her  father  in.  \hf^ 
midst  of  all  their  pain. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  town,  where  the 
'Mean-to''  faced  brave^ly  the  stortna  of  ite  Jtm^t 
dredth  winter,  there  was  seriaua  talk  going  on 
these  days. 

The  discoTery  of  Hajnsey's  cap^  ilie  search 
for  his  body,  the  conviction  of  his  family  and 
the  public  that  young  Forsyth  had  gone  straight 
to  his  death  that  night  in  the  riyer,  produced 
an  excitement  in  the  young  household  not 
easily  imagined. 

In  the  midst  of  the  general  amazement, 
terror,  perplexity,  Darley  had  gone,  as  he 
always  did  in  great  emergencieiH  to  Prudy. 

''  We  know  the  truth,  Prudy.  It  is  a  dreadr 
ful  thing  for  his  family  to  believe  be  is  dead. 
Ought  we  to  tell  them,  Prudy  V 

She  was  still  awhile,  her  face  settling  into  a 
great  gravity  with  this  momentous  question, 
but  her  busy  fingers  keeping  mechanically  at 
Uie  frightful  aperture  they  were  trying  to  fill 
up  in  the  heel  of  Barley's  stocking.  At  last 
ahe  looked  up. 

"I  read  the  other  day,"  she  said,  ''some 
words  like  these :  '  My  own  secret  is  mine  to 
keep  or  tell,  t>ut  my  friend^s  secret  iis  not  mine.' 
It  seems  to  me  this  secret  is  not  ours,  but  Barn- 
Bey  Forsyth's,  Darley." 

"  That  night,"  said  the  newsboy,  "  when  we 
two  stood  on  the  platform,  just  after  we  heard 
the  shriek  of  the  engine  down  in  the  hollow,  . 
he  turned  to  me  and  whis|)ered;  'Darley^  you  ) 
will  keep  my  secret — you  and  your  sisters — 
until  you  hear  from  me?  I  may  depend  on 
you?'" 

"And  what  did  you  say  ?"  put  in  that  round, 
plump  little  Cherry  »X  this  juncture. 

"I  said:  'Forsyth,  you  know  me.  I  shall 
keep  your  secret  if  I  die  for  it,  and  so  will  my 
sisters.'  It  seemed  very  much  like  a  solemn 
oath.  I  can't  feel  I  have  any  right  to  break 
such  a  promise." 

^'  I  shouldn't  dare  to  say  you  had,"  answered 
Prudy,  still  a  little  doubtfully;  and  now  the 
work  dropped  from  her  hands. 

Darley  rose  up,  pushed,  his  chair  on  one  side, 
and  trotted  up  and  down  the  room.        ^ 

"Yet  there  is  something  awful  about  it, 
girls,"  he  said.  "I  hear  the  people  down 
town  going  on  so  about  his  death.  It's  mar- 
vellous how  they've  softened  al^ut  him  of  late; 
and  I  feeling  what  an  awful  secret  I  carry 
around  with  me.  And  when  I  get  to  thinking 
.  of  his  father  and  brother  and  sister,  and  all 
,  their  horror  and  grief,  a  wild  impulse  seizes 


me  to  rush  out  to  their  grand  home  and  dash 
in  there  shouting:  'He  isn't  drowned  1  I 
dragged  him  away  at  the  last  minute.'  And 
^metimea  I  feel  as  tboqgh  I  ought  to  do  it; 
and  then  I  remember  mj  promise  that  night 
It  putB  a  fellow  between  two  firea." 

Prudy  drew  a  long  sigh,  looking  now  at  the 
family  side  of  the  question — the  aide  of  sym- 
pathy and  pit^.  And  Cherry,  with  her  scared, 
solemn  face,  pushed  in  again :  "  Oh,  it's  such 
an  awful  thing  to  4^cle,  and  we  are  all  so 
dreadfully  young  I" 

Arid  the  young  faces  looked  at  each  other  in 
a  helpless  perplexity — children'a  &oe8  still, 
yqu  must  remember — and  wished  that  the 
siiadows  of  the  years  ha4  fallen  heavily  on 
each,  so.  they  could  have  brought  wisdom  for 
that  hour. 

.  ''  If  I  could  only  know  where  he  is  1"  said 
Darley,  a  few  moments  later,  "  If  I  could  only 
be  sure  he  had  &>und  that  Harker  he  told  oi 
abouty  and  got  safely  off  to  sea.  But  who 
knows  whether  he  is  not  still  hiding  about 
that  great,  dreadful  qi^  ?  I  can't  sleep  nights 
thinkiug  about  it." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Prudy,  monmfully. 

"  Nor  I,"  added  Chjsrry,  shaking  that  glofvy 
head  of  l^ers  sadly,  aa  though  it  carried  the 
silver  of  fourscore. 

"Then  let  folks  once  find  out  he  is  alive," 
continued  Darley,  "and — I  know  'em— all 
their  pity  would  turn  to  scorn  and  hatred 
again,  and  the  police  would  be  set  on  the  bun^ 
and  if  they  should  track  him  out  and  bring 
him  back  here,  and  have  him  sent  to  prison, 
and  1  was  to,  be  the  means  of  it,  I  tell  yoo, 
girls,  the  look  in  his  face  would  strike  me 
dead." 

Darley  stood  still  in  the  room  when  he  spoke 
these  words,  throwing  up  his  hands  in  a  wildi 
desperate  way,  which  made  the  girls  grow 
white. 

"Darley,"  said  Prudy,  after  a  little  paoae, 
"tl^ere  seems  but  one  thing  to  do;  you  must 
keep  his  secret  aa  you  promised  him,  witb 
your  life.  We  shall  wait,  and  let  him  apeak 
for  himself.  You,  at  least,  have  no  right  to 
betray  him." 

So  at  l«Bt  the  young  souls  settled  it  among 
themselves,  whether  wisely  or  not,  according 
to  tlieir  light ;  and  there  were  some  forces  done 
.up  in  the  boy  and  girls  that,  when  they  settled 
among  tliemselves  what  was  the  right  thing  to 
do»  they  could  abide  by  it.  , 

The.  public  imagination,  touched  and  shocked 
by  the  young  man's  terrible  fate^  now  broojjt 
the  general  feeling  largely  round  (o  Banwe/a 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE    BETTER    LAND. 


277 


side.  The  weather-vane  of  the  newspapers  was 
a  nice  indication  which  way  the  breeze  of  pub- 
lic sentiment  was  setting.  There  were,  several 
leaders,  in  a  highly  sensational  style,  showing 
np  Ramsey  as  the  innocent  victim  of  an  awfal 
mistake;  representing  him  as  firing  off  the 
pistol  in  self-defence,  taking  hia  Either  as  the 
ringleader  of  a  gang  of  ruffians  who  bad  broken 
into  the  hoase,  and  that  the  sudden  conscious" 
ness  of  his  mistake  had  driven  the  poor  youth 
into  the  temporary  insani^  which  had  resulted 
in  his  death. 

It  was  possible  that  Forsyth's  money,  as 
some  sceptical  people  hinted,  was  at  the  bot? 
torn  <^  the  changed  tone  of  the  newspapers,  for 
the  honor  of  the  dead  son  had  growa  very 
precious  to  the  heart  of  the  father;  still,  no* 
body  coold  controvert  the  new  statement  of  the 
case,  and  the  public  mind  was  disposed  to  re- 
gard the  last  view  as  the  true  one. 

There  was  still  the  feet  of  the  robbeiy  to  be 
gotten  over ;  but  a  minority  settled  it— *that  was 
the  fathfir'a  business;  and  if  he,  knowing  the 
entire  circamstanoes,  did  not  condemn  his 
son,  nobody  else  certainly  had  a  right  to  find 

&Qlt. 

When  the  broken  hoosehold  rode  out  once 
more,  many  pitying  glances  followed  1^  seeing 
the  vacant  seat  by  the  father,  and  remember- 
ing the  proud  young  head  which  ased  to  oc- 
cupy it. 

As  Forsyth  regained  the  mental  poise  which 
had  been  so  wofnlly  shaken  of  late,  he  became 
satisfied  that  Bamsey  had  been  the  tool  of  some 
accomplished  villain ;  and,  having  once  made 
up  his  mind  on  this,  Forsyth  was  not  the  man 
to  leave  any  stone  untamed  in  bringing  the 
matter  to  light. 

There  were  men  in  New  Yotk  who  under- 
stood the  real  character  of  Bopes,  and  had 
saspected  the  nature  of  his  sudden  intimacy 
with  Bamsey  Forsyth. 

The  Califomian  was  shrewd  enough  to  take 
himself  off  long  before  this^  and  if  he  had  re- 
mained, it  was  doubtful  whether  any  guilt 
could  have  been  brought  home  to  him;  but 
Forsyth  was  satisfied  in  his  own  mind  that  this 
man  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  all  Bamsey's 
evil  work. 

In  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  the  man  cursed 
himself  for  allowing  Bamsey  to  plunge  alone 
into  the  excitements  and  dangers  of  Kew  York ; 
bat  causes  could  not  avert  the  wrong,  nor  bring 
hack  the  dead. 

The  man's  health  was  greatly  shaken,  the 
stately  home  became^  on  account  of  its  associa- 
tions, Qtteriy  dSatastefbi  to  him,  while  his  bqy 


and  girl  had  grown  thin  and  pale  under  tlieir 
new  grief.  The  physicians  recommended 
change  of  air.  Forsyth  decided  to  go  abroad 
with  his  family. 

{Condvded  next  month.) 

^^^  t   ^   ■:  ^  /<  ^'  /' 

THB  BETTEB  LAIO), 

'  BT  XMILT  A.  HiAlCKOVn. 

DO  the  sterm-eloodi  lower  above  tb*e, 
Bo'the  wild  winds  routid  tbee  sweep; 
Both  the  rlTer  bear  thee  onward 

With  a  curreDt  strung  and  deep? 
In  the  Tales  of  that  feir  country. 
Where  aluMt  the  good  and  true, 
No  broad  wiogH  of  Bolemo  shadow 
Bide  the  dreamy  depths  of  blue. 

Do  the  mountains  loom  before  thee 

With  their  passes  dark  and  gtim ; 
Do  the  thorns  beset  thy  pathway; 

Do  the  mists  thy  vision  dim  ? 
When  the  gleaming  gates  of  jasper 

Ope,  the  waiting  to  enfold, 
They  go  ont  no  more  forever 

From  the  shining  streets  of  geld. 

Is  the  desort  lone  and  silent ; 

Do  the  hpt  sands  scorch  thy  feet; 
Doth  no  cool  and  ^shing  fountain 

Lave  thy  lips  with  waters  sweet  ? 
Know  there  is  a  crystal  river 

Whose  bright  waves  in  gladness  flow, 
'Neath  the  graves  of  palm  and  orange, 

O'er  the  green  shore  bending  low. 

Hath  the  ^rthly  light  that  cheered  thee 

Vanished  into  rayless  gloom ; 
Hath  the  flowers  of  hope  that  blessed  thee 

Faded  in  their  early  bloom  ? 
In  the  land  of  endless  sammer, 

'Mid  the  morning's  rosy  flush, 
'Mid  the  glimmering  leaves'  faint  shadow 

Hope's  fair  fruits  in  beauty  blush. 

Hath  the  song  of  love  that  lured  thee 
With  its  soft,  enchanting  strain 

Died  away  in  distant  echoes 
With  a  wild  and  sad  refrain  f 

In  the  land  of  life  immortal 
•     Love's  sweet  lyre  doth  ever  dwell, 

Ob  the  air  with  odors  laden 
Its  rich  tones  triampbaat  swelL 


TiOB  only  way  for  a  man  to  escape  being 
found  out  is  to  pa^  for  what  he  is.  The  only 
way  to  maintain  a  good  character  is  to  deserve 
iL    It  is  easier  to  correct  our  faults  than  to 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


MINNA'S  DAY. 


BY  MISS  MARY  HABTWXLIi. 


MINNA  paoHed  at  the  beginning  of  that  daj 
to  study  it.  She  was  a  Teuton  maiden, 
wholenome  and  apple  ]ike.  Her  blonde  hair 
decked  ita  own  classic  twist  with  little  curls 
and  tendrils.  Her  cushions  of  hands  were 
joined  before  her.  Her  eyes  were  very  blue 
and  wise  and  ftu'-seelng,  seeming  to  pierce  the 
partitions  of  her  establishment. 

That  was  an  establishment  I — a  loft  for  Fritz, 
her  own  bedroom  where  she  cossetted  the  baby 
Katrin,  the  room-for-all-purposes  where  she 
stood,  and  the  little  store  in  front  Such  as  it 
was,  Minna  was  not  its  mistress.  She  could 
almost  feel  the  lily  white  floor  melting  from 
beneath  her  shoes,  and  she  scanned  space  yery 
hard  for  a  way  out  of  her  trouble. 

Minna's  grandfather  had  taken  his  son  and 
his  son's  wife,  and  come  to  America.  The  two 
men  worked  and  prospered  as  all  good  Ger- 
mans do.  But  after  three  children  were  bom, 
the  father  and  mother  joined  hands,  and  were 
wafted  by  a  fever  to  the  Great  Yaderland. 
Minna  and  Fritz  and  Eatrin  were' folded  in 
the  heart  of  their  kind,  eccentric  German  an- 
cestor. He  opened  a  *'  notion  shop,"  where  all 
good  Dutchmen  of  the  town  loved  to  come  and 
smoke.  Minna  grew  to  be  the  Riother  of  the 
house;  Katrin  throve  and  Fritz  broadened 
under  her  cara.  But  at  last  the  dear  grand- 
father died.  He  was  acoustomed  to  smoking 
in  a  big  chair  before  hia  oounter — a  quaint 
chair  which  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
that  land  of  the  blest,  in  which  he  had  per- 
chance swung  on  the  emigrants'  deck  quite 
independent  of  the  "cradle  of  the  deep" — 
a  chair  which  had  enormous  breadth  and  depth 
of  seat,  and  was  so  unwieldy  that  it  seldom 
got  moved.  As  he  sat  smoking  here,  one  day, 
and  nodding  towards  distant  Rhineland,  the 
meerschaum  fell  from  l^is  hand,  and  his  nod 
became  a  petrified  bow. 

Since  he  slept,  Minna  bad  undertaken  the 
support  of  the  family.  She  sneoeeded  well  for 
awhile.  Germane  loyally  patronized  the  little 
yariety  store.  Motherly  fraus  came  in  to  lec- 
ture her.  The  grandfather's  cronies  ambled  a 
few  hundred  times  to  stare  at  his  empty  chair 
before  they  could  persuade  themselves  out  of 
their  habit  of  smoking  with  him,  and  each 
time  they  put  their  close  hands  intb  their  Ira- 
gal  pockets  and  bought  a  cent's  Worth  of  seme- 
(278) 


thing.  Then  there  were  the  youth,  who  h»d 
nearly  all  made  themselves  cross-eyed  staring 
at  Minna,  and  trying  to  make  the  stem  Lu- 
theran dominie  think  they  were  intent  only  on 
him,  of  Snnday  mornings.  These  honest  fd* 
lows  came  as  often  as  tliey  could  out  of  work 
hours,  and  bought  so  many  goi^geous  necktia 
that  the  minister  was  scandalized,  and  de- 
nounced vanities  from  his  pulpit,  dose  under 
the  ceiling,  like  a  rerj  Jove  with  thunder- 
bolts, and  demure  Minna  stretched  her  neck  to 
swallow  his  discourse  and  enjoy  the  woe  of  the 
young  men  in  neckties. 

But  strait  days  oame.  Her  grandfather, 
though  conridef^  well  to  do,  had  left  no 
substance  of  all  his  toil  behind  except  the 
little  stock.  Interest  in  the  shop  flagged.  Tiie 
children  were  growing,  and  ate  numberien 
preiaels.  Jiight  on  the  top  of  her  trouble 
plumped  Hans  Schmidt,  the  great  brewer,  with 
proposals  to  Minna  to  become  great  brewers. 
To  many  young  ladies  this  might  have  been  t 
pleasing  solution  of  difficulty.  Hans  Schmidt 
intruded  his  suii  and  hie  cask*like-  presence. 
As  a  clinching  argument,  he  mildly  proposed 
turning  her  family  out  of  their  little  establish- 
ment, which  he  owned. 

Minna,' with  the  Saxon  admiration  of  a  8ta^ 
dy  wooing,  mright  have  yielded  up  her  hesrt 
on  this,  had  she  held  any  heart  to  yield.  But 
that  small,  r^ular  organ  was  beating  else- 
where, and  she  had  in  its  place  «  big  Ame^ 
lean  hearty  which  leaped  with  impetooua  pulses, 
and  wae  full  of  manly  love  for  heir.  Ward 
was  a  worker  In  metals>  like  Tubal-Oain.  He 
expected  to  own  a  machine-shop  of  his  oini 
some  day,  tomirry  Minna,  and  settle  down  a 
great  cititen  ander  the  wings  of  t^e  Americso 
eagle.  Having  heard  of  some  promising  open- 
ing in  a  distant  city,  he  was  off  to  push  their 
fortunes,  when  Hans  Sdimidt  came  to  play  jets 
of  beer  on  Minna's  glowing  affection. 

The  brewer  had  named  a  day  for  her  final 
decision.  She  stood  on  the  threshold  of  it| 
fblding  her  hands  and  staring. 

But  breakfast  most  be  made,  for  Fritz  was 
stumMing  about  hia  aitio,  and  the  baby  Katrin 
would  soon  lift  a  hungry  voice.  Minna  flew 
to  her  tasks.  Prlta  came  down — a  well-grown, 
ehock-headed  boy  of-  ten,  with  wide,  good- 
natured  motith ;  and  after  pnlltng  the  edee|rf 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


MINNA'S   DAY, 


279 


film  off  hiB  ey«8,  set  ftbout  hk  part  of  kindling 
fire. 

The  baby  was  tidied  and  bound  in  ber  high 
diair,  reacking  her  hands  and  chattering  "  Mt- 
te,bittel"  XhiaiitUefunilj  were  drawn  afoond 
their  morning  board,  and  FriU  had  juat  finished  < 
grace,  with  one  eye  aqnintisg  at  the  sauer- 
kraut, when  there  came  a  thnndering  knock  at 
the  shop  door.  Hans  Schmidt  had  a  maz7m 
about  the  early  bird  catching  the  worm.  But 
I  protest  no  loyer  except  a  Dutchman  would 
come  philandering  at "  five  o'clock  in  the  moirn- 
ing,"  the  aong  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 
He  thought  he  would  do  that  little  business 
on  his  way  to  the  brewery. 

''  Will  you  come  in  and  break  bread  with  us, 
mein  Herr?"  asked  Minna,  standing  before 
him  in  fear  and  trembling. 

The  puffy  brewer  shook  his  head:  ''Yah 
or  nein  from  thee  ist  ailes." 

It  is  remarkable  that  German-Americans 
pride  themselTes  in  speaking  English  even 
among  themselves. 

"  It  is  nein,"  answered  Minna ;  "  it  can  never 
be  but  nein." 
"  Dat  is  vat  you  has  made  up  your  mindts  7" 
"  Yes,  Kerr  Schmidt,"  held  Minna,  her  iace 
shining  with  Dutch  stubbornness. 
*^  And  he  sthays  made  up ? " 
"Always,  mein  Herr." 
"Fery  yell,"  decided  the  brewer,  swelling 
himself;  ''gooti    Now,  Madchen  Welhelmina, 
to-morrow  you  takes  up  your  peds  and  Talks." 
He  waddled  off  chuckling  and  ang^. 
Fritz  saw  the  pallor  on  Minna's  round  fea^ 
tares,  and  stirred  himself  to  set  cheer  moving 
in  the  house.    He  sung,  he  hopped  about  the 
shop,   throwing  summersets  on   the  counter, 
which  threw  his  toddling  sister  into  convul- 
sions of  laughter.    He  then  picked  up  an  even- 
ing paper  which  had  been  dropped  on  the 
step,  and  taking  Katrin  in  his  lap  b^gan  to 
read  in  a  very  loud  sing-song. 

Fritz  went  to  school,  and  was  vain  of  his 
progress  in  English.  Such  words  as  he  could 
not  pronounce  he  dissected  in  parentheses. 

"Man  Killed,"  droned  Fritz  in  the  ears 
of  Minna,  who  gathered  the  fragments  from 
her  breakfast  with  a  heavy  heart.  "  We  are 
pained  to  (a-n-an,  n-o-u-n — )  to  nowce  dat  a 
young  man  was  kilt  dis  morning  at  the  (j-u-n-o- 
yoonk,  t-i-o-n)  yoonkshun  of  der  I.  B.  and 
W.  B.  Boadts  by  (j-u-m-p)  yoomping  off  der 
train,  who  vas  a  (c-i-t-i-citi,  tzct-e— ")  Fritz 
wrestled  a  long  while  with  this  word,  and  final- 
ly tore  loose  from  its  thorns  and  left  it—"  of 
dis  blace.  Hia  name  was  Vort  — ^' 
VOL.  XXXVI  u. — 19. 


"Fritol "  seroamed  Minna. 

"  Eh  ?"  answered  Fritz,  staring  stupidly  at  her. 

"Ah J  Dftein  Himmel,  it  is  our  dear  Ward  I " 

Frits  divided  his  attention  between  the  paper 
amd  his  aister's  grief,  and  finally  got  his  con- 
servative mind  chaiged  with  the  terrible  truth. 
He  raised  A  Teutonic  howl,  and  clung  to  Min- 
na's skirts.  Little  Katrin  having  as  much 
music  in  her  as  any  other  German  child, 
could  not  remain  quiet  upon  this,  and  the  re- 
quiem which  wae  wailed-  over  Ward  by  that 
fiuoily  of  tender  hearts  was  worth  dying  for. 

"  See  I  darlings,"  cried  Minna ;  "  he  was  our 
only  friend.  The  brewer  will  turn  na  forth  in 
the  morning.  I  am  poor ;  I  know  not  what  to 
do.    Ah,  this  is  too  mnoh  I " 

"I  cao  works,"  snifiied  FriU;  *'l  make  two 
cent  mit  hold  de  horse." 

"Ah  I  biibchen,  ah  I  mein  Katrinchen,  we 
must  aU  work  to  keep  together,  ^ut  what 
shall  I  do  with  my  children?" 

Here  a  customer  came  into  the  store,  and 
Minna  turned  from  grief  to  meet  the  shock  of 


What  a  day  that  was  I  She  counted  change 
thinking,  "  It  was  just  like  him—- so  thought- 
less and  strong!  And  where  is  he  now?  It 
is  death  that  I  cannot  be  with  him !"  She  felt 
too  stupefied  to  care  much  about  to-morrow. 

The  good  minister  condescended  in,  to  smoke 
a  dignified  pipe  and  give  her  some  lectures  on 
the  vanity  of  life.  The  frans  screamed  more 
shrill  *I>atch  gossip  in  her  ears  than  they 
dropped  ^pennies  in  her  till.  Small  American 
boys  were  particularly  persistent  in  coming 
after  "  runnin*-gears  for  hens'  nests." 

Minna  said  to  herself  it  was  weary  late 
when  she  could  close  the  door  between  that 
cruel  world  and  her  children  and  heart-ache. 
She  sat  down  in  the  back  room,  Katrinchen 
half  asleep  on  her  breast,  Fritz  leaning  moistly 
and  sympathetically  against  her.  She  tried  to 
l^ing,  but  Fritz,  misuking  her  intention,  re- 
suoaed  the  melancholy  requiem  of  the  morn- 
ing, to  which  Katrin  joined  a  mournful  minor. 

"Hush I  children,"  quivered  Minna;  "be 
still,  and  I  will  tell  thee  a  story  of  the  good 
Krisskingle — " 

Here  a  mighty  knock  thundered  through 
the  front  door.  The  knocking  in  Macbeth  was 
not  more  terrifying.  These  three  clung  to- 
gether. Minna  felt  that  the  day  had  opened 
and  would  close  with  an  ominous  knock. 
However,  she  calmed  the  group  and  went  to 
answer  it.  Setting  her  lamp  on  the  countei, 
she  turned  the  bolts  slowly,  asking,  with  cau- 
tion, "  Who  comes  ? " 


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280 


ABTSUB'8   LADTS   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


<"  Me— Ward  ^  bellowed  DnmisUkable  longs 
from  witboQt 

Then  I  assare  you  there  were  haate,  screams 
and  oonfnsion,  and  cries  of  ''Ah,  I  thought 
thou  wert  killed  I"  and,  "VortI  VortI"  and 
answers,  **  Killed  ?  I  nerer  was  more  alive  in 
my  life ;  "and,  '*  Hello,  FriUykin  t  "—for  Ward 
never  could^anage  those  German  diminutives. 

**  It's  all  nght !  I've  got  the  place,  and  we'll 
have  our  wedding  and  move  our  family  at 
once.  That  old  brewer  has  been  persecuting 
you,  hey?  Very  well;  we're  happy  to  turn 
out  of  his  premises.  Couldn't  help  running 
over  to  tell  you  my  luck,  though  I  just  stepped 
off  the  train.  Kever  mind  your  paragraph, 
Fritsy ;  it  will  take  you  till  morning  to  read  it, 
and  I  can't  listen  so  long.  The  poor  fellow 
killed  at  the  junction  wasn't  me.  Come  to 
your  big  brother,  little  Kate." 

Oh,  it  was  so  good  to  have  this  wholesome, 
big-hearted  treasure  between  her  and  the  cruel 
world  1  thought  Minna.  But  in  the  midst  of 
her  raptures  she  had  an  eye  to  practical  things. 

"  Fritz,  don't  sit  down  in  the  grandfather's 
diair  so  hard !  I  would  not  have  it  broken." 

Fritz,  however,  heard  or  heeded  not,  or  was 
under  necessity  of  relieving  himself  lest  he 
ehould  blow  up.  He  continued  turning  sum- 
mersets therein  by  leaning  over  one  arm,  plao- 
sng  his  head  on  the  wide,  venerable  platform, 
«nd  coming  down  right  side  up  by  the  opposite 
arm.  Bat  this  was  tame.  He  could  only  give 
adequate  expression  to  himself  by  leaping  up 
and  down  in  the  seat  As  he  was  descending 
with  mighty  descent  the  third  time,  and  as 
Minna  was  preparing  to  give  him  a  sisterly 
slap,  lol  the  box  beneath  his  feet  shattered, 
and  Fritz  came  upon  the  floor,  very  much 
bruised  about  the  heels,  his  ears  filled  with 
jingle;  for  that  old  chair-bottom  had  been  the 
quaint  grandfather's  bank.  Little  gold  pieces 
and  big,  heaps  of  silver,  and  new  bills  which 
had  mercifully  been  spared  by  rats,  fell  at  the 
feet  of  the  heirs. 

•*Ah,  what  a  day  I"  cried  Minna,  holding 
to  her  good  Ward,  whose  eyes  stared  while 
hers  streamed  with  tears;  "dark,  all  dark; 
and  then  bright,  so  bright ! " 


MUSIC  UNDER  THE  WILLOW& 

BT  OBO.  KLIHOLB. 

THERE  it  masio  under  the  willows. 
Not  the  swing-wheel's  whir  alooe, 
Not  the  song  of  the  leaves  m  the  sunligbi^ 

Not  the  mosie  of  these  alone. 
Bat  the  sUrery  notss  of  a  singer 

As  she  beats  out  the  flax  on  her  wheel, 
With  her  foot  on  the  roegh-hewn  treadle 

Which  her  rade  robes  half  conceal. 
There  are  eyes  with  their  drooping  lashes. 

Byes  bent  with  a  saddened  air, 
A  fnll  low  brow  as  pure  as  the  snow. 

With  its  half-loosed,  dosky  hair. 
Not  fairer  the  tints  of  the  autamn. 

Not  richer  the  wild-flower*s  glow 
Than  the  blash  that  creeps  from  her  lashes 

And  over  the  eheek  below. 

Ob !  compaved  to  the  flax-girl's  savsie. 
Though  grand,  and  fail,  and  fiee^ 

What  were  the  wild  rill's  muslo. 
What  the  song  of  the  wares  of  the  sea  ? 

Away  on  the  leaves  of  the  forest 

Bams  the  liquid  gold  of  the  air. 
Barns  the  humid  glow  of  the  sunlight. 

The  dreamy  gold  of  the  air, 
Sleeps  the  golden  light  on  the  meadow. 

The  meadow  of  enlerald  and  gray. 
With  its  skirting  of  brash  with  tinted  leares 

And  its  herds  in  the  far-away. 
But  pare  as  the  light  of  the  autuma. 

As  fair  as  the  sleeping  air 
Stands  the  girl  by  the  wheels  with  her  dark  eye 
bent, 

And  her  half-loosed,  dusky  hair; 
And  the  music  under  the  willows. 

With  its  far-off  silvery  tone^ 
Is  not  the  whir  of  the  swing- wheel. 

Or  the  song  of  the  leaves  alone. 

I  hare  not  seen,  I  may  not  aee 

Mj  hope  for  man  take  form  in  Caet^ 

But  God  will  give  the  victory 
In  due  time.    In  that  faith  I  act 

And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 

The  bafQing  present  may  endure, 

And  bless,  meanwhile,  the  unseen  Hand  that  leads 

The  heart's  desire  beyond  the  halting  step  of  deedi. 

Whittiei. 


To  render  iDCvitable  evil  as  light  as  possi- 
ble, is  to  be  in  reality  what  may  be  called  both 
Jbappy  and  wise. 

Mes^  of  genius  are  often  doll  and  inert  in 
.society;  as  the  biasing  meteor,  when  it  de- 
ecends  to  eaith,  is  only  a  stone. 


God's  love  and  power  are  one;  and  they 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry  day, 

Smite  to  restore, 
And  they  who,  Mke  the  gentle  wind,  uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and  drift 

Their  perfnme  on  the  air. 
Alike  may  serve  him,  each  with  their  own  giA» 

Making  their  lives  a  prayec. 

Wsirra*' 

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"WAIPS. 


BT  HBSTEB  A.  BBNEDICT. 


July  20tt. — So  far  away !  I  aay  the  sad  words 
over  and  oyer  in  mj  heart  to  night,  looking 
upon  the  sweet  waves  crowned  with  the  sun- 
Bet's  glory,  and  thinking  of  all  that  lies  between 
us — the  leagues  of  land  and  sea — ^and  of  all  the 
sunrises  and  sunsets  that  must  brighten  and 
fade  across  them  ere  I  touch  your  palm  in 
greeting  and  keep  with  yon  the  speechful 
silence  that  happy  souls  love  best. 
Far  away !  I  can  not  always  make  it  seem  so. 
Yesterday,  rocking  in  my  little  white  boat 
among  the  lilies  and  floating  sea- weeds  border- 
ing the  entrance  to  a  sandy,  sheltered  cove, 
rocking  idly  and  alone  hour  after  hour,  a 
storm  of  wind  and  rain  broke  suddenly  about 
me,  lashing  the  waves  to  foam,  and  driving  my 
boat  far  out  among  the  black,  angry  billows, 
where,  with  folded  arms,  I  waited  the  coming 
of  Azrael — whose  touch,  I  think,  brings  some- 
thing of  peace  to  all — something  of  joy, 
maybe. 

Then,  in  that  hour  of  danger,  I  heard  your 
voice,  my  darling,  clear  as  a  bugle,  through 
the  rise  and  roar  of  wave  and  wind — heard  it 
just  as  of  old,  saying  softly : 

**  Seoare  I  rest  upon  the  wave. 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  hast  power  to  aave.** 
Then  a  strange   calm   stole  into    all   my 
pulses;  and  in  through  a  mist  that  held  me, 
your  fkoe  shone,  fair  as  the  face  of  an  angel.   A 
white  dove  was  lying  on  your  bosom,  with 
wings  folded  as  if  for  long-abiding,  and  its 
happy  eyes  seemed  reading  all  my  soul. 
I  cannot  tell  how  it  happened. 
Salvation  was  wrought  by  a  miracle,  they 
tell  me.    I  only  know  that  when  your  face 
faded  from  my  sight  a  graver  one  was  bending 
over  me,  with  stern  set  lips,  and  eyes  whose 
pitiful  anguish  gave  sudden  place  to  a  great 
unspeakable  joy,  a  deep  unutterable  thanks- 
giving for  the  life  given  back  from  the  sepul- 
chre of  the  sea. 

To-day  those  eyes  will  not  lose  sight  of  me. 
While  I  write  they  are  guarding  me  from  a 
height  of  rugged  rock  inaccessible  to  my  too- 
easiiy-wearied  feet ;  and  I  am  so  glad,  so  grate- 
ful. 

Do  you  know,  Amie,  what  beautiful  lessons 
you  taught  me,  what  time  we  two  were  learn- 
ing so  much  of  each  other,  so  much  of  God  7 
You  brought  Him  so  near  to  me ;  and  before 


He  had  been  to  me,  not  a  PresBnce,  but  a  vague 
far-ofl^  incomprehensible  Oood,  that  my  poor 
human  hands  and  hungry  heart  might  not 
hope  to  reach. 

Out  of  your  great  thoughts  my  soul  built 
up  a  ladder  of  faith  by  which  I  may  reach  the 
mountain  of  His  holiness,  the  height  of  di- 
vinest  peace;  down  which  the  dews  of  dear 
delight  drop  soflly  upon  the  barren  wastes  of 
Ufe. 

Do  I  love  you  for  this,  0  truest  type  of  all 
that  is  lovable  in  woman  ? 

"  Do  I  love,  or  do  I  worship  7  Judge,  Au- 
rora Leigh  I" 

Such  a  tired  child  I  was,  too  I 

So  weary  and  fingeivtom,  trying  to  climb 
up  the  rocky  steeps  of  my  garden  wall— where 
never  a  rose  was  suffered  to  bloom — to  catch, 
if  might  be,  a  sight  of  waving  woods,  whereiji 
the  wild  flowers  were,  and  rippling,  rambling 
brooks,  and  song  of  birds  full-throated. 

"You  came,  and  the  sun  oame  after. 
And  the  green  grew  golden  above ; 
The  flag-flowers  lightened  with  laughter, 
And  the  meadow  sweet  ahootc  with  h>ve.'* 

You  remember  what  you  answered  one  night 
when,  with  my  wet  face  upon  your  bosom,  I  said : 

**  It  is  an  easy  thing  for  you  to  believe  that 
whatever  is,  is  best.  An  easy  thing.  Your  life 
Is  a  thing  of  beauty,  hence  *a  joy  forever;' 
for  He  loves  you,  Amie — He,  whose  very  own 
you  are.  He  has  led,  and  is  leading  you  in 
pleasant  places,  in  green  pastures,  and  beside 
'still  waters;'  and  it  is  no  marvel  you  should 
say,  and  fed,  that  the  Infinite  hand  is  guiding 
us  each  and  all.  But  suppose  fh)m  your  birth 
you  bad  been  chained — a  very  eagle  in  restlesd 
desire  to  soar  to  summits  circled  by  airs  that 
held  for  you  completer,  better  life — chained  by 
the  Demon  of  Destiny  in  the  low  marsh- 
mallow,  feeling  all  the  grand  possibilities  of 
being  kept  down,  crushed  out  of  life  by 
force  of  circumstances  unconquerable  and 
deadly  7" 

" Destiny  held  me  onoe  juel  there**  you  said ; 
*'and  it  made  me  the  woman  I  am  to-day, 
strong,  self-reliant — save  as  I  lean  on  Him 
whose  love  will  not  fail  us  ever !  I  could  not 
see  then  how  it  was  best  I  should  be  tried  as 
by  Are ;  but  for  years  I  have  blessed  God  by 
day  and  by  night  for  the  terrible  travail  of 

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ARTEUB'8    LADY'8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


soul  in  which  was  bom  a  knowledge  of  mj  \ 
strength." 

To  night  I  seem  to  see  the  glorj  that  great* 
ened  in  yoar  great  gray  eyes,  as  they  shone 
upon  me  in  the  moonlight;  and  once  again 
you  seem  fkotfar  away  I 

Cobbetty  I  think  it  is,  who  says  tbat  "  erei^ 
man  "  (or  ^oman  I  suppose)  ^  who  writes  a 
word  or  sentence  on  a  sheet  of  paper  ought  to 
remember  he "  (or  she)  "  is  doing  what  may 
live  forever ;''  so  here  I  pen  a  (ans(2«r  for  the 
lesson  taught  by  you,  remembering  and  glad 
because  of  that  blessed  word  "  Ibrever/' 

Augutt  9th, — We  were  sailing  this  evening^ 
Maud  Dinsmore,  and  her  lover  the  miyor, 
Harry,  Kate,  and  L 

The  north-east  wind  drove  our  little  yacht 
before  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather,  instead  of 
the  staunch,  strong  pleasure-boat  it  is ;  and  ihe 
spray  dashed  over  us  like  rain,  much  to  my 
delight  and  Maud's  discomfort — for  her  deli- 
cate pink  silk  and  overdress  of  tulle  were  sure 
to  be  ruined,  while  my  plain  pique  would  bear 
a  hundred  washings  and  still  do  well  enough 
for  boating — ^/thought.    Besides, 

"  I  love,  oh,  how  1  loTe  to  ride 
On  the  fierce  foaming,  bantting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  the  tempest's  tune  1" 

and  I  felt  intensest  sympathy  with  the  wild 
waves  and  winds  downed  with  human  desire 
and  stru^le— yet  cursed  with  direful  defeat 

I  want  you  to  know  Kate  Clayton  1  Such 
sweet,  shy  eyes  she  has,  and  such  a  child's 
face  altogether ;  a  good,  honest  fiace.  I  wish  I 
could  say  that  of  Maud's.  Bhe  is  a  haughty, 
selfish  belle ;  but  at  this  no  one  marvels,  since 
she  was  "  to  the  manner  born,"  the  manner  of 
a  heartless  queen  who  is  to  be  petted  and 
courted  all  her  days,  who  receives  all  kindness 
and  homage  as  her  due — who  is  stately,  cold, 
and  haughty  always. 

It  may  be  I  am  mistaken ;  but  I  cannot  help 
feeling  a  mistrust  of  her,  and  of  her  motives, 
every  time  she  smiles  upon  me^  or  touches 
Kate's  snow-white  hands.  I  do  not  like  to  feel 
so,  either ;  but  some  things  we  cannot  help,  you 
know. 

Poor  little  Kate  1  How  frightened  and  pale 
she  was  the  first  half  hour  of  our  sail. 

She  sat,  statue-like,  in  the  boat^s  stem,  her 
"wonderful  wonder  of  hair"  blown  about  her 
shoulders  and  over  her  bosom  like  a  golden 
mist,  her  scarf  lying  like  a  small  translucent 
cloud  against  the  sky-blue  of  her  raiment,  and 
her  arms  clasping  her  guitar  as  if  it  were  a 
somethinsr  huqian  which  she  must  shield  from 


sorrow,  from  the  tondi  of  wind  and  rain,  from 
bitterest  wreck  and  ruin. 

Once,  when  a  great  wave  swept  over  the 
boaf  s  bow,  her  eyes  turned  imploringly  to  the 
&oe  of  the  mijor,  her  lips  parted  as  if  torn 
asunder  by  the  power  of  a  voiceless  cry,  and 
her  hands  reached  outward  a  moment  invol- 
untarily, then  dropped  nerveless  upon  h«r 
lap. 

How  glad  I  was  that  Maud's  stately  lover 
bent  just  then  to  fasten  her  doak  closer  over 
her  bare  throaty  and  that  he  did  not  see^  as  J 
did,  the  secret  written  in  legible  lines  over 
Kate's  pale  iace, 

Maud  and  the  miyor  have  been  betrothed 
ever  since  each  was  a  cotton-headed  baby.  I 
do  not  think  Maud  loves  her  lover;  and,  emtn 
nous,  I  am  sure  Kate  does. 

After  awhile  our   boat  swept  around  the 
point  of  a  high,  long  island,  where  the  waves 
were  qiuet.    A  look  of  peace  crept  into  Kate's 
clear  eyes.    **  Oh,  earth  is  sweet  1"  she  said ; 
**  *  Very  sweet,  despite 
The  rank,  grave  smell  forever  drifliog  in 
Among  the  odors  from  her  censors  white, 
Of  wave-swung  tUiee  and  of  wind-swaog  roses.'" 

"  O  Kate,  do  hush  I"  Maud  said,  impatiently. 
"  Don't  make  us  all  gloomy." 
Kate's  face  flushed. 

''  Forgive  me,  Maud,  darling,"  she  answered. 
**  The  great  climbing  waves  made  me  think  of 
**  *The  low  green  tree. 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings.'" 

"  And  what  is  beyond.  Miss  Clayton  ?" 
It  was  a  strange  question  for  Major  Hol- 
yoake  to  ask.  Kate  thought  so  too,  1  am  sore; 
for  her  blue  eyes  opentnl  wider  than  their 
wont,  and  her  voice  shook  when  she  made  her 
low,  quiet  reply : 

"  Beyond  ?  I  know  not  I  for  the  mist 

Creeps  to  my  eyes  that  strain  to  see 
The  loW'dropped  bars  of  amethyst— 
And  browB  of  immortality  I 

''But,  among  'the  islands  of  the  blessed,' 
where  we  shall  hear  the  dip  of  celestial  can, 
there  miM  be  grander,  completer,  diviner  life— 
IbraU." 

"That  is  your  hope,  Miss  Clayton.  Is  it 
your  well-grounded  beUeff" 

M%jor  Holyoake's  mifathomable  eyes  were 
trying  to  read  hei  soul ;  but  she  answered  him 
quietly,  still:  "It  is  my  belief;  be  it  well- 
grounded,  or  otherwise,  I  am  satisfied.'' 

"Satisfied!  Are  you  satisfied.  Miss  Gby- 
ton?" 

"  Yea^most  always.  Sometimes  a  doabt 
overshadows  the  sweet  hope  in  my  heart;  not 
often  though." 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


WAIF8. 


"Hope;  tlkai  ifc  it)  Miad  d^ton.  Il  Miinot 
be  a  Mief*  I  «tto  Jbopif  foff  imm^rtalitjr ;  ino- 
thing  more  is  Touduafed  to  ua,  say  wh«t.we 

^Aod  j^  Mkyor  MoljQtik%  tnc^  yoa  iaid: 
'Is  he  only  a  dreamer 

Whosqet 
The  stars  shine  through  hli,  cypress  treos?'. 

"If  the  clouds  of  bereayement  shake  no  dew- 
deope  of  bope  for  poo);  hiimaniiy  from,  their 
ample  wings,  then  let  us  oV>tfae  the  world  in 
eternal  mournlDg,.  and.  sit  down  in  the  ashes  of  i 
oor  dead,Jbeliefi)»  until  niother  earth  claape  our 
shuddering  forms  to  her  bosom,  and  endless 
night  sets  in  upon  the  cheerless  day  of  our 
existenoe,  ^ut  ohf  no  1  the  wisdom  that  never 
errs  teaobea  us  that  the  chasm-of  dea^h,  tencible 
though  it  may  be^  is  spanned  by  a  rainbow 
arch|  acroaa  irhioh  bridge  of  beauty  the  en- 
franchised aoul  may  pass  into  that  better  .coun- 
try where  the  twin  myateciss  of  life  and  death 
are  made; plain." 

Kate  paused  before  a  look  of  sorpciBe  on 
Maud's  haughty  fikce* 

''A  Terj  good  memory,  indeed,''  she  said. 
''And  praj,  Major,  when  did  you  make  the 
pretty  npeenh  Miss  Clayton  honom  you  so  in 
remembering?" 

''I  don't  know— I  had  forgetten  them.  But 
I  thank  Miss  Clayton  fnr  recalling  a  time  when 
my  fiuth  was  like  her  own — white-wiaged  I " 
and  he  looked  al  her  wonderingly. 

Why  had  she  remembered  his  very  words? 
He  Add  not  Ibigotten  them,  fie  knew  well  the 
time  and  the  place  where  they  were  spoken ; 
and,  lookiiig  at  Kato's  fair,  spiritualle  profile, 
clear^nit  against  a  leaden  sky,  something  name- 
less stirred  his  pulses.  And  yet,  I  think  it  was 
not  loyob  Perhaps  it  was  a  something  we  all 
feel,  sometimes,  looking  at  the  pure^  pale  un- 
approachable stars,  shining  upon  earth  and 
yet  so  near  fiis  heaven.  Kato  Clayton  is  high 
"  Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs  * 
Ihst  slope  through  darkness  op  to  God.** 

Is  hen- to  be  but  a  calm,  gray  ezistenoe,  till 
the  crimson  dawn  of  eternity  flushes  it  with 
splendor  of  livii^  and  of  loving  ? 

We  shall  see. 

AitjfUMt  l^ih, — We  were  sitting  on  the  balppny 
to-night,  Kate  and  I,  when  Maud  Dinsmore 
and  her  new  lover,  Leopk)ld  Traoey,  went  ann- 
in-ann  along  the  gravel  walk  below,  and  dow9 
«QODg  ihe  gray  rooks  prisoning  the  cea* 

It  seems  strange  enough  to  m^  this  re^ 
CBoe  to  a  new  lover  for  the  queenly  Maud ;  but 
*  new  lover  she  has,  and  a  very  agreeable  one^ 
toQ,  if  one  may  judge  from  appearanoes* 


•  ^Mattd  M 'regal  te-nig|ht,''  I  said,  thinking 
afeud'-*^  sad  habit  of  miue^  you  know— »and 
•glanouigat  Kate,  who  stood  like  a  St.  CeciUa 
beside  the  iVied  Tuscan  oohimn,  her  pale-blue 
dnpelrieel,  with  their  frosi'^oi<k  of  iaee  blown 
backward  by  the  wind  ftom  the- sea,  revealing 
die  periiM^ess  of  her  slender  form,  and  her 
•fingers'Ciushing  ttneonscleusly  the  half-opened 
'buds  on  her  bosom ;  '*  Maud  is  ooatont,  I  think." 

''Maud  is  not  worthy  to  be  Ais  wife^"  she 
«abwered.  I  knew  Chat  little  pronoun  had  no 
reference  to  the  stately  Mr.  (7.,  upon  whose 
arm  Maud  l>iiismoi;0  was  leaning  at  that  mo- 
ment. We  oould  aae  the  gleam  of  her  white 
raiment  across  the  shadews  on  the  beach;  and 
ever  sad  anon  the  woveu  somnd  of  laughter 
and«ong  eane  tons^  mingled  with  the  beat  of 
-aarflow  down  upon  the  rocky  eoast. 

''^he  will  never  be  M«^r  Holyi>ake's  wife, 
my  darling*  He  has  released  her  from  an  ob- 
ligation to  himself  that  had  grown  burdensome 
•to  hiff." 

leaid  the  words  ^sy  quietly— as  if  I  knew 
ahe  would  not  be  aSeoted  by  them — but  eyeing 
her  closely,  I  saw  her  pale  itom  lips  to  fore- 
head, and  cluteh  nervously  the  vine  beside  her. 

She  has  not  Maud's  self-control-*— this  favor- 
rito  of  mine. 

She  leaned  there  a  moment  with  parted  lips 
end  dilated  cQres,  then  came  toward  me  hastily, 
fell  upon  her  knees,  and  burying  her  face  in 
my  lap,  sobbed  like  «. lonesome  child. 

I  stroked  her  soft  hair  ailently,  till  she  lifted 
her  fiioe,  flushed  and  eager. 

''Do  you  know  this?"  she  said,  as  if  my 
answer  would  give  her  life  or  death.  O  Ada, 
do  not  deceive  me  I  X  oould  not  bear — **  her 
voice  breaking  here 

like  a  ware  on  the  loneUest'reach  of  land, 

her  blue  eyes  holding  in  their  depths  a  passion 
I  could  not  have  dreamed  would  trouble  eyes 
of  azure,  ever. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know  this,*'  I  answered;  glad 
from  my  soul  I  could  give  this  little  joy  to  one 
whose  innocent  love  for  the  betrothed  of  an- 
other had  been  kept  down,  battled  nobly 
against,  but  never  vanquished.  ''  Migor  Hol- 
yoake  gave  me  her  note  to  read.  She  ba»  never 
loved  Am;  and  for  three  years  she  has  loved — 
Leopold  Traoey  I" 

''She  told  him  this  —  she  who  was  blessed 
among  women  because  of  the  love  of  his  kingly 
soul?  Ada,  the  girl  is  mad.  How  dare  she 
make  him  suffer." 

Her  voice^was  veiy  low,  but  her  eyes  flashed 
angrily. 


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284 


ARTHUB'B   LADT8  EOiiE   ilAQAZlNS. 


''She  ii  Tei7  selfish,  Kate/'  I  said.  «'8he 
would  dare  anything — ewrylAta^,  I  think,  for 
pake  of  her  own  gratifleatioo.  W4  most  help 
him  to  be  reooneiled,  my  darling." 

"O  Ada,  Ada,  70a  do  not  knowl.  I  esti 
not  see  him  now ;  for,  for — I  love  hha,  Ada. 
Yoa  will  hate  mei  I  hate  myself;  but  while 
the  was  his  betrothed,  and  while  his  Towa  to 
her  were  between  his  soul  and  mine,  I  felt  so 
safe,  you  know." 

''Yes,  dear,  I  know,"  smiling  upon  b 
through  my  tears.  "  I  have  known  ever  dnoe 
that  evening  of  our  sail,  when  you  thobgfat 
that  shipwreck  was  so  near." 

She  dung  to  me  shivering. 

"I  could  not  help  it  I  loved  him  yean 
ago.    I  shall  love  him  forever  and  forever  t " 

We  sat  there  in  the  gathering  shadows,  lis- 
tening to  the  surf  breaking  on  the  beach,  and 
wondering  how  it  was  ail  to  end,  this  tragedy 
of  hearts— and  seals  I 

Did  Ood  hear  the  questioning  of  our  livest 
"Was  His  hand  ontstretdied  for  the  bearing 
away  of  clouds  that  compassed  us  as  crari 
rocks  the  sea  f  What  waited  for  us  in  the  days 
whose  dawn  was  nearing? 

Far  off,  the  cry  of  the  waves  seemed  break- 
ing a  moment,  then  suppressed,  at  last  beaten 
back  to  silence  1 

And  so  we  sat  together-^wondering  how  k 
was  all  to  end. 

A  low  voice  startled  us : 

**Brefik,  break,  br»»k, 

On  thy  cold,  gny  rocks,  O  Seal 
But  the  beautiful  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me.** 

We  could  not  mistake  the  deep  pathetic 
voice.  No  one,  save  Major  Holyoake,  could 
say  those  sad  words  thus. 

"  But  a  day  with  a  tenderer  grace  may  dawn 
for  you,  for  us  all,  I  think,"  I  saad  quieUy. 

Then  there  was  silence  between  us,  silenoe 
unbroken  save  by  the  sound  of  wind  and  wave, 
and  a  murmur  of  voices  from  the  shadows  on 
the  beach. 

AuguMt  2Zd. — ^We  were  up  early  thb  morn- 
ing, and  off  for  a  sail  towards  the  sunrise. 

O  Amiel  did  I  miss  you?  Did  my  heart 
go  out  over  the  waste  of  waves,  like  a  swift- 
winged  bird,  till  it  found  its  resting-plaoe  be- 
side you  7  Did  something  stir  your  pulses  as 
a  light  wind  stirs  sometimes  the  strings  of  your 
idle  lyre?  Did  you  reach  your  hands  out 
vaguely  to  touch  my  hair — vaguely  and  vainly  ? 

Ah  roe,  the  days  go  by  so  slowly  I 

"  I  count  the  hours  one  by  one, 
Each  lengthening  moment  my  poises  tell  I " 
And  th^  days  go  by  so  slowly  I 


We  are  missing  Mi^  Holyoake. 

Did  I  tell  yoa  he  sailed  for  Europe  a  week 

He  had  sought  us  to  say  good-by,  the  night 
of  whkdi  I  wrote  yoa,  the  night  I  eanaot  soon 
forgeL 

"  Yoa  will  wish  me  him  wifogef**  he  said  to 
Kate,  breaking  suddenly  at  last  the  seal  of  the 
silence  between  us. 

She  lifted,  quickly,  a  white  face  from  off  my 
shoulder— lifted  it  into  a  gleam  of  gas-light 
that  made  its  pallor  fearftil  to  look  upon.  8he 
tried  to  speak,  btit  the  words  died  on  her  lipi 
in  a  feeble  moan,  and  the  fingers  in  my  pahn 
grew  suddenly  like  ioe. 

"*  Kate-Miss  Clayton  t  are  yoa  ill  ?" 

Major  Holyoake  bent  above  her  anxiously, 
forgetting  his  own  sorrow — bent  till  his  brown 
beard  toodbed  her  forehead.  The  ghost  of  t 
smile  stole  to  her  colorless  lips;  then,  woman- 
like, conquering  her  weakness,  she  arose  sad 
stood  before  him,  «iaaM^  that  he  might  net 
read  her  soul. 

***  Bon  voyage  V  and  wherefore^  Major  Hal- 
yoakef  Because  yoa  are  off  to  the  dab-room? 
Let  n>e  wish  yoa  only  good-night,'*  she  said. 

''Nay,  Miss  Clayton;  it  must  be  good-by. 
Before  you  are  up  to-morrow  I  shall  be  'offea 
the  billowy  sea.'  I  am  safifering  from  ennol 
A  year  in  the  old  world  will  give  me  strengil^ 
I  think.*' 

He  looked  so  desolate,  standing  there  by  the 
ivied  column,  his  face  toward  thorbeaeh,  where 
the  lingered-^-sbe  of  whom  he  had  made  sa 
idol,  only  to  find  it  day^so  desolate  thst 
from  my  heart  I  pitied  him,  thoogh  I  knew  t 
counterfeit  coin  had  slipped  from  his  gn/V^ 
knew  and  rejoiced  that  the  pore  gold  yet  re-  , 
niained  for  him — fiv  him  alone  in  tiaie  and 
in  eternity. 

Why  was  he  so  blind  ? 

And  so  he  went  from  us,  and  we  see  his  te    ' 
no  more.* 

Kate,  poor  child  I  sobbed  on  my  bosom  tbit 
night  as  if  the  light  were  all  gone  oot  from  her 
life,  sobbed  and  dung  to  me  the  same  as  thoogh 
I  were  not  powerless  to  comfort.  Poor  little 
Kate! 

We  take  her  with  as  everywhere— Hsiiy 
and  I. 

This  moming,  for  the  first  time  since  U^ 
Holyoake'e  departure,  something  like  the  old 
smile  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  a  ddicate  flosh 
brightened  her  paleefaeek. 

Perbape  it  was  the  clear  glad  morning  *Bd 
the  beauty  everywhere  on  sea  and  shore  ssd 
sky ;  perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  little  oote 


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WAIFS. 


285 


received  from  tlie  M^Jor  3re8terda7,  sent  b7  a 
ship  apoken  two  daja  from  shore. 

Ooly  a  few  linei;  he  was  quite  well;  would 
soon  be  able  to  buiy  his  sorrow  from  sight, 
aod  from  m^monf^  he  hoped;  and,  at  the  last: 
''Take  good  care  of  little  Kate.  She  seems 
&r  from  etrong;  and,  Ada,  I  think  the  angeh 
walk  with  her*  Do  not  let  them  cany  her 
away  before  I  retam,  which  will  h^"  wkm  I  \ 
iaoe  oemed  io  regret." 

The  pinamoret  and  Leopold  Traoey  left  two 
dajB  ago  fior  the  home  of  the  former  among  the 
Vixgima  hilla. 

There  ia  to  be  a  marriage  there  in  Novem- 
ber, and  Maud  will  be  Mn.  Traoey.  Let  us 
hope  for  her  a  perfect  realiaation  of  her  dream 
of  joy  I 

Over  the  waters,  aa  I  write,  lies  the  shimmer 
of  the  for,  full  rnoon^  Down  in  theharb<Mr  the 
white  mmilm  bend  in  the  stilling  breeae.  I 
can  hear  the  dropping  of  anchors-^and  now 
the  aaila  are  foUed.  The  sailors  leap  to  the 
shore — ^their  voiees  die  in  the  distance.  A.0Fass 
the  bridge  of  moonbeams  between  us,  and 
under  the  areh  ofHeavan's  sweet  silence^  I  say 
to  thee  good-night  I 

Jtme  6tk, — ^Not  quite  one  year  since  I  wrote 
jmt  fixat  /bom  " this  farH>ff  shore;''  jetmao^ 
baa  been  compassed  in  that  little  space^-eo 
muck  that,  remembering  it  all,  it  seems  to  me 
an  age.  Then,  Harry,  Kate  and  I  were  in- 
aeparable ;  today,  the  sea  sings  softly  in  my 
ear,  and  the  winds  have  no  tone  of  sorrow ; 
noithi  is  there  sorrow  in  my  heart,  although 
lam  alone. 

Kate — the  darling !  ia  bejosd  the  reach  of 
my  haiads — beyond  the  sound  of  my  voiee^  it 
may  be.  How  I  wish  I  knew  I  One  week  ago 
her  lifo  put  on  its  raiment  of  immortality,  her 
brow  ita  blossoms  of  beauty,  whose  bk)oming  is 
eternal ;  and,  though  I  call,  I  cannot  hear  her 
answer ;  fer  she  smiles  and  sings  **  Where  /or- 
eettihere^peaeeJ* 

She  was  ''only  tired"  to  the  last.  No  suf- 
fering, no  struggle,  thank  God  I 

When  I  knew  how  it  most  be,  I  wrote  to 
Mi^or  HolToAke : 

"Have  you  ceased  to  'regret?'  I  hope  so ; 
ibr  the  angels  will  carry  our  Kate  away  before 
yon  return,  if  your  coming  be  not  very  tooi*" 

He  came  immediately,  though  too  late  to 
save  the  young  life  so  entirely  his  own;  bnt 
all  the  sweet  spring  dajs,  when,  without^  all 
/tlungs  that  have  beauty  and  fragrance  aeemed 
resurrected  from  the  tomb  of  winter,  he  sat  be- 
tide her,  and  learned  Love's  lesson  over. 
She  "fell  on  sleep"  with  her  hand  in  his,  a 


"bride  with  the  vows  unsaid,"   her  mission 
well  accomplished. 

Yesterday  her  lover  said  to  me,  as  we  stood 
together  in  the  twilight  beside  a  mound 
whereon  were  violets  and  tiny  wood-anemones : 

"O  Ada,  1  loved  her— loved  her  so  1 " 

"Yes;  and  she  laved  you  all  her  liule  life. 
She  loves  you  still,"  I  said. , 

"Love  me?  O  Ada  I  the  stars  shine  thickly 
through  my  'cypress  trees;'  and  'among  the 
islands  of  the  blessed'  I  shall  know,  wUhker,'^ 
grander,  completer,  diviner  life'  Uyan  any 
dretaiedofhere." 

"That  is  your  hepe,  M^jor  Holyoake,"  I  an- 
swered, quoting  his  own  words.  "  Is  it  your 
Wie/?" 

"It  is  my  belief.  My  feith  is  once  again 
like  my  darUng's^  white-winged.  '  Because  He 
lives «0e shall  live  also;'  and  in  His  holy  of 
holies  He  keeps  for  me-nny  KateJ* 

"  Her  mission  was  to  save  your  soul  from 
shipwreck,  it  may  be.  The  sand-bars  of  doubt 
and  the  rocks  of  unbeliBf  are  many  in  the 
river  of  earthly  life ;  because  of  the  light  she 
held  for  you  and u holding ^-^lAe  oimI  naneaiher'-- 
you  will  gain  at  last  the  harbor  named  Eternal." 

He  smiled  feintly,  lifting  his  great  brown 
eyes— wherein  I  read  "a  poem  and  a  proph- 
eey"-— to  the  doods  above  which  the  moon  was 
climbing,  above  and  beyond  which  is 
**  The  wslting-ftiture's  mystery  1 " 
smiled  happily  even,  as  if  content  at  last. 

And  BO  I  am  alone. 

The  eea  sings  softly  and  solemnly,  but  not  in 
sorrow ;  neither  is  there  sorrow  in  my  heart. 

i»Me^  

Ak  Irish  servant,  who  was  ordered  to  ex- 
tinguish a  fire  with  the  water  in  the  kettle, 
very  innocently  replied : 

"  Sure,  air,  the  water  is  hot,  and  yon  cannot 
put  out  fire  with  hot  water." 

Another,  which  we  heard  a  few  days  ago,  is 
too  good  to  be  lost  The  servant  was  desired 
by  the  master  to  bring  up  the  radiehee. 

"The  radishes,  surely,  sir?" 

Some  time  elapsed,  when  she  returned  with 
two  china  plates,  and  said : 

"  Sora  a  red^dishea  can  I  find,  sir ;  but  won't 
the  white  ones  do  as  well  ?  " 

''Put  me  in  the  same  room,"  says  an  old 
philosopher,  "  with  a  number  of  young  girls, 
and  I  will  tell  you,  when  the  postman  knocks, 
merely  by  watching  the  looks  of  some^  and  the 
actions  of  others,  how  many  of  them  are  in 
love." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


OUR  FOBGOTTEN  BLESSINGS. 


BT  JA»^  O.  PS  XOnMBS, 


rl  OUT  eager  desire  to  obtain  tlie  good  thinge 
of  life,  the  power,  or  fame,  or  weaHh  which 
.  aeema  m>  glorious,  to  auked  to  promote  our 
happineai,  wo  often  appear  utterly  to  Ibtget 
that  which  we  now  poaflem,  to  look  with  dis- 
aatiafied  eyea  opon  our  humble  aarrotindinga, 
murmur  that  we  are^  not  00  proaperoua  aa 
others,  and  thoa  tfaougfatleaaljr,  yea,  wiokedlj 
ignore  our  many  priceless  blessings.  It  is 
said  that,  aaa  gentleman  waawailkiDg  Iheetreets 
of  at  dxjf  a  wiid«]ookiiig  -atmnger  approached 
him  and  said  t  "Did  70U  efvr  thank  God  l»r 
your  reason  f  '<No,"  replied  the  aatoniahed 
man.  "Then  do  it  at  ooee,  ibr  I  have  lost 
mine,"  replied  the  other,  aa  be  paased  on. 
How  reaaooable  and  jnat ;  yet  we  go  about  re- 
joicing that  onr  af^ai^  are  not  only  natarally 
balanced,  but  that  refinement  and  education 
have  given  them  additional  luatre ;  that  noble 
thoughts,  high  ipcaolves,  and  atining  enthusi- 
ai^ms  are  there  engendered  whidi  lead  to 
efficient  aetionr--*pexliapa  withemi  one. thought 
of  the  devout  thania  we  owe  our  Creator  for 
this  great,  thia  unspeakable  blessing.  Another 
boon  which  is  worth  more  than  laada,  or  gold, 
or  precious  stores — that.for  which  many  i^mil- 
lionaire  would  gladly  give  half  of  his  possea- 
aiona--is  good  health. 

"A  sound  mind  or  a  90und  body"  &r  out- 
weighs in  true  value  the  wealth  of  an  Astor  or 
fame  of  a  Webster,  were  ihey  compared,  and 
yet  hundreds  of  its  fortunate  possessors  never 
realize  it  They  may  be  obliged  to  toil  even 
to  weariness  for  their  daily  bread,  and  often 
with  feelings  of  envy,  and  sometimes  hearts 
full  of  bitterness  toward  Providence,  look  upon 
those  whose  every  want  is  supplied  as  they  sit 
with  hands  idly  folded,  and  forget— oh,  how 
strangely  I—  their  yaluable  and  vigorous  health. 

God  IB  often  thanked  for  spared  lives;  this 
we  are  not  so  prone  to  overlook  in  our  djcead 
of  the  King  of  Terrors ;  but  health  seems  so 
small  a  blessing  till  we  are  deprived  of  it.  As 
we  groan  and  toss  upon  beds  of  weary  pain, 
and  remember  the  healthfbl  days  >fer  which  we 
gave  no  thanks,  tears  of  {ienitence' moisten  the 
cheek  as  we  resolve,  if  it  be  oooe  more  m- 
stored,  that  health  shall  never  again  be  eountad 
among  our  forgotten  blcasings. 

Home  and  friends!  how  sweet  the  names, 
(286) 


yet  6eq«eBtly  so  unappreciated.  Instead  of 
being  made  a  Joy  and  comfort^  the  dements  of 
a  little  heaven  here  below,  homes  are  oftm 
the  merest  boardiagiplaoes,  and  the  finends 
whoaiebeowl  to  oa  by  the  moat  sacred  ties  ef 
nature,  mere  objecta  for  the  reoeption  <ef  pent- 
np  wrath  and  the  raaoor  of  aonred  diapositions. 
Yet  when  such  is  not  the  case,  bat  homes  an 
pleasant  and  Itienda  kind  and  loving,  we  may 
fail  to  consider  them  among  our  most  cher- 
ished blesB&ngs.  Oormeana  may  be  limited, 
and  the  hamble  abode  whioh  aheltets  os  re- 
ceive no  admiring  glance  from  the  passer4»y, 
yet  if  love  dwell  therein  we  should  thank  God 
that  omr  lot  is  nnlike  that,  of  the  homeless  waa- 
derer  who  aang  with  snob  pathedo  sweetnev 
of ''Ko  place  like  home.''  If  the  ai^dien  ef 
oar  late  war  learned  nothing  aloe,  we  thiak 
most  of  them,  during  those  lour  bloody  yean^ 
learned  to  appreciato  the  homes  and  friends  to 
whom,  tlas  i  so  many  were  destined  neverto 
retnm.  fiaad  one  who  was  really  almoat  a  model 
son  and  brother:  *'I  •often  thoqgbt  when  m 
the  rebel  prison,  hal^fed  apon  wretched  food, 
how  I  had  soaaetiaBes  foond  Aelt  at  home  bi- 
eaoae  things  were  not  qnite  to  my  liking;  bat," 
he  concluded  nmst  emphatically,  ^I  mode  np 
my  mind  then,  that  if  I  ever  got  back  alive,  I 
aeser  wonld  daaoeh  a  thing  again.^  And,  ak, 
what  pity  fer  the  sick  and  wounded  and  dying  I 
aa  they  lay  suffMring  with  no  loviiig  hand  of 
kindred  to  admimster  to  their,  every  want" 

Dear  reader,  let  us  learn  wisdom  from  these 
terrible  eaqMrienocs,  aAd  thank  the  All iFathcr 
with  warmest  fervor  for  the  great  hlessiog  of 
home  and  frioids  1  To  litre  in  this  age  ef 
ChrisCian  eiviliaation,  thia  oentoiy  of  wonder- 
ful inventions,  rapid  advancement  in  ail  that 
tends  to  lighten  the  bnrdens  ol  mankind  and  to 
promote  a  general  diffusion  of  knowledge^  is  a 
hieesing  of  unlimited  value.  When  we  read 
of  the  terrible  bariiariliea  of  onr  anceston, 
scarce,  handreds  of  years  ago,  and  see  those 
prantised  .eveh  now  among  pagan  nations^  can 
we  bat  exclaim, ''Thank  the  dLoard  for  birth  m 
a  Christian  bad,  fer  the  privilege  of  liviag 
and  acting  in  thoae  glorious  daja  of  progvm 
and  referm  P' 

Especially  slioald   imsmm  give  her  nuft 
eameat  meed  of  gratitnde  when  she  recalls  the 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    FAMOUS   8TBEET,SIQN8   IN    TEE   SAND 


L 


287 


position  her  sex  occupies  to-daj,  as  compared 
with  thjkt  of  the  post,  and  among  those  who 
worship  *'  many  and  strange  gode/' 

The  last  hoon  of  wliio&  i^e  .shall  spealc  so 
far  exceeds  all  others,  so  surelj  belongs  to  all 
mankind,  though  thej  be  lacking  in.  maw3^. 
tilings  else,  that  words  are  but  feeble  for  its 
dtMsriptioo.  It  is  the  gift»  yes,  ih«  unspeak- 
ahle  gift  of  God,  etenml  \\H  throogh  Christy  .^f 
Him  *'  Who  Hmtb  d^liTored  ms  inini  the  pow«r 
of  darkneasy  and  hath  translated  ns  into  the 
kingdoot  of  hia  dear  Son."  Ajsd  .shall  this  jbe 
uiaooeptedy  be  oounted  9a  nai^ght,  and,  fill  up 
the  measure  of  wr  JorgoUmhUmmgi^f 

A  FAMOUS  Street 

rPO  lovers  of  literature  Fleet  Btceet  is  of  >  all 
X  streets  in  London  perhaps  the  most  en- 
deared, bjr  reason  of  its  menwneSb     Here^  or 
in  its  immediate  neighborhood,  lived  Bicbard- 
ffon,  Dryden,  Shadwell,  Locke,  Qoldsmilh  and 
Johnson.     The  great  leoeicographer  indeed 
dong  to  the  vicinity  as  Ihoagh  he. had  the 
intention  of  immoiiMiung-  it  At  If o;  4  Qough 
Sqnare  he  composed  most  of  his  dictiotiRry, 
and  then  lest,  hi^  belofxsd  ^'Iret^  f  at  No.  7 
in  Johnson's  Court  he  lived  tweWs  yean;  and 
at  No.  8  in  Bolt  Cburt  hei  died.    Johnson's 
Court  and  Boswell's  Court  were  dot  so  niimed, 
hoitever,  on  his  aooovnt,  o^  ont^that  df 'his 
biographer,  but  after  much  older  godfiitheito. 
Li  Wine  Office  Oourt^  cteae  toShooiLana,  took 
place  that  lamous  scene  betsMen   hint  and 
Qoldsmkh,  which  ended  in  the  ''Yioi«  of 
Wakefieldl"  b^ng  seid  for  six^  pounds,  and 
Cbldy'a  ''rating  his  landfaulj  in  a  high  tone" 
for  having  arrested  him  for  rent    Of  the  inns 
in  Fleet  Street,  Johnsonwas  a  great  patron. 
The  Mitre,  the  Bainbow,  and  Devil  •  TiMvem 
all  did  duty  for  him  as  a  dub,  though  he  Imk! 
hb  blub  beside.     At  the  last-named  place, 
idext  to  the  Child's  Banking-hoose,)  whidh 
had  once  been  his  namesake,  Ben  Johnson's 
favorite  resort,  he  put   into  exeoetioa 'his 
mad  prank  of  sitting  up  all  night  with  a  parfy 
of  friends  to  oelehrafe  thethifthiof  MrB.'Lenox's 
first  novel.    ''About  5  Johnson's  face  shone, 
we  are  told,  wkh  meHdiin^fplonder,"  tlmigh 
the  rest  of  th^  oompsny  were  dead  |||yit»^the 
iact  being  that  the  doctor  was  used. to  flash  di- 
▼emion^,  and  did  more  for  the  Utessjry  reputa- 
tUm  of  taven^s  than  ai^  man  be£»re  or  ainiee.-t- 

■»■  ■ 

SocHT  deeds  are  better  than  nnprofitalil^ 
wcfda.  .  '    ; 


SIGNS  IN  THE  HAND. 

It  is  said 

!    '.  ''XHttlpx^oAs^iise  now  and  then 
Is  relished  by  the  wisest  men." 

The  old  science  (7)  of  palmUtry,  once  so  idhch 
in  vogue,  is  now  of  little  use  save  to  amone 
social  covipanies  of  yonpg  -  people.  An  fx- 
chaoge  sajs : 

A  little  work  on  ''Modern  Palmist^" 
brings  t^gjether  a  large  amount  of  amusii^ 
gessiis  but  we  oanaotsaor  how  much  you  must 
belieVe  of  .it»  .      -  .    . 

If  i^e  paln^  of  the  hand  be  long,  and  the 
fingiers.  ifiell  proportioned,  etc^  not  soft,  but 
rather  hard,  it  denotes  the  person  to  be  ii^- 
nionsyr changeable,  and  given  to  theft  and  vice. 

If  the  hfinds  be  hollow,  solid,  and  well>kn^t 
in  the  j^intey  it  predtets  long  life;  but  if  aver 
thwarted)  then  it  denotes  short  life. 

Obeierve  the  finger  of  Mevcnrfr-that  is  tiie 
little  finger ;  if  the  end  of  it  exceeds  the  joint 
of  the  fiiiger,4ach  a  man  will  rule  in  bis  house, 
aadlubvi&#iU  be  pleasing  and  obedient  ^ 
faim ;  bat  if  \X  be  short,  and  does  not  reach  the 
'  joint»  he  will  havei  a  shMw,  and  f  he  will  be  boss. 
'  Broad  nails  show  thd  pemdn  to  be  bashful 
and  terfiil,  but  of  a  geotl6  nature. 

Narrow  nails  deiioteth^  petson  to  be  Inclined 
to  misohief  and  to  do  ii^uiy  :te  his  neigh- 
borSi 

liong  nails shoif  a  person  jto  be  good*natuied, 
but  distruMfol,  and  joving  redonciliation  rather 
than  dififiirenees. 

Oblique  naSk  signifj  deceit  and  want  of 
courage* 

litt^  jround  mils  denote  ebstlnacy,  anyer, 
and,  hatoed. 

If  they  Are  oreoked.at  the  extremitj,  they 
show  pride  and-  fiercanescu 

Boaad  nails  show  a  choleric  person,  jet 
.soon  recQDoiled;  honesty^  a  lover  of  secast 


i^fay  nails  denote  the  psrapi^  to  be  mild  in 
temper,  idle  and  lasy. 

Pale  and  black  nails  show  the  person  to  be 
vergr  deeeitful  to  his  nei^bor„  and  subject  to 
many  diseases 

Bed  and  marked  nails  signify  choleric  and 
martial  nature^  aod  as  many  little  marks  es 
these  are  speak  so  many  otU  desires. 
.  Ferha^  you  will  daim  .that  this  is  not  all 
"  aonsense»"  aiter  ell»  It  is  safe  to  say,  at 
leeet,  that  mental  qualities  do  sometimes  re- 
port themselves  outside  dn  the  formation  of 
Ih^  body.  For  maroS,  quMicBf  we  sl^Quld 
vSH^her  look  atthe  iaoe  tha^  the  hands. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


HAED  WORDS  AND  KIND  WORDS. 


BT  T.  8.  AjmniA. 


PlCOB  bowman  wm  a  telf-wUled,  Ul- 
natored  man,  who  endearored  to  make  hk 
way  in  the  world  hy  driying  ererything  before 
him.  Weak,  timid  people  yielded  to  his  im- 
perative manner,  when  in  contact,  and  aToided 
him  as  much  as  powible;  hut  every  little 
while  he  ran  against  aome  one  not  inclined 
to  be  hectored  or  crowded,  and  then  came 
trouble. 

In  his  family,  Jacob  endeavored  to  rule 
with  the  strong  hand.  Feeling  and  impnlse, 
not  reason  and  Judgment,  gmded  his  ocmdnct 
here.  No  law  of  love  held  his  children  in 
obedience  to  hie  will ;  he  governed  by  the  law 
of  force. 

Men  like  Jacob  Bowman,  who  are  always 
ready  to  strike  hard,  cannot,  asoally,  bear  the 
weight  of  a  feather  in  rttarn.  He  was  paitio- 
nlarly  sensitife  toaehing  the  deportment  of  ! 
others  toward  himself^  and  quickly  reeented  a 
dictatorial  word.  This  sensitiveness  was  in- 
herited by  his  children,  who,  in  oonseqnenoe, 
were  huit,  from  the  beginning,  by  his  harsh 
way  of  treating  them,  and  led,  from  natural 
impulse,  to  resist  his  will.  80^  there  were 
trouble  and  mismle  at  home — disrsgard  of 
authority  and  disrespect  on  one  side,  and  the 
strong  arm  that  s<mglMt  to  enforce  anbmission 
on  the  other.  Alas  I  in  such  a  contest  there  is 
no  hope,  for  the  power  b#  resistanoe  gtfows 
stronger  daily,  and  will  10  strengthened  in  like 
ratio  with  power.  Jacob's  ohildren  had  no 
love  for  their  father,  and  so  obedience  rested 
only  in  fear,  i^id  as  fear  ceased  to  hold  them 
in  submission,  restraint  grew  weak.  As  for 
his  wife,  she,  poor  woman  I  had  grown  very 
00)^  toward  her  husband.  For  years,  urang  a 
common  and  very  significant  form  of  expres- 
sion, she  had  hardly  dared  to  say  that  her  soul 
was  her  own.  But,  at  the  tftaae  of  wKioh  we 
write,  nearly  fifteen  years  from  her  marriage 
day,  she  wae  beginning  to  react  with  some 
finnness  upon  her  hnsband'e  dictatorial  ways, 
and  to  treat  him  with  an  indifference  partion- 
larly  annoying  to  one  of  his  temperament. 
He  could  not  storm  her  into  svbmissioii  as  Ip 
earlier  times.  The  sharp  word,  or  h^h  com- 
mand, fell  impotent  from  his  lips,  not  moving 
her  from  the  way  in  which  she  cared  to  walk. 

Mr.  Bowman  was  beginning,  about   this 
(288) 


period,  to  feel  greatly  discouraged  in  rv^lrd 
to  his  children.  They  did  not  grow  more  obe- 
dient as  years  added  strength  to  bodies  and 
minds.  Hts  word  was  not  obeyed  as  lav, 
though  spoken  in  thunder  daily.  They  did 
not  shrink  from  his  person,  nor  tremble  at  hii 
threat.  They  were  immovable^  though  he 
stormed.  He  raged,  aad  they  heeded  hbn 
not  He  punished,  and  they  were  not  re- 
strained. 

One  day,  on  retamiog  home,  Mr.  Bowman 
was  met  by  his  wife  In  the  hall.  She  wai 
pale,  aad  in  tears.  Laying  her  hand  upon  hk 
arm,  she  drew  him  into  the  parlor. 

«' What  ails  youf  he  askad,  in  his  osoal 
roQgli  way,  yet  betraying  the  anxiely  that 
came  over  hie  mind. 

"6lt  do#ii,  and  I  wUl  tell  you." 

Mr.  Bowman  eat  doam.  There  was  a  jMa- 
liarity  in  Itls  wife's  voioe  that,  unoonaeioQity, 
subdued  Miai* 

*<Lu'aar«ia  broken.'' 

"Whatr 

"  Her  arm  is  brokeu  badly ;  but  Dr.  EdulkdB 
has  been  here.'' 

•*  Ln's  arm  broken  I  How  did  that  happehf 

''Jacob  direw  her  down  stairs." 

Mr.  Bowman  started  to  hie  foet,  his  face  b- 
•tantly  flushed  with  auger,  and  advandag  oae 
foot  said,  in  a  threatening  tone:  ^Whsae 
iaher 

Mrs.  Bowman  aroae,  and  laying  her  haad 
mi  him,  bore  himtgeatly  back.  Buthewaaia 
no  yielding  mood. 

"*  Why  did  he  throw  her  down  stain  r  Be 
turned  toward  his  wifo,  steraly  confroadiv 
her. 

''Sit  down  again.  It  la  no  time  for  angrf 
punishment  I  think  there  has  been  enoogh 
of  that  You  must  try  some  other  way, 
Jacob." 

Mr  Bowman  eoUld  hardly  credit  hia  aenaii* 
Waia  tkin  his  wife  speaking  7  How  dared  abe 
addreag  him  thnst  In  very  snrpiiae  he  sat 
down ;  and,  in  so  dding,  felt  a  loss  o(  power  ai 
between  himself  and  the  woman  he  had  to 
long  treated  as  an  instrument  of  his  wilL 

"  Lu  and  Jacob  had'  a  dispute  this  moraiDg 
vbout  some  dried  grasses  that  have  been  in 
Jacob's  room.    Ln  took  them  away,  and  J|pob 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


EARD    WORDS   AND    KIND    WORDS. 


seo 


irdered  her,  in  his  Hl-natured  style,  to  pnt 
hefli  back  again,  which  she  refused  to  do. 
rhej  had  a  little  scuffle  before  you  went  out 
bis  morning,  and  you,  instead  of  patiently'' — 
Ifr.  Bowman  started  and  frowned,  but  bis  wife 
kept  on — '^  aaoertaining  which  was  right  and 
rhich  wrong,  canght  bold  of  Jacob,  and,  after 
ibaking  him  yiolently,  threatened  to  flog  him 
if  be  said  another  word  about  the  grasses. 
Now,  La  had  taken  what  did  not  belong  to 
ber ;  and  if  yoa  had  adjudged  the  case  rightly, 
you  woald  have  compelled  her  to  gire  up  the 
grasses  to  Jacob." 

Mr.  Bowman  frowned  still  more  hearily. 
His  wife  did  not,  however,  heed  bis  threaten- 
ing &oe.  She  had,  all  at  onoe^  risen  to  a  place 
of  thought  and  action  abore  him,  and  freer 
pulses  were  throbbing  along  her  reins. 

"  But,*'  she  went  on,  **  having  wronged  Jacob 
in  your  decision,  and  encouraged  Lu  to  persist 
in  her  invasion  of  bis  rights,  continued  strife 
between  them  was  inevitable.    My  word  was 
powerless.     I  could  not  exert  the  influence  re- 
quired to  produce  harmony,  because  your  de- 
cision in  the  case  excited  the  worst  feelings  on 
both  sides.     All  the  morning  they  wrangled 
and  contended ;  notwithstanding,  in  the  hope 
of  turning  their  thoughts  away  from  the  cause 
of  trouble  I  took  the  grasses  from  Ln  and 
locked  them  up  in  one  of  my  drawers.    When 
anger  is  in  the  heart,  there  is  no  lack  of  causes 
fer  dispute.    About  two  boon  ago,  Jacob,  in 
coming  down  stairs,  Ibond  Lu  sitting  with  her 
feet  across  one  of  the  steps.    He  ordered  her, 
in  an  angry  tone,  to  get  out  of  bis  way;  but 
sngry  words  never  Ining  ready  obedience.'' 
6he  spoko  something  slower,  and  paused  a  mo- 
ment, in  order  that  the  sentiment  might  have 
feroe  in  the  mind  of  her  husband.    "Lu  did 
not  stir.    Jacob  stormed ;  but  made  no  impres- 
aon  on  the  iU-natored  girl.    Then  be  threat- 
ened to  pitch  ber  down  stairs ;  and  she  laughed 
at  bim  with  tantalizing  scorn.    I  heard*  what 
was  passing,  but,  before  there  was 'time  for 
interference,  Jacob  had  thrown  himself  madly 
Ugainst  his  sister,  tearing  ber  hold  from  the 
rsiling  to  which  she  clung,  and  bearing  her 
headlong   down  sturs.     They  fell  together, 
Jacob  receiving  a  cut  on  his  forehead,  and  Lu 
breaking  her  arm." 

Mrs.  Bowman  paused  and  looked  calmly  at 
ber  husband.  She  had  drawt^  up  her  person 
.  as  she  spolce,  with  the  dignhy  of  conscious 
power,  and  now  waited  for  the  response.  Mr. 
Bowman  had  a  new  consciousness — the  con- 
BdoQsness  of  inferiority  to  Ms  wife.  She  had, 
in  soberly  spoken,  direct  language,  accused  bim 


of  wrong;  and  he  could  not  gainsay  her  words. 
Nay,  self-accusation  was  giving  them  addi- 
tional force. 

'^This  is  a  sad  business,"  be  remarked,  in  a 
troubled  voice,  as  be  began  moving  up  and 
down  the  room.  **  Poor  child  t  did  she  sufier 
much?' 

"  Yes,  until  the  doctor  came.  After  the  ann 
was   set  the  pain  subsided.     She  is  asleep 


*  Where  is  Jacob?" 

*'In  bis  room." 

''Did  you  punish  him?" 

"Why  should  I  punish  him?"  asked  SIm. 
Bowman. 

"Why  I"  Mr.  Bowman  knit  his  brows.  Hh 
wife  seemed  trifling, 

"  PaniBhment,"  said  Mrs*  Bowman-Estill  re- 
taining ber  calmness,  and  speaking  as  from  a 
conscious  right  to  speak — all  of  which  was  new 
to  ber  husband,  and  not  a  little  ponling — ^"  is  • 
for  reformation.  You  have  punished  Jaceb  a 
great  many  times,  and  often  severely,  for  the 
very  wrong  done  this  morning." 

"Did  he  ever  break  Ln's  arm  before?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Bowman,  with  rlsiog  irritation. 

"  That  was  a  consequence  of  his  fruit  The 
wrong  lay  in  his  anger  toward  his  sister,  and 
his  purpose  to  annoy  her.  Now,  I  am  very 
sure  that  punishments  will  not  go  to  the  seat 
of  this  disease.  You  cannot  alter  the  mental 
disposition  by  inflicting  pain  cm.  the  body. 
Fear  may  restrain  the  outward  act  for  a  time, 
but  the  will  to  do  wrong  is  nnimpaired.  Yom* 
dealing  with  Jacob,  if  yon  deal  with  him  at  all, 
must  go  deeper  then  this,  ar  you  bad  better 
leave  him  to  bis  own  consciousness— leave  him 
to  the  pity  and  self-reproach  that  are  now  in 
his  mind,  and  not  to  the  anger  and  self-justifl- 
cation  that  must  take  their  place  if  you  inflict 
punishment." 

Ah,  if  Mrs.  Bowman  had  been  courageous 
enough  to  speak  after  this  manner  to  her  hi»- 
band  years  before,  how  different  might  have 
been  his  rule  in  the  household !  He  was  not 
blmd  to  reason ;  only  Mind  when  permitted,  as 
be  bad  been  at  home,  to  let  selfish  impufiw 
govern,  instead  of  a  wise  and  loving  regard  to 
bis  wife  sfid  children.  The  unreflective  tyrant 
bad  put  aside  the  man,  and  ruled  In  his  stead ; 
and  the  sensitive,  yielding,  almost  timid  wife, 
bad  permitted  this  rule,  until  indiflerence  of 
bis  regard,  uniting  with  an  aroused  sense  of 
duty,  brought  forth  timely  words  that  could 
not  be  gainsaid.  In  her  calm  speedi,  and  well- 
considered  language,  Mrs.  Bowman  csmpletely 
subdued  ber  husband.    There  was  no  settiipg 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


290 


ARTHUB'B   LADTS  MOME   UAQAZINE. 


«de  her  appeal.    Its  Belf-«vident  tbroe  dig- 
armed  him. 

'<  What  am  I  to  doV*  he  asked,  in  a  weak, 
beyrildered  waj,  his  thought  beating  abont  in 
the  ohscttritj  oi  a  aewly  opening  state  of  mind. 
""hiy  hudiaiid/'  said  Ifn.  Bowman,  whose 
heart,  as  she  saw  the  strong,  self-willed  mafi 
giving  way  before  her,  softened  with  a  new> 
born  afiectioB,  instead  of  .thrilling  with  tri- 
umph, as  many  an  oppressed  wife's  heart  would 
have  thrilled — she  spoke  with  nnwonled  len- 
derness^'*  My  husbuid,  love  is  all  powerful ; 
and  loving  words  are  often  magical  in  force, 
where  angry  speech  would  die  weakly  in  the 
utterance.  You  have  not  always  thought  of 
Ihis.  Oh,  for  my  suke,  and  for  the  sake  of  our 
children,  will  you  not,  in  the  time  to  oom/i, 
speak  more  kindly,  more  gently?  Give 
loving  tones  and  pleasant  word^  always, 
always  my  husband." 

The  voicei  which  lost  its  firmness  ere  half  * 
this  sentence  was  spoken,  broke  down  utterly, 
closing  in  a  Bob,  as  Mrs.  Bowman  laid  her  face 
against  her  husband's  bosom.  Oh,  as  his  arms 
closed  around  her,  tightly,  tightly,  dmwing  her 
to  his  heart,  what  joy  ,was  hers  1  It  seemed  as 
if  there  had  been  a  sadden  birth  into  a  new 
UCe. 

Beyond  this,  she  did  not  speak,  ^hen  and 
there,  admonition  died  on  her  tongue.  She 
had  borne  her  husband  upwards,  through  a 
sadden  strong  impulse,  to  a  higher  plane  of 
thought  and  perception,  and  then  withdrew 
her  uplifting  arms,  that  he  might  dwell  there 
in  his  own  ooasciousness. 

**  Will  you  not  speak  moie  kindly,  and  more 
gently  7"  Could  Mr.  Bowman  ever  forget  this 
iq>peal?  No — no!  What  a  revelation  of  his 
home-life  did  it  bring  1  How  it  turned  for  iiim, 
leaf  after  lea^  in  the  book  of  memory,  bring- 
ing shame  and  self-reproaches  I  '*  More  kindly 
and  more  gently."  WiuU  stinging  aocusation 
was  in  the  words  I 

Mr«  Bowman  was  humbled  and  subdued; 
end  this  state  was  favorable  to  right  percep- 
tions. He  not  only  saw  dearly,  but  resolved 
soberly  and  in  earnest.  How  must  the  gentle 
heart  of  his  wife  have  sufiiered  through  long 
yean,  thus  to  react  against  him  now — thus  to 
c|cy  out  for  him  to  stay  the  iron  Jbeel  with  which 
he  had  wellnigh  crushed  out  all  love  firpm  his 
home  I  He  was  oppressed,  humiliated,  pained 
at  the  revelation  of  himself  that  was  suddenly 
presented. 

When,  half  an  hour  afterwards,  Mr.  Bow- 
man went  to  Jacob's  room,  where  the  boy  had 
reared  on  hearing  him  enter  the  house,  an4 


where  he  had  been  watting  a  summons,  and 
steeling  his  mind  for  the  Qndnrance  of  punish* 
jnent^  he  found  the  boy  cold,  calm,  and  hard 
of  aspect  There  was  some  fear  in  his  coun- 
tenance ;  but  no  sign  of  sorrow  for  the  evU  be 
had  done. 

**  Jacob,"  said  Mr.  Bowman^  speaking  b  a 
low,  serious  voice,  but  without  a  sign  of  anger, 
as  he  sat  down  by  the  bqy,  **  how  did  it  happen 
that  you  threw  your  sister  down  stairs?" 

This  manner  of  addrees  was  so  dififereDt 
from  what  Jacob  had  anticipate<]^  that  hii 
aspect  changed  instantly.  His  pale,  cold 
face  flashed ;  his  eyes  grew  moist ;  his  lip6 
quivered. 

"  I  was  angry,  father."  He  oould  say  so 
more.  The  floodgates  of  feeling  were  too  Bod- 
denly  opened.  He  covered  his  face  with  hit 
hands  and  wept 

**  I  thought  it  was  so,"  replied  Mr.  Bowman, 
withont  manifesting  displeasure.  "I  knew 
that  my  son  oould  not,  if  in  his  right  mind, 
do  any  iiarm  to  his  sister.  See  what  a  dread- 
ful thing  anger  is !  You  ^oould  have  stepped 
over  her  feet?" 

"  YeB»  father,  I  could  have  done  it"  Jw»b 
looked  up»  with  his  eyes  still  running  o?er 
with  tears.  "But  she  put  herself  in  my  waj 
•on  purpose,  and  I  fielt  so  angry  that  I  woald 
have-done  almost  anything,  I  don't  care  whca 
I'm  mad." 

''Thttt's  a  dreadful  thing,  Jacob  I  Don't 
care  when  you  are  angry!"  Mr.  Bowoua 
spoke  Yerj  giwirely. 

''I  can't  help  it,  father,"  said  the  boy,  in  a 
pleading  voioe.  "  I'm  always  sorry  after  1^ 
been  angry.  But  when  anybody  speaks  in  a 
rough  way,  or  does  wrong  diings  to  me,  I  fire 
right  np^  and  don't  care  what  I  say  or  do.  I 
wish  it  wasn't  so;  indeed  Z  do,  &ther.  Tm 
sorry  -almost  every  day.  I  want  to  do  rigkt 
and  please  you;  but  it  seems  as  if  I  can't  0 
dear!  O  dear  I"  And  the  unhappy  child 
covered  lus  £ace  again,  and  wept  bitterly. 

Was  not  Mr.  Bowman  rebuked  by  this?  A 
yes  I  He  saw  dee|>er  into  that  boy's  oonacioQB 
life  than  be  had  ever  seen  before^  and. under- 
stood how  painful,  yet  how  fruitleaa,  had  been 
his  strife  with  inherited  passions  sad  impulBei* 
Instead  of  helping,  he  had  -hindered ;  wound- 
ing instead  of  healing  whenever  his  hand  w»» 
outstretched* 

"  We  must  let  the  past  go,  Jacob,"  add 
Mr.  Bowman,  speaking  with  encouragement. 
''There  has  been  too  much  wrangling  and 
jarring;  too  much  loud  and  harsh  talking  to 
one  another.    It  does  no  good;  it  makeBOO 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


8EA-8ICKNE8S    CUBABLE.—FAMILY   MATTERS. 


291 


one  happier.    Kindness  is  better.    Don't  you 
think  80?"     • 

"Yes,  father.  Bat  nobody  is  kind  in  tlfia 
honse.'* 

'*  Nobody  V  There  was  a  shade  of  surprise 
in  Mr.  Bowman's  roioe. 

*<Moth«ri8kind,bnt^'   The  boy  hesitated. 

"But  what,  Jacob f 

"  She  can't  do  much.** 

Mr.  Bowman  did  not  reply  for  Rome  time. 
That  last  sentence  suggested  many  thoughts. 

"  If  each  one  is  kind,  then  all  will  be  kind," 
liud  the  father.  "  Won't  you  try  to  do  your 
part?" 

''Yes,  I'll  try ;  but  I  know  I  shan't  always 
SDcceed." 

*' Shall  I  tdl  you  how  you  may  succeed?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"If  proToked  to  utter  a  harsh  word,  at  any 
time,  hold  it  back  resolutely  until  you  IM 
calm  enough  to  speak  a  kind  word." 

Jacob  sat  evidently  revolving  the  proposi- 
tion in  his  mind,  in  order  to  see  its  entire 
force. 

''If  all  would  do  that,"  he  said,  his  thought 
gobg  from  member  to  member  of  the  inbar- 
mooions  iamily.  His  tone  was  slightly  de- 
spondent. 

"If  you  wiU  do  it,  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Bow- 
man, with  a  frankness  that  surprised  even 
himselt  Jacob's  countenance  lighted  instantly. 
**  Are  you  ready  for  the  trial  of  this  new  way  in 
the  &mi]y  T' 

"Yes,  father;  but  you  mustn't  be  dis- 
couraged with  me  if  I  fail  sometimes.  It  is 
not  an  easy  way  for  a  boy  like  me,"  answered 
Jacob,  with  a  hopeful  smile  gibtening  through 
tears. 

All  rested  with  the  father,  and  well  did  he 
understand  it.  Fully  awakened  as  he  now 
was  to  his  past  errors  and  future  responsibili- 
ties, he  was  in  little  danger  of  stepping  down 
from  the  higher  place  to  which  he  had  as- 
cended. His  interview  with  Jacob  surprised 
and  instructed  him  almost  as  much  as  his  in- 
terview with  his  wife.  He  saw  that  he  had 
not  acted  in  his  family  as  though  each  indi- 
vidual possessed  a  separate  life  and  conscious- 
ness that  must  be  developed  in  some  sort  of 
freedom,  and  grow  to  strength  and  beauty  in 

the  sunshine.  Command  and  obedience  in- 
volved the  whole  rule  of  family  government; 
and  under  this  rule  he  hadwelliugh  destroyed 
the  bonds  of  filial  and  fraternal  love.  But 
under  the  new  rule,  inaugurated  in  pain  and 
self-hamiliation,  there  was  a  joyful  promise 
that  did  not  die. 


For  a  man  of  Mr.  Bowman's  inherited  and 
acquired  disposition,  the  government  of  kind- 
oesa  was  a  difllculb  order  of  home  administra- 
tion. Old  states  were  constantly  recurring, 
and  hard  words  instead  of  gentle  remonstrances 
forever  rising  to  bis  tongue.  But  instructed 
through  that  single  lesson,  so  forcibly  given, 
he  could  not  forget  his  duty ;  and  so,  through 
resolute  self- compulsion,  held  on  in  the  better 
way — blessing  instead. of  cursing  the  human 
souls  which  God  had  placed  in  his  keeping. 

!!■»■     II       

SEA-SICKNESS  CURABLE. 

A  DISTINGUISHED  physician  writes:  "  I 
am  much  surprised  at  the  opinion  which 
is  so  prevalent  of  the  utter  ixkcurability  of  sea- 
sickness. I  believe  the  opinion  to  exist  among 
the  non-medical  part  of  the  community  from 
sheer  ignorance^  and  amongst' sea-going  sur« 
geons  from  a  supineness  in  applying  remedies 
—a  fault  to  which  they  are  rather  too  subject. 
In  the  greater  namber  of  instances  I  allow  the 
stomach  to  discharge  its  contents  once  or  twice, 
and  then  if  there  is  no  organic  disease,  I  give 
five  drops  of  chloroform  in  a  little  water,  and, 
if  necessary,  repeat  the  dose  in  four  or  six 
hours.  The  almost  instant  effect  of  this  treat- 
ment, if  coi\joined  with  a  few  simple  precau- 
tions, is  to  cause  an  immediate  sensation,  as  it 
were,  of  warmth  in  the  stomach,  accompanied 
by  almost  total  relief  of  the  nausea  and  sick* 
ness,  likewise  curing  the  distressing  headache, 
and  usually  causing  a  quiet  sleep,  from  which 
the  passenger  awakes  quite  well." 

FAMILY  MATTERS. 

A  FOND  father,  blessed  with  eleven  chil^ 
dren,  and  withal  a  very  domestic  man, 
tells  this  story :  One  afternoon,  business  being 
very  dull,  he  took  the  early  train  out  to  his 
happy  home,  and  went  up  stairs  to  put  the 
children  to  bed.  Being  missed  from  the  smok- 
ing-room, his  wife  went  up  stairs  to  see  what 
was  going  on.  Upon  opening  the  door,  she 
exclaimed:  "Why,  dear,  what,  for  mercy's 
sake,  are  you  doing  7" 

"  Why,"  said  he^  "  wifey,  I  am  putting  the 
children  to  bed." 

"Yes,"  says  wifey,  "but  thia  la  not  one  of 
ours." 

Sure  enough,  he  had  got  one  of  the  neigh- 
bors' children  all  undressed,  and  he  had  to  re- 
dress it  and  send  it  home.  After  that  he  left 
family  matters  to  Ms  wife. 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


LAY   S3ERMOIsrS. 


THE  LIVING  VINK 

THE  voioea  of  the  fingers  had  fallen  lower  and 
lower  on  the  last  words  of  the  anthem,  until 
they  died  away  into  silence.  In  the  hush  that  fol- 
lowed the  mueic,  the  minister  arose,  and,  in  clear 
tones  that  penetrated  to  every  part  of  the  large 
auemblage,  announoed  his  text: 
"  I  am  the  vine ;  ye  are  the  branches." 
Be  was  a  stranger  to  nearly  every  one  present; 
a  man  far  beyond  the  middle  period  of  life,  in 
whose  floely-eut  face  you  saw  the  ohisel-marks  of 
flti  invisible  sculptor,  who  had  wrought  fh>m  within 
oatward,  through  many  years,  steadily  changing 
Its  natural  expression  until  it  had  oome  to  bear  a 
diviner  image.  You  saw  in  It  patience,  submission, 
trust,  faith,  hot^e,  love.  He  had  passed  through 
fiery  trials — that  you  saw ;  had  been  winnowed  in 
tribulations ;  through  denials  of  self,  and  depend- 
Qoce  on  Ood  for  help,  had  ov^roome  the  man  of 
sin. 

All  this  you  saw  when  he  arose,  opened  the 
Bible,  and  let  his  calm,  strong  eye  look,  it  seemed, 
into  your  eyes;  and  when  his  voice,  strangely 
musical  and  clear,  floated  down  to  you  in  the  re- 
markable words  of  his  text,  you  felt  that  no  com- 
mon utterances  would  fall  from  his  lips.  And 
they  were  not  common,  but  instinet  with  a  spiritual 
life  and  power  that  held  his  audience  in  almost 
breathless  attention,  and  sent  many  of  them  home 
in  a  state  of  inward  disquietude  such  as  they  had 
not  known  for  years. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  follow  minutely  his 
eaegesis,  but  rather  to  show  its  effeot  upon  at  least 
Qoe  of  his  hearers,  an  active  member  of  the  church, 
fltid  one  in  good  standing — ^a  man  who  had,  up  to 
this  time,  to  use  his  own  words,  felt  that  his  **  call- 
ing and  election  were  sure." 

The  preacher  made  no  display  of  fine  words  or 
oareMly  wrought  sentences;  and  yet  there  was  the 
truest  oratory  in  his  sermon  I  had  ever  heard ;  for, 
with  a  kind  of  magnetic  power,  beheld  the  hearer's 
thought  like  a  mirror  to  bis  own,  reflecting  every 
shade  of  meaning. 

I  give  one  of  his  most  impressive  passages,  but 
oannot  give  the  force,  and  bearing,  and  tones,  as 
he  rested  one  arm  on  the  pulpit  and  loaned  over 
toward  the  people. 

"What,  my  brother,  my  sister,"  he  said,  "is 
your  ground  of  hope  ?  Let  us  see  to  this,  for  it 
oonoems  yo«  deeply.  There  is  a  true  ground  of 
hope  and  there  is  a  false  ground  of  hope.  Alas 
for  you,  or  for  me,  if  it  be  false !  I  asked  a  good 
brother  how  he  was  saved,  and  he  answered :  '  By 
the  blood  of  Christ.'  'True,'  I  said;  'but  how 
does  the  blood  of  Christ  save  you  V    '  He  shed 


His  blood  on  the  cross ;  He  died  that  I  might  Itvs; 
it  is  the  blood  of  Christ  that  elaansai  urn  from  all 
sin;  I  have  believed  in  Him  and  am  joinad  te 
Him/  WM  his  reply.  That  brother  waa  anre  sf 
Heaven.  He  was  tranquil  and  confident.  Aai 
yet,  marking  his  daily  life,  I  saw  that  the  spirit  of 
Christ  was  not  in  him.  He  lived  only  for  lumsell 
There  is  something  wrong  here.  The  brother  wai 
right  in  saying  that  we  are  saved  by  the  blood  of 
Christ,  but  in  some  fatal  error  as  to  the  applica. 
tiOB  of  that  blood  to  the  purifloation  of  his  life." 

What  a  deeply  penetrating  power  wan  in  ths 
preacher's  voiee,  so  low  and  earnest,  as  he  added 
these  words:  "Brethren,  I  look  into  jour  up- 
turned  faoes  and  my  heart  goes  out  to  70a  ten- 
derly, yearningly.  All  of  these  human  sonir 
moving  onward  toward  eternity  without  rest  or 
pause,  and  each  one  going  to  its  place— to  the 
habitation  it  is  daily,  hourly,  momentarily  build- 
ing for  itself  out  of  its  ruling  thoughts  and  par- 
poses  I  It  is  not  your  words  nor  your  deeds  that 
determine  the  character  of  your  habitations  ia 
eternity,  but  the  heart-love  tiiat  gives  quality  to 
those  words  and  deeds.  If  love  of  self  and  the 
world  rule  your  lives,  then  you  are  building,  as 
matter  how  externally  religious  yon  may  be^  s 
dark  and  miserable  dwelling- plaoe— a  prison-hous 
in  whioh  to  dwell  forever.  'How  shall  I  knew 
this  ?'  Methinks  I  hear  the  question  rising  to  my 
ears  from  many  voices.  I  read  it  in  many  earncec 
eyes.  By  self-examination,  I  answer.  Not  a  self- 
examination  that  reaches  no  farther  than  wordi 
and  acts,  or  even  to  states  of  feeling  toward  the 
church  and  its  ordinances.  It  must  go  far  deeper 
than  this,  penetrating  to  your  very  ends  and  pa^ 
poses  in  everything  of  life,  and  finding  out  whether 
in  your  family,  in  your  social,  and  in  your  buiineei 
relations,  you  are  thinking  and  willing  a  perpetoal 
self-service,  or  regarding  from  a  religious  principle 
your  neighbors'  good  as  your  own. 

"  I  oannot  declare  unto  you  any  false  dootriss 
of  salvation.  I  dare  not,  in  smooth  and  floweiy 
speech,  cover  up  the  eternal  truth,  and  lull  yoo 
into  a  fatal  security.  If  yeur  lives  be  given  to 
self-service  alone,  no  outward  worship  can  Mve 
you.  You  feed  the  poor  and  clothe  the  naked,  sad 
come  to  the  sanctuary  and  the  altar  in  rain." 

He  raised  himself  slowly  from  his  leaning  posi- 
tion and  stood  erect  in  the  pulpit  The  itillneif  j 
was  so  great  that,  with  shut  eyes,  you  would  bsre 
thought  the  house  empty.  Then  came  a  breath- 
less pause  and  a  waiting  for  the  coming  seatneea 
He  looked  down  at  the  open  Bible  and  read: 

"  If  a  man  abide  not  in  me,  he  is  oast  forth  u  s 
branch,  and  is  withered."  ' 

A  strange  thrill  passed  through  ne.    There 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


LAY  SERMON 8. 


293 


I  to  my  thought  a  new  and  deeper  meaning  In 
tfie  text  than  I  had  ever  perceived. 

**  Cbriet  is  the  living  vine/'  the  preaober  said, 
letfking  forward  again,  and  resting  hia  arm  on  the 
pulpit  as  b«fore.  "  He  called  the  wine  of  the  Pass- 
over, whioh  He  drank  with  His  disciples,  His 
blood,  and  said  unto  them,  'Brink  70  all  of  it.' 
And  in  another  place,  '  Except  je  eat  the  flesh  of 
Ihe  Son  of  Man,  and  drink  His  blood,  ye  have  no 
life  in  you.'  x  fear  tbe  brother,  of  whom  I  spoke 
Jist  now,  did  not  understand  how  it  is  that  the 
blood  of  Chriat  cleanses  from  sin.  I  think  he  had 
some  ragne  idea  of  external  washing,  instead  of  in- 
ward puri&oation.  The  blood  symbolised  by  wine 
most  be  drank,  and  go  into  the  spiritual  circula- 
tion, and,  with  the  body  of  the  Lord  that  is  eaten, 
create  a  new  man  under  the  process  of  spiritual 
assimilation. 

"  The  remarkable  vine- symbol  of  our  text  is  in 
perfect  harmony  with  this  symbol  of  our  Lord's 
body  and  blood  that  must  be  taken  as  spiritual 
food  and  drink.  We  must  be  engrafted  into  tbe 
living  -vine.  '  I  am  the  vine,  ye  are  the  branches.' 
How,  in  what  relation  does  a  branch  stand  to  a 
vine?  In  that  of  a  recipient  of  life.  If  the 
Lord  be  as  a  vine,  and  we  tbe  branches, 
then  the  Lord's  life  must  flow  into  our  souls, 
as  the  life  of  the  vine  flows  into  its  branches. 
If  wo  eat  and  drink,  spiritually,  tbe  Lord's  body 
snd  blood,  then  we  grow  into  His  likeness  and 
image  through  the  reception  of  divine  food — 
become  new  creaturea— He  in  us  and  we  in  Him. 
And  it  is  the  same  if  we  are  engrafted  onto  the  Liv- 
ing Vine.  In  these  two  beautiful  symbols,  so  full 
«f  divine  meanings,  like  things  are  signified. 

''  I  will  not  dwell  upon  this.  I  am  sure  its  force 
•nd  signifioanoe  are  dear  to  every  one  now  under 
the  sound  of  my  roiee.  Its  practical  bearing  on 
aaeh  of  us  is  the  solemn  consideration  of  the  hour. 
"Are  you»  my  brother,  my  sister,  a  branch  of  the 
Living  Vine,  organically  united  and  receiving 
life  from  the  Vine? — or,  only  adjoined,  holding 
m  by  external  filament  and  bandings,  and  draw* 
ing  your  life  as  of  old  from  the  world  ?  If  the 
Lord's  life  be  in  you,  through  a  perfect  union,  it 
will  be  a  pure,  a  loving,  a  sweet  life  of  charity. 
Ton  will  be  more  concerned  about  others  than 
yourself;  and  the  spiritual  interest  of  all  man- 
kind will  lie  near  your  heart,  as  they  are  ever  near 
to  the  Lord  in  whom  you  live  and  move  and  have 
your  being ;  and  the  fruit  you  bear  will  be  good 
deeds ;  not  constrained,  not  to  be  seen  of  men,  not 
from  duty  even,  but  from  love. 

"  There  are  three  kinds  of  union  with  this  Vine — 
ecternal  only,  partial,  and  perfect  I  have  already 
referred  to  the  first  and  last  Let  me  dwell  for  a 
few  moments  on  the  other,  for  I  think  we,  as  pro- 
fessing Christians,  are  most  concerned  here.  The 
partial  union  is  that  in  which  a  few  fibres  of  the 
•oul  have  made  a  connection  with  the  Vine,  while 
it  still  draws  its  chief  nutrition  from  the  old  unre- 


generate  source.  By  means  of  these  fibres,  the 
life  of  the  Vine  flows  in  but  feebly  and  inade- 
quately, causing  the  branch  to  blossom,  it  may  be, 
and  give  promise  of  fruit  And  now  it  is  that  the 
old  life  and  the  new  life  meet  in  momentous  con- 
flict ;  the  new  trying  to  subdue  the  old,  and  make 
the  wild  branch  now  grafted  upon  the  Living  Vine 
bear  heavenly  fruit  Alas  for  you!  alas  for  mel 
if  the  old  life  prevaU,  and  the  branch  remain 
barren.  If  it  bear  not  fruity  it  will  be  'taken 
away,'  'oast  forth,'  ' burned  1'  No  faith  in  a 
risen  Saviour;  no  trust  in  the  redeeming  blood ; 
no  reliance  on  a  heart-change  dating  from  a  well- 
remembered  hour,  will^ avail  us  anything,  if,  for 
lack  of  fruit,  we  are  severed  from  the  Vine !  If 
the  Lord's  life  be  not  in  us,  we  are  none  of  his ; 
and  his  life  is  not  a  selfish  life,  but  a  life  of  love, 
perpetually  going  out  of  himself  and  seeking  to 
bless  aU  living  things." 

I  can  give  but  feebly  the  force  of  that  sermon. 
All  the  power  of  the  preacher's  yoice  and  manner 
is  lost  in  my  weak  transfer  of  a  part  of  the  dis- 
course. The  people  went  out,  at  its  close,  with 
thoughtful  faces,  silent,  or  speaking  to  each  other 
in  subdued  voices.  He  had  struck  a  key  that 
rang  out  to  many  a  note  of  warning  —  start- 
ling them  from  a  pleasant  dream  of  false  se- 
curity. 

I  called  in  the  evening  to  see  a  friend,  the  mem- 
ber of  the  church  to  whom  I  referred  in  the  be- 
ginning, and  found  him  much  'disturbed  in  mind. 
He  was  alone  in  hi:*  parlor,  walking  the  floor, 
when  I  entered. 

**  I  saw  you  at  church  this  morning,"  be  said, 
almost  abruptly,  after  a  few  words  of  greeting. 
•*  Yes,  I  was  there." 
«  f¥hat  did  you  think  of  the  sermon?" 
**  The  preacher  gave  us  true  doctrine,"  I  an- 
swered. 
The  light  went  out  of  his  face. 
"Then,"  he  said,  in  a  solemn,  half-frightened 
way,  **  I  have  been  building  my  house  on  sand  I 
The  hope  that  was  in  me  has  died.  The  Saviour 
in  whom  I  trusted  has  hid  himself  from  me,  and  X 
am  of  all  men  most  miserable.  I  called  myself  an 
heir  of  God,  and  joint  heir  with  Jesus  Christ;  but 
this  doctrine  of  an  organic  union  with  the  Living 
Vine,  and  a  new  life  therefrom,  shows  me  that  £ 
am  still  an  alien,  and  not  a  son.  Looking  down 
into  my  heart,  as  I  have  looked  to-day,  and  in  all 
honesty  to  myself  reading  its  feelings  and  pur- 
poses, scanning  its  raling  ends  of  life,  I  find  that 
I  love  myself  more  than  I  love  my  neighbor.  X 
find  that  I  am  not  a  new  man  in  Christ  Jesus  our 
Lord,  but,  under  all  my  professions  and  outward 
observances  of  religious  duties,  unchanged  in  my 
love  for  the  things  of  this  world,  and  as  eager  in 
their  pursuit  from  selfish  ends  as  I  ever  was.  Ah, 
my  friend!  this  is  a  sad  discovery  for  one  to 
make,  after  resting  for  twenty  years,  as  I  have 
done,  in  the  vain  belief  that  I  had  washed  my 


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294 


ARTHUR' 8   LADT8   EOMB   MAGAZINE. 


robes  and  made  them  wlilto  in  ttae  blood  of  tbe 
Lamb." 

"Yea  write  bitter  tbings  against  yourself,"  I 
aniwered. 

"  Not  80.  Tbe  Lord  bas  giten  me  "a  rereilatidn 
of  myself— has  opened  a  window  tbrotigh  wbieh  I 
can  look  into  my  heart  and  see  its  unchanged  oon- 
dition.  And  at  the  same  time  he  has  made  the 
fact  that  I  am  not  drawing  my  life  ttom  Him  as 
the  Living  Vine  clear  acr  the  sun  at  noonday^  Caa 
I  ever  forget  these  words  of  the  preacher,  that 
smote  npon  my  heart  like  a  sentence  of  condemna- 
tion from  Heaven :  '  If  the  Lord's  life  be  in  yon 
tlut>iigb  a  perfect  union,  it  will  be  a  pare,  a  loving, 
a  sweet  life  of  charity.  Ton  will  be  more  con- 
cerned about  others  than  yonrself ;  and  the  spirit- 
ual interests  of  all  mankind  will  be  near  your 
heart,  as  they  are  ever  near  to  the  Lord,  in  whom 
ye  live  and  move  and  have  your  being;  and  the 
fhiit  yon  bear  will  be  good  deeds,  not  constrained 
nor  to  be  seen  of  men,  nor  from  duty  even,  but 
f^om  love.'  Not  so  am  I  conjoined  to  the  Lord, 
but  only  adjoined,  as  a  branch  newly  grafted,  and 
not  yet  id  union  with  the  vine  and  drawing  its  life 
therefrom. 

««I  am  the  vine,*  he  went  on.  'Ye  are  the 
branches.  He  that  abideth  in  me  and  I  in  him 
the  same  bringeth  forth  mach  fruit ;  for  without 
me  ye  can  do  nothing.  If  a  man  abide  not  in  me 
he  is  east  forth  aq  a  branch  and  is  withered.' 
Hundreds  of  times  have  I  read  these  sentences, 
but  never  saw  their  meaning  until  now.  If  I  am 
truly  engrafted  onto  the  living  Vine  a  new  and 
heavenly  life  will  pervade  my  whole  being.  I  will 
be  changed  as  to  my  inmost  desire,  and  the  fruit  I 
bear  will  be  the  fruit  of  jui tice,  for  the  Lord  is 
just,  and  of  mercy,  for  he  is  merciful." 

He  paused  and  walked  the  room  again,  his  man- 
ner siill  greatly  disturbed. 

<<  Are  you  not  a  just  and  a  merciful  man?"  I 
asked. 

"  No ! "  he  answered,  almost  passionately,  turn- 
ing upon  me  a  face  so  full  of  pain  and  self-accusa- 
tion that  I  was  moved  at  his  state  of  mind. 

"  No ! "  he  repeated.  "  I  have  been  all  over  it 
since  I  heard  that  sermon.  Just !  Why,  sir,  only 
yesterday  I  sold  a  customer  an  article  at  a  fair 
living  profit,  as  the  phrase  is,  and  cheated  him  in 
the  transaction." 

He  looked  stem  and  angry.  "Yes,  sir,"  he 
added,  "  cheated  him !  I  had  blundered  in  buying 
the  goods,  and  I  let  him,  in  his  ignorance,  repeat 
the  blunder,  and  suffer  the  loss  I  should  have 
borne.  Was  that  jast?  Was  it  from  the  Lord's 
life  in  me,  or  f^om  the  old,  selfish,  un regenerate 
life  that  I  did  this  ?  Merciful !  A  poor  struggling 
tradesman,  whom  I  had  known  when  we  were 
boys,  pleaded  with  me  last  week  to  consider  his 
case  and  abate  in  his  favor  a  business  custom  of 
our  bouse.  But  I  answered,  *No,  John,  I'm 
sorry  for  you,  but  there  are  no  friendships  In  busi- 


ness.' And  he  went  away  looking  so  sad  and  die- 
appointed  that  his  face  haunted  me  in  deep  all  the 
next  night  Would  the  Lord  have  so  turned  away 
fVom  one  of  his  poor,  weak,  pleading  ereabuM  ?  I 
think  not 

« Ah,  my  fHend,**  he  went  en,  hfa  volee  ftJltfeg 
to  a  moumftil  Sftrain,  "if  this  were  all.  If  only 
in  these  two  instances  I  had  failed  In  being  j«sl 
and  meroifVil,  my  case  would  not  slww  ao  bad  ■■ 
aspect  But  in  the  whole  of  my  businesB  and 
social  life  I  see  self  and  the  world  dominant,  and 
the  Lord  and  the  neighbor  put  down  to  a  lowfr 
place.  I  seek  justice  and  mercy  for  m  jeelf,  bet 
am  little  concerned  'how  it  fa^  with  anetbw. 
This  daily  life  in  the  world,  this  oonfliot  of  Inter- 
ests, this  buying  and  selling,  and  getting  gain- 
here  it  ie  that  we  must  look  for  the  test  of  disei- 
pleshipi  If  we  are  Chsist's,  then  the  spirit  of 
Christ  will  be  in  us,  and  we  will  be  just  in  all  oai 
dealings  with  men,  as  He  is  just,  merciftil  as  He 
is  merciful,  pure  as  Ho  is  pure.  Religion  will  net 
be  a  thing  kept  for  Sunday,  nor  worship  the  niete 
singing  of  "hymns  and  saying  of  prayers.  The 
very  essence  of*  our  religion  will  be  a  life  squared 
by  the  Golden  Rule,  and  our  worship  the  saerifiee 
of  selfish  desires  on  the  altar  of  daily  use." 

Then,  after  a  long  pause,  and  with  a  deep  fa- 
spiration,  my  friend  said,  with  a  solemnity  I  shall 
not  soon  forget : 

"  God  helping  me,  I  will  seek  for  a  tme  and 
more  perfect  union  with  the  Living  Vine.  In  this 
mere  adjunction  I  am  in  perpetual  danger  of  being 
cast  off  as  unfruitful.  I  would  have  an  orgaaie 
union,  that  the  Lord's  life  may  flow  in  perpetually, 
changing  the  old,  mean,  selfish  life  into  a  pure  and 
generous  and  loving  life." 

He  grew  calmer  after  this.  The  pidnfVil  eonvie- 
tions  and  stern  judgments  of  himself,  through 
which  he  had  passed,  eleSed  in  4  deep  and  earnest 
resolution  to  seek  for  a  truer  union  with  the  Lord 
as  the  Living  Vine. 

I  have  met  him  often  since  then.  The  words  ef 
the  preacher  fell  upon  good  ground,  and  though  be 
knows  it  not,  they  have  brought  forth  a  precious 
harvest.  t.  s.  a. 

The  Bright  Sidb. — Look  on  the  bright  sMa 
It  is  the  right  side.  The  times  may  be  hard,  hot 
it  will  make  them  no  easier  to  wear  a  gloomy  and 
sad  countenance.  It  is  the  sunshine,  and  not  the 
cloud,  that  makes  the  flower.  The  sky  is  blue  ten 
times  where  it  is  black  once.  You  have  troubles, 
so  have  others.  None  are  free  firom  them.  Trou- 
bles give  sinew  and  tone  to  life — fortitude  and 
courage  to  man.  That  would  be  a  dull  sea,  and 
the  sailor  would  never  get  skill,  where  there  wa" 
nothing  to  disturb  tile  surface  of  the  ocean.  Whst 
though  things  looh  a  litUe  dark  t  the  lane  wBI 
turn,  and  night  will  end  in  broad  day.  There  it 
more  virtue  in  one  sunbeam  than  a  whole  hemis- 
phere of  clouds  and  gloom. 


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THA.T  PHELAN  BOY. 

«T  MBS.  C.  9.  K.  DATI8. 

TADDY  WM  a  naughty  boy  that  day.  Not  even 
grandma  oouM  make  an  ezonse  for  him, 
though  she  dropped  a  great  many  stitcheff  in  the 
bright  little  stocking  she  was  knitting,  and  was 
seen  to  wipe  her  speotaeles  over  and  over  again, 
and  all  because  she  felt  so  badly  about  her  naughty 
little  grandson. 

Well,  perhaps  I  had  better  tell  you  the  whole 
story. 

Mrs.  Ives — that  was  Taddy's  mother's  name— sat 
sewing  in  the  parlor,  and  it  was  such  a  fine  day 
that  the  window  was  thrown  open  to  let  in  the 
sweet  breath  of  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  orchard, 
and  the  English  violets  that  grew  by  the  front 
door.  Grandma  sat  knitting  in  her  easy  chair, 
and  Hose  was  painting  a  bunch  of  trailing  arbutus, 
that  looked  so  like  the  real  flowers  it  seemed  as 
though  you  could  pick  them  up  from  their  bed  of 
soft  green  moss.  It  was  so  quiet  in  the  room  that 
they  all  heard  what  Taddy  said,  and  saw  what  he 
did,  though  he  neither  heard  nor  saw  them.  He 
was  Bitting  on  the  grass  plot  just  in  firont  of  the 
parlor  window,  this  little  five-year-eld  Taddy, 
eating  buns,  and  singing  to  himself  a  song  that 
he  had  eaught  fh>m  his  eoUege  brother  Tom, 
and  his  mother,  listening  to  the  pleasant  roice, 
thought  within  her  heart  Hjf  Taddff  ia  a  darling  ! 
when  the  gate  opened,  and  Jimmy- Phelan  eame 
whistling  up  the  walk,  with  his  old  straw  hat 
perched  on  the  back  of  his  head.  Jimmy  was  the 
fourth  son  of  Mike  Phelan,  who  worked  in  gentle- 
men's gardens  up  and  down  the  street. 

"  I  wish  that  boy  wouldn't  eome  here,"  said 
Kose,  glancing  up  from  her  painting,  as  she  heard 
the  click  of  the  gate.  **1  shomldn't  think  you 
would  allow  it,  mother.  Just  hear  Taddy  call 
out, '  UuU9  /*  He  is  getting  so  rude  that  I  am 
really  ashamed  of  him,  and  that  Phelan  boy  is 
horrid!" 

'■  Hullo  V*  said  Jimmy,  quite  unconscious  of  the 
young  lady's  criticism ;  and  thrusting  his  handa 
into  his  trousers  pockets,  he  stood  facing  Taddy 
and  the  open  parlor  window.  He  was  a  wretched- 
looking  Utile  ragamuffin,  there  was  no  denying  it, 
but  then  you  could  not  wonder  if  you  would  only 
bear  in  mind  that  there  were  eleven  more  at  home 
as  like  him  as  the  peas  in  the  pod  are  like  each 
other,  to  be  fed  and  clothed ;  and  the  best  that 
Mike  and  his  wife  could  do,  the  feeding  and  cloth- 
ing were  of  the  poorest  and  scantiest  kind.  In- 
deed I  suppose  there  was  seldom  a  day  that 
Jimmy's  stoat  little  bread-basket  was  comfortably 
filled. 

Tul..  XXXVin.— 20. 


"What  is  it  ye're  eatin',  Taddy  V*  asked  Jimmy^ 
after  the  salutations. 

"Buns,"  said  Taddy,  "with  turrents  in 'em  !" 

"Gi' me  a  bite?" 

Taddy  shook  his  curly  head.  "I  tan'L  They'd 
make  you  awful  sick !" 

"  I'll  risk  it,"  said  Jimmy,  holding  out  a  very 
dirty  hand.     "  Just  one  small,  little  bit,  Taddy  ?" 

"  No,  JitV  /"  answered  Taddy,  his  mouth  crammed 
full.  "  My  mother  puts  pizon  in  her  buns,  an'  if 
you  eat  just  a  teenty  tinty  bit  it'll  make  you  sick 
so  you'se  have  to  have  the  doctor,  and  take  pale- 
golic." 

"That's  a  lie!"  said  Jimmy,  stoutly.  "Why 
don't  they  make  you  sick,  if  they're  pizon  ?" 

"  Oh,  tause — tause — tause  I'm  my  mother's  boy, 
and — what  did  you  tome  in  here  for,  Jimmy  Phe- 
lan ?  Nobody  told  you  to,  an'  I  don't  want  you, 
'n  I  wish  you'd  go  oflf  where  you  b'long !" 

"  I  want  something  to  eat,"  said  Jimmy. 

"Then  go  'n  ask  your  mother,  way  as  I  do." 

"  She's  off  a-washing,  %nd  there  ain't  nothing  in 
the  cupboard,  'cause  I  looked ;"  and  Jimmy  sat 
down  on  the  grass.  "Justle'me  have^ne  bite, 
Taddy." 

"  No,  I  ahall  not  t  VLj  mother  don't  'low  me  to 
give  buns  to  Paddies  !" 

"  Theodore  Ives,  you  naughty  boy,  come  into 
the  house  this  minute !"  cried  Rose,  putting  her 
head  out  of  the  window. 

"  No  I  sha'n't,"  answered  Taddy  composedly. 

"Then  I  will  come  and  fetch  you,"  said  Kose. 

"  You  tan't  do  it,"  r^oined  Taddy,  planting  his 
heels  in  the  grass,  and  throwing  a  defiant  look 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Just  one  mite  of  a  piece,"  coaxed  Jimmy,  in 
a  whisper;  "there's  such  a  splendid  currant.** 

"I  won't  do  it,"  said  Taddy,  very  red  in  the 
face,  "  'nd  if  you  don't  go  off  I'll— I'll— I'll  double 
up  my  fist  to  you,  I  will,  just  like  that .'"  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  he  hit  Jimmy  a  blow  on  the 
side  of  his  head  that  knocked  off  his  old  straw 
hat. 

"  Taddy,  I  want  you !"  It  was  Mrs.  Ives  that 
spoke  this  time,  sorrowfully  enough  you  may  be 
sure,  and  the  little  boy,  hastily  swallowing  the  last 
remaining  bit  of  his  last  bun,  got  up  reluctantly. 

"What'U  the  do  to  ye?"  asked  Jimmy,  under 
his  breath. 

Taddy  shook  his  head. 

"  Is  it  because  ye  boxed  my  ears,  d'ye  s'pose  ?" 

"  Yes  j  and  I  guess — I  guess  she  heard  me  say 
pition  and  Paddjf  /" 

"That's  nothin'." 

"Yes  it  is;  my  mother  don't  'low  me  to  say 
wrong  stories,  and  call  names." 

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ABTEUR'8   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


Taddy  came  into  th«  parlor  hanging  his  head  so 
low  that  the  curls  fell  over  his  face  like  a  yellow 
▼eil.  Rose  looked  at  him,  and  said,  severely  :  "  If 
you  were  my  boy,  I  would  poniflh  yon  with  a  stick, 
Taddy  Fres!' 

Mamma  did  not  speak,  but  held  out  her  hand  to 
her  naughty  boy.  0  rand  ma  almost  always  had 
an  excuse  ready  fur  his  little  misdemeanors,  but, 
lookiDj;  askance  through  the  veil  of  curls,  Taddy 
saw  ber  kind  face  quite  turned  away  from  him, 
and  not  a  single  word  did  she  speak  in  bis  de- 
fence. 

'*  Rose,  tell  Jimmy  Phelan  to  go  to  the  kitchen 
door,  and  ask  Jane  for  pome  dinner,"  said  Mrs. 
Ives.  Then  ehe  took  a  white  handkerchief  out  of 
her  pocket  and  put  it  over  Taddy 's  mouth — that 
naughty  mouth  that  had  told  lies  and  called  names. 
Taddy  stood  quite  still  wbile  sbe  tied  the  comers, 
but  his  bekrt  beat  very  loud  and  fast,  and  tears 
gathered  in  his  blue  eyes.  He  had  never  been 
punished  like  this  before,  and  it  seemed  the  very 
worst  punishment  in  the  world.  After  the  knot 
was  tied,  Mrs.  Ives  pointed  to  "Taddy's  naughty 
corner,"  and  thither  the  little  culprit  went,  and 
sat  down  on  a  cricket,  with  his  face  to  the 
wait 

"That  Phelan  boy  won't  go  for  his  dinner, 
mother;  he  says  he  wants  to  come  in  and  speak  to 
you." 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth,  Jimmy 
Phelan  had  pushed  past  Rose,  and  thrust  bis  un- 
combed red  head  in  at  the  parlor  door. 

It  was  a  grand  room  Compared  with  the  old 
smoky  kitchen  where  the  tribe  of  Phelan  cooked, 
ate,  and  slept.  Jimmy  bad  seldom  seen  a  grander, 
but  that  was  nothing  so  long  as  poor  Taddy  sat 
sobbing  in  a  corner  of  it. 

**1{  you  plase,  mum,"  he  stuttered;  "if  you 
plaie— " 

"What  is  It,  my  boy?" 

"  If  you  plase,  mum,  I'd  wish  ye  wouldn't  tie 
up  his  mouth  with  a  ban 'hereby;  he  didn't  mean 
no  harm,  Taddy  didn't;  and  I'd  just's  lieve  he'd 
call  me  Paddy 'snot!" 

Now  I  call  that  noble  and  generous  in  Jimmy 
Phelan,  who  had  never  been  taught  either  good 
manners  or  morals,  and  whose  veins  were  full  of  i 
hot  Irish  blood.  But,  in  spite  of  his  pleading, 
Taddy  had  to  be  punished  as  he  deserved.  He 
was  kept  in  the  corner  until  the  tea-bell  rung,  and 
as  soon  as  tea  was  over  Margaret  took  bim  up 
stairs.  When  his  mamma  went,  as  usual,  to  get  a 
good-night  kiss  from  her  boy,  she  found  him  sit- 
ting up  in  his  bed,  as  penitent  and  disconiolate  a 
speck  of  humanity  as  ydu  ever  saw. 

"  I've  been  a-thinking,  mtother,"  he  said,  with  a 
pitiful  sob,  as  she  sat  down  beside  him;  "I've 
been  a-thinking." 

"Of  what,  my  child?" 

"Why,  s'posin'  if  that  Phelan  boy  was  your 
boy,  an'^I  was  Mike's  boy,  how  I'd  like  it  if  he 


doubled  up  his  flst  to  me,  and — "  Here  was  sa> 
other  sob. 

"And  what,  Taddy  r 

"  And  I've  been  a-thinking  what  if  your  boj 
wouldn't  gi'  me  just  one  little  least  speck  of  buu 
with  turrents  in  'em,  and  said  they  was  pixon, 
when  they  was  smacking  good,  and  called  m 
Pad— Pad— Pad-dy,  I  don't  b'lieve  I'd  ask  yoa  to 
take  olT  the  pot-han'ktsif  off  his  month,  not  if  he 
had  it  on  twenty  weeks !" 

"  Then  you  are  sorry  that  yon  were  so  nnkmd  lo 
Jimmy  ?*' 

"  Tes,  I  am— honest  and  tme !"  and  the  blii 
tjtg  looked  straight  up  into  mamma's  faee. 

"  And  wh»t  about  the  wrong  stories,  Taddy  T 

"  I  told  Ood  all  'bout  that  'fore  yon  came  sp 
stairs ;  we've  got  it  all  settled,  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
give  Jimmy  Phelan  my  cent  piece  to  buy  somefts' 
that's  lots  better'n  buns— TORPSDOBS !"  ssd 
Taddy  ducked  his  head  under  the  sheet  with  tbi 
biggest  sob  you  ever  heard. 

So  that  was  the  way  he  made  friends  with  Jim- 
my Phelan,  and  even  sister  Rose  thought  it  good 
'  and  sufficient  proof  of  repentance,  for  it  was  tbo 
same  as  if  Taddy  had  given  up  all  claim  to  Powth 
of  July. — Chrittian  Union, 


A 


THE  LITTLE  RED  ROSE. 

BT  OOBTBB. 

BOT  eanght  sight  of  a  roM  in  a  bower- 
A  little  rose,  slyly  hiding 
Among  the  boughs ;  oh  I  the  rose  was  bright 
And  yonng,  and  it  gliminered  like  morning  ligkt; 
The  nrehin  sought  it  with  haste ;  'twas  a  flovtr 
A  ehild,  indeed,  might  take  pride  in-— 
A  little  rose,  little  rose,  little  red  ro«e^ 
Among  the  bushes  hiding. 

The  wild  boy  shouted,  "  I'll  plnek  the  rdie, 
Little  rose,  vainly  hiding 
Among  the  boughs;"  but  the  little  rose  spoke^ 
"  I'll  prick  thee,  and  that  will  prove  no  joke; 
Unhurt,  oh  I  then  I  will  mock  thy  woes. 
Whilst  thou  thy  folly  art  chiding." 
Little  rose,  little  rose^  little  red  rossj, 
Among  the  bushes  hiding  I 

But  the  rude  boy  laid  his  hands  on  the  flowsr, 
The  little  rose  vainly  hiding 
Among  the  boughs ;  oh  I  the  rose  was  eaaght! 
But  it  turned  again,  and  pricked  and  fought, 
And  left  with  its  spoiler  a  smart  from  that  hour, 
A  pain  forever  abiding ; 
Little  rose,  little  rose,  little  red  rosci, 
Among  the  bushes  hiding. 

Sbarch  thine  own  heart    What  paiaeth  tb«s 
In  others  in  thyself  may  be ; 
Ail  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  waaH; 
Be  thou  the  tme  man  thon  dost  seek  I ' 


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THE   HOME   OIIIOIL.E. 


EDITSD  BY  ▲  LADY. 


SPINSTERS  AND  MOTHERS. 

CELIA  Burleigh,  one  of  the  moit  talented  and 
finished  writers  and  leotarers  of  the  day,  and 
one  who  never  otters  a  sentence  unbeooming  a 
tme  woman,  has  an  excellent  article  in  a  recent 
namber  of  the  Woman'9  Journal ,  bearing  the  title 
with  which  we  head  this  article.  We  quote  the 
following  from  it : 

"  In  one  of  our  large  western  eitles  lires  an  un- 
married woman,  who  has  adopted  and  filled  the 
place  of  mother  to  more  than  twentj  children,  and 
in  her  oare  and  training  of  them  shown  a  self- 
saorifleing  tenderness,  a  de^otedness  and  wisdom, 
which  no  mother  could  ha^e  surpassed.  To  train 
children  was  her  natural  vocation ;  from  childhood 
she  had  shown  an  aptitude  for  it,  and  attaining 
womanhood,  this  was  the  one  strong  desire  of  her 
heart.  The  brother,  a  successful  business  man, 
with  whom  she  lived,  had  large  means,  and  a  life 
filled  with  varied  interests.  She  had  a  handsome 
room  in  his  house,  plenty  of  money  for  tbe  gratifi- 
cation of  her  personal  wants,  and  an  aimless  life, 
'  I  wish  I  were  a  man,'  she  exclaimed  impatiently, 
one  day  as  he  was  unfolding  some  new  project 
that  was  sure  to  result  in  a  golden  harvest  '  No, 
I  don't,  either,'  she  added ;  '  but  I  wish  I  had  a 
man's  opportunities  for  making  money.' 

'* '  Why,  Mary,'  exclaimed  her  brother  in  a  tone 
of  grieved  surprise, '  don't  you  have  all  the  money 
yon  want  ?     I  am  sure  I  wish  you  to  have/ 

"  He  was  one  of  those  large-brained,  active  men, 
who,  had  he  been  doomed  to  a  life  of  dependence 
and  Inaction,  would  have  gone  mad  or  committed 
suicide ;  and  here  was  his  sister,  only  a  year  or 
two  you-nger  than  himself,  sharing  the  same  na- 
ture, and  he  was  astonished  that,  being  sump- 
tuously lioused  and  clothed,  she  was  vtill  unsat- 
isfied. 

*"K9,  Harry,'  she  replied,  'I  don't  hare  all  the 
uooey  I  want.  I  want  enough  to  do  a  work  in 
the  world,  and  have  something  to  live  for,  instead 
of  having  everything  provided  for  me,  aod  tbe 
dayi  left  so  dark  and  empty  that  when  I  wake  in 
the  morning  I  wonder  how  I  ehaU  manage  to  exist 
tiU  night.  I  am  bored  to  death  with  an  exitteaee 
that  is  fit  only  for  a  eanary  bird  or  a  lapdog,  but 
which  is  enough  to  drive  any  woma,  with  an 
aotlve  mind  and  a  healthy  body,  into  a  lunatie 
asyinm.' 

''The  brother  was  an  ezecpttonal  mAn,  for  he 
neither  laughed  at  her,  nor  acked  her  why  she  Qid 
not  get  married  and  have  a  house  and  children  to 
oeeupy  her;  hut  he  asked  the  much  more  sensible 
question,  *  What  would  you  like  to  do  ? ' 

*"l  would  like  to  have  a  large  house  and  fill  it 
with  ehUdren  who  need  a  home,  and  be  a  mother 


to  them.    That  would  interest  me  as  much  as  great 
business  enterprises  do  you.' 

"  The  brother  made  no  reply.  He  walked  the 
length  of  the  room  and  back  again,  went  to  the 
window,  and  with  both  hands  thrust  in  his  pock- 
ets as  if  he  hoped  to  find  at  the  bottom  the  solu- 
tion of  the  difficulty,  stood  looking  out.  Suddenly 
his  face  brightened,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
went  briskly  out  of  the  house. 

'* '  Well,  Molly,'  he  exclaimed  gayly,  as  he  met 
her  at  the  tea-table, '  I  have  bought  you  a  house, 
and  you  can  begin  to  gather  your  flock  of  vaga- 
bonds as  soon  as  you  like!  And  it  was  no  Joke. 
His  sister's  words  had  set  him  thinking.  He  had 
gone  back  to  the  time  when,  hardly  more  than 
children,  they  were  thrown,  a  pair  of  penniless 
orphans,  upon  the  world;  of  all  she  had  been  to 
him  during  those  years  when  the  conflict  with 
fortune  seemed  so  unequal,  and  more  than  once 
his  heart  failed  him,  and  but  for  her  love  and  trust 
he  would  have  been  ready  to  despair.  Never  dur- 
ing these  years  had  she  failed  or  doubted  him, 
never  added  to  his  discouragement  and  weariness 
the  weight  of  her  own;  and  now  that  fortune  had 
smiled  on  him)  and  he  had  won  success,  now  that 
his  life  was  enriched  by  tbe  love  of  wife  and  chil- 
dren, why  should  he  not  see  to  it  that  she,  too, 
had  the  means  of  being  happy  in  her  own  way  ? 
So  the  house  ^as  bought  and  furnished,  and  a 
sum  appropriated  ih  meet  its  demands.  One  after 
another  the  rooms  were  fllled  with  homeless  waifs,, 
and  the  life  of  the  lonely  woman,  before  so  pur- 
poseless and  barren,  blossomed  with  loving  in- 
terest and  beneficent  cares.  And  what  a  family 
gathered  about  her— made  up  of  all  ages,  from  the 
week-old  bilby  to  the  girl  on  the  verge  of  woman- 
hood; of  all  nationalities  and  every  shade  of  color,, 
but  harmonized  add  attuned  by  the  strong  will 
and  loving  heart  of  ther  genius  of  the  home ! 

"'Aunt  Mary'  was  not  the  slave  of  tradition, 
she  had  vo  ii«9^x^ile  thoeries  about  government. 
She  managed  one  cbild  this  way,  and  another 
that  A  sel^eatisied/  obstreperous  boy  was  seni 
to  the  pubtle  tehool  to  find  his  level  and  learn 
subordination,  while  a  sby,  sensitive  little  fellow 
was  sent  to  be  cuddled  and  made  much  of  at  a 
little  private  school,  kept  by  another  spinster  witk 
a  warm,  motherly  tMart  As  the  years  went  by* 
some  were  fitted  for  eoUige,  and  others  appren- 
tieed  to  learn  trades ;  seme  of  the  girls  fitted  thern^ 
selves  to  be  houselnepere  and  nurse»,  while  others 
learned  hortienltaM  and  tel^raphy.  To  develop 
each  one  aoeording  to  the  bent  of  hi«  genius,  to 
find  out  what  was  in  him,  and  make  the  most  and' 
best  of  his  powers^  this  ww  the  purpose  kept 
steadily  in  view.  The  only  two  things  that  Miss 
Mary  set  her  faeo  lesolntaly  againtt  were  sewix^ 


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ARTHURS   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


and  teaching.  No  girl  of  b«r  training,  the  said, 
was  to  take  the  bread  ont  of  anj  other  woman's 
month  by  entering  these  sadly  over-crowded  de> 
partments  of  work. 

"What  has  this  woman  missed  by  being  a 
mother  to  these  children  instead  of  bearing  chil- 
dren of  her  own  ?  Will  she,  think  yon,  in  the 
hereafter,  find  her  woman's  nature  imporerished 
by  not  baring  the  experience  of  maternity  7  I 
think,  rather,  that  when  she  passes  to  her  rest, 
and  her  works  follow  her  to  be  compared  with  the 
work  of  ordinary  mothers,  the  rerdict  passed  npon 
it  will  be,  '  Many  danghters  have  done  well,  but 
thou  hast  exceeded  them  all.'  *' 


near.  Make  little  atndie»  of  eflect  which  ghaU 
repay  the  mor^  than  nsnal  observer,  and  do  not 
leave  it  possible  for  one  to  make  the  criticism 
which  applies  to  so  many  homes,  even  of  wealth 
and  elegance:  "Fine  carpets,  handsome  fhrai- 
ture,  a  fbw  pictures  and  elegant  nothings — ^bnt 
how  dreary !"  The  chilling  atmosphere  is  felt  at 
once,  and  we  cannot  divest  ourselves  of  the  ides 
that  we  must  maintain  a  stiff  and  severe  demeanor, 
to  accord  with  the  spirit  of  the  place.  Make  year 
homes,  then,  so  cosey  and  cheerful  that,  if  we 
visit  you,  we  may  be  joyous  and  unrestrained,  and 
not  feel  ourselves  out  of  harmony  with  our  lor- 
roundlngs. 


A  WOMAN  ON  CHILDREN. 

MRS.  JULIA  WARD  HOWE  recently  de- 
livered a  lecture  in  New  York  city,  in  which 
she  treated  of  childhood  and  maternity.  From 
her  remarks  on  children  we  extract  the  following  : 
*']  must  here  pause  to  ask  and  answer  two  very 
contradictory  questions.  What  is  the  most  pre- 
cious thing  that  each  generation  has  in  its  keep- 
ing ?  What  is  that  which  it  most  neglects  and 
undervalues  ?  To  both  I  must  rna^e  one  answer 
— its  children.  I  do  not  wish  to  rhapsodize  on 
the  beauties  of  childhood,  but  I  must  allow  my- 
self a  little  time  in  which  to  speak  of  them.  Art- 
ists know  the  value  of  the  fre^h  outlines  and  un^ 
dimmed  colors  in  the  emporium  of  the  beautiful. 
Hair  in  which  the  sunlight  is  tangled  as  in  a  net, 
fairly  caught  and  made  to  do  doty.  Eyes  dreamy 
as  evening  skies,  and  with  a  sleepy  star  Oash  in 
them,  the  delicate  hues  spring,  the  odors  of  sum- 
mer, limbs  whose  undistorted  aptitudes  invent  \ 
new  graces,  and,  in  movement  or  in  sleep,  give 
the  model  to  sculptors — a  speech  which  grows 
from  the  cooing  of  the  dove  through  poetio  periods 
of  myth  and  allegory  to  the  silver  cadences  of 
adolescence— a  heart  with  its  little  treasons^  its 
little  selfish  corners,  but,  alas,  with  what  powers 
•of  mutation,  of  generosity,  of  enthusiasm !" 


ARRANGEMENT  OF  ROOMS. 

GIVE  your  apartaiettta  expresaiod— character. 
Rooms  which  mean  nothing  ar»  cheerless 
■indeed.  Study  light  and  sb*d«  and  the  combina- 
tion and  arrangement  «f  drapery,  fumf tare,  and 
pictures.  Allow  nothing  4*  look  isolated,  but  let 
'dverytbing  present  an  «.ir  of  aoeiAbility.  Observe 
a  room  immediately  after  a  flooiber'Of  peeple  have 
left  it,  and  then,  as  you  arrange  the  fumitere, 
disturb  as  litUe  as  possible  the  jrelatire  potition  of 
chairs,  ottomans,  and  ^aefha.  Piaee  twe  or  three 
chairs  in  a  oo»versatioDal  attitude  in  aomfo  cheery 
eorner,  an  o^tomMa-witbJn*e*iy  distaDeea  ef «  sofk, 
•  Chair  near  your  stwid  of  stereoeeopie  viewt  of 
•eng^vings,  and  one*  where  -a  good  light  will  fall 
•on  the  book  whioh«yoiitmai7  reaoh  frem  the  tpihie 


MEN  AS  COOKS. 

MRS.  JAT7B  SWISHBLM  is  in  favor  of  men 
as  cooks,  and  by  way  of  illustration  relates 
the  following :  *'  I  never  knew  the  significance  of 
the  impulse  which  leads  all  boys  to  want  to  bale 
griddle-cakes  until  I  saw  a  French  half-breed  from 
Selkirk,  beside  his  ironless  eart  on  the  open 
prairie,  preparing  his  evening  meal.  He  had  a 
large  fish  boiling  on  the  coals  without  any  inter- 
vention of  a  gridiron.  His  bstter  and  his'fiap- 
jacks'  were  in  a  bucket.  He  heated  and  greased 
a  long-bandled  sheet-iron  frying-pan,  poured  io 
enough  batter  to  cover  the  bottom,  set  it  over  the 
fire,  kept  on  serenely  attending  to  other  matteri, 
as  though  no  '  flapjacks '  were  in  danger  of  being 
burned,  as  it  wuuld  have  been  if  any  woman  had 
set  it  to  bake;  but  just  at  the  right  moment  be 
came  up,  looked  in  the  pan,  took  hold  of  the 
handle,  shook  it  gently,  then,  with  a  sudden  jerk, 
sent  the  cake  spinning  into  the  air,  caught  it  as  it 
came  down,  square  in  the  centre,  with  the  other 
side  up.  The  cake  was  turned  as  no  woman  could 
have  turned  it,  and  with  an  ease  which  showed 
that  the  man  was  in  his  proper  sphere." 


INFANTS  IN  TURKEY. 

A  MRS.  HARVEY,  who  has  leen  travellhig 
in  Turkey  and  visiting  harems,  gives  the 
following  aocount  of  the  manner  in  which  aev 
bom  babe*  are  traaited  there : 

'* Soon. after  bfarcb  they  are  rttbbe4  down  fnA 
salt  and  tighcJy  swaddled  in  the  Italian  fiuliies* 
The  preasue  of  theee  bandages  is  efien  so  fieat 
that  the  oitonlation  bepomaa  impeded,  and  incis- 
iens  and  aoartficationa  are  then  made  oa  the 
handa,  feetv  and  spine,  to  let  out  what  Twkisk 
doctors  and  nurse  call  'the  bad  blood.'  The na- 
happy  little  citsaetars  ia  oeoMiooelly  released  from 
iftsl>ond8t  and  'never  fefaeraiighiy  washed  ontil  the 
aanrad  month  of  thirty  days  hes  expired,  when  it 
if  taken  with  ita  mother  to  the  bath.  No  wonder 
that  the  sick  and  ailing  sink  wnder  such  treat- 
meht,  and  that  the  mortality  amongst  inf^" 
akenld  be  ao  fkightfuL" 


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EVTEISriNGS   T^ITH   THE   3POETS. 


MY  BABY. 

BY   AV5U   CLYDB. 

SUCH  a  litUe.  break  in  tk«  aodl 
So  tiny  to  be  a  grave  I 
Oh,  how  can  I  render  bo  iqob  to  God 
The  beaatifal  gift  he  gave  ? 

Must  I  pu^  yon  away,  my  pet — 

My  tender  bud  unblown, 
With  the  dtw  of  the  morning  npon  you  yet^ 

And  your  bloisom  all  unthown  ? 

My  heart  ia  near  to  break 

For  the  voioe  I  shall  not  hear. 
For  the  dinging  anna  around  my  neck. 

And  the  footsteps  drawing  near. 

The  tiny,  tottering  feet. 

Striving  for  mother's  knee, 
For  the  lisping  tones  so  sweet. 

And  the  baby's  kiss  to  me, 

For  the  precious  Motherfname, 
And  the  tonch  of  the  little  hand ; 

Oh  I  am  I  io  very  much  to  blame 
If  I  shrink  from  the  sore  demand  ? 

How  shall  I  know  her  Tobe, 

Or  the  gree  ing  of  her  ejes, 
'Mid  the  countless  cherubs  that  rejoice 

Id  the  gardens  of  Paradise? 

How  shall  I  know  my  own. 
Where  the  air  is  white  with  wings, 

My  babe,  so  soon  from  my  bosom  flown 
To  the  angels'  ministerings? 

And  this  is  the  end  of  it  all ! 

Of  my  waiting  and  my  pain — 
Otoly  a  little  funeral  pall, 

And  empty  arms  again. 

Oh,  baby,  my  heart  is  sore 

For  the  love  that  was  to  be, 
For  the  untried  dream  of  love,  now  o'er, 

'Twizt  thee,  my  child,  and  me. 

Tet  over  this  little  head, 

Lying  so  still  on  my  knee, 
I  thank  my  God  for  the  bliss  of  the  dead. 

For  the  joy  of  the  soul  set  free. 

Tis  a  weary  world,  «t  best, 
This  world  that  she  will  not  know. 

Would  I  waken  her  oat  of  naeh  perfeet  feat. 
For  its  sorrow  and  strife  2    AL,  no  1 

Escaped  are  its  thorns  and  harms ; 

The  only  path  she  has  trod 
Is  that  which  leads  firom  her  mother's  arms 

Into  the  amxp  of  God. 


COTTAGE  AND  HALL. 

BY  Aldftm  OARY. 

WITH  eyes  to  her  sewing  work  dropped  down, 
And  with  hair  in  a  tangled  shower, 
And  with  roses  kissed  by  the  sun  so  brown. 

Young  Janey  sat  in  her  bower —  * 

A  garden  nook  with  word  and  book ; 

And  the  bars  that  crossed  her  girlish  gown 
Were  as  blue  as  the  flaxen  flower. 

And  her  little  heart  It  beat  and  beat, 
Till  the  work  shook  on  her  knee, 

For  the  golden  combs  are  not  so  sweet 
To  the  honey  fasting  bee 

As  to  her  her  thoughts  of  Alexis. 

And  across  a  green  pieoe  of  wood. 

And  across  a  field  of  flowers, 
A  modest,  lowly  house  there  stood 

That  held  her  eyes  for  hours^* 
A  cottage  low,  hid  under  the  snow 

Of  cherry  and  bean  vine  flowers. 
Sometimes  it  h^ld  her  all  day  long. 

For  there  at  her  distaff  bent. 
And  spinning  a  double  thread  of  song 

And  of  wool,  in  her  aweet  content, 
Sat  the  mother  of  young  Alexis. 

And  Janey  turned  things  In  and  out. 

As  foolish  maids  will  do, 
What  could  the  song  be  all  about? 

Tet  well  enough  she  knew 
That  while  the  fingers  drew  the  wool 

As  fine  as  fine  could  be, 
The  loving  mother-heart  was  fhll 

Of  her  boy  gone  to  sea — 
Her  blue-eyed  boy,  her  pride  and  joy. 

On  the  cold  and  cruel  sea— 
Her  darling  boy  Alexis. 

And  beyond  the  good  green  pieoe  of  wood, 

And  the  field  of  flowers  so  gay, 
Among  its  ancient  oaks  there  stood. 

With  gables  high  and  gray, 
A  lofty  hall,  where,  mistress  of  all. 

She  might  dance  the  night  away. 
And  as  she  sat  and  sewed  her  seam. 

In  the  golden  bower  that  day, 
Alike  from  seam  and  alike  from  dream 

Her  truant  thoughts  would  stray ; 
It  would  be  so  fine  like  a  lady  to  shine, 

And  to  dance  the  night  away ! 
And  oh  and  alas  for  Alexis ! 

And  suns  have  risen  and  anna  gone  down 
On  the  eherry  and  bean  vine  bowers, 

And  the  tangled  eurls  o'er  the  egrea  dove  brown 
They  fall  no  more  in  showers; 

Nor  are  there  bars  in  the  bomeapnn  gown 
As  blue  aa  the  flaxen  llowera. 


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ARTHUR'8   LADTB   SOME   UAGAZINE. 


Aye,  winter  wind  and  winter  rain 

Hay«  beaten  away  the  bowere» 
And  little  Janey  is  Lady  Jane, 

And  dances  awi^  the  hoars  I 
Maidens  she  hath  to  play  and  sing^, 

And  her  mother's  house  and  land 
Could  never  buy  the  jewelled  ring 

She  wears  on  her  lily  hand — 
The  hand  that  is  false  to  Alejcis. 

Ah,  bright  were  the  sweet  young  oheeks  and  eyw. 

And  the  silken  gown  was  gay, 
When  first  to  the  hall  as  mistress  of  all 

Bbe  came  on  her  wedding-day. 
'*  Now  where,  my  bride,"  said  the  groom  in  pride» 

"  Now  where  will  yonr  chamber  be  V 
And  from  wall  to  wall  she  praises  all. 

Bat  choof  es  the  one  by  the  sea  I 
And  the  suns  they  rise,  and  the  suns  they  set. 

Bat  she  rarely  sees  the  gleam, 
For  often  her  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

And  the  sewing  work  is  unfinished  yet, 
And  so  is  the  girlish  dream. 

For  when  her  ladies  gird  at  her. 

And  her  lord  is  cold  and  stern. 
Old  memories  in  her  heart  must  stir 

For  the  gentle  boy  Alexis  1 

And  always,  when  the  dance  is  done, 

And  her  weary  ^set  are  ftree, 
She  sits  in  her  chamber  all  alone 

At  the  window  next  the  sea, 
And  combs  her  shining  tresses  down 

By  the  light  of  the  fading  stars. 
And  maybe  thinks  of  her  homespun  gown. 

With  the  pretty  fiax  fiower  bars; 
For  when  the  foam  of  wintry  gales 

Runs  white  along  the  blue, 
Hearing  the  rattle  of  stiffened  sails^ 

She  trembles  through  and  through. 
And  majbe  thinks  of  Alexis. 


BEFORE  FLYING  SOUTHWARD. 

A  BIRD  sat  singing  on  a  tree ; 
"  Farewell  1  Farewell  1  Farewell  V*  he  sang, 
The  while  the  waving  bougb  made  rhyme — 

*'  What  <?aj8  can  bring  suoh  joy  to  me 
As  this  de%r,  dying  summer-time^ 
'  More  dear  than  song  can  tell  \"  he  sang. 

"  0  little  home  the  boughs  amid. 

What  spot  the  wide  world  through,"  he  sang — 
And  now  the  gray  leaves  fiuttered  down. 

Nor  could  the  nest  be  leoger  hid— 
**  Though  skies  that  smiled  erewhile  now  frown. 

What  spot  s»  dear  as  you  ?"  he  sang. 

**  0  winds  that  on  bright  summer  eves 
Have  rooked  my  caUgiw  brood,"  be  sang, 


And  ae  he  sang  a  fiefoe^  quiek  moan 
Sounded  among  the  poor  dim  leaves — 

**  I  only  think  of  love  long  shown, 
Though  now  your  touch  be  rude,"  he  sang. 

''0  gracious  roses  that  have  tofsed' 
All  day  your  sweets  to  us,"  he  saug. 

The  while  the  flowers  hung  pale  and  dead| 
"  What  care  T  that  yoar  beauty's  lost? 

I  but  recall  your  burning  red. 
Stately  and  odorous,"  he  sang. 

"  0  tree,  within  whoae  branches  strong 
And  reaching  heavenward,"  be  sang— • 

And  now  his  voice  grew  sweet  and  low— 
"My  bride  and  I  all  summer  long 

Have  watched  the  round  moon  come  and  go ! 
Hfl^,  parting  is  too  hard !"  he  sang. 

<'  Alas !  alas  that  it  must  be  I 
But  winter's  grasp  is  fell,"  he  sang. 

The  while  the  waving  bough  made  rhym^^ 
"  Yet  naught  to  which  we  go  can  be 

So  dear  as  this  dear  summer-time ; 
Farewell  1  Farewell  1  FareweU!"  he  sang. 


PBAYEB. 
BT  i.  o.  wBtrriiR. 

THE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  Strang, 
Has  never  ceased  to  play ; 
The  song  the  star*  of  morning  sung. 
Has  never  died  »way. 

And  prayer  is  made  and  praise  Is  given 

By  all  things  near  and  far ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  Heaven 

And  mirrors  %xwy  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  sand, 

As  kneels  the  humble  knee — 
Their  white  looks  bowing  to  the  strand. 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea. 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth; 

Their  gift  of  pearls  they  bring ; 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  aroh, 

lu  transept  earth  and  air; 
The  musle  of  the  stafry  march. 

The  eboms  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  fVame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  roioes  shame 

The  pfvaflms  heart  of  man. 


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T^RIJIT   OULTUHB   FOR   I^J^DIES. 

BT  THE  AXTTHOR  OF  **  QAfLjymCESQ  FOB  LADIIS." 


LATE  PBUNINQ  OF  PEAR-TBEES. 

PBAR*TRE£S  that  hav«  not  been  jadioionsly 
praned  during  the  sninmer  will  reqaire  some 
little  in  the  Ute  fall  and  early  winter. 

When  the  tree  is  in  the  leaf,  sayt  the  Oardmter'a 
Momikfyf  one  braneh  smothers  ont  another,  and  few 
leaves  arrive  at  that  matarltj  necessary  to  perfect 
the  best  fmit  Therefore,  prune  oat  enough  of 
the  weaker  branches  to  give  the  rest  every  chance 
to  develop  their  leaves.  60  pmne,  al«o,  as  to 
soaict  the  plant  to  a  conical  form,  as  this  enables 
the  light  to  act  better  on  all  parts  of  the  foliage. 
If  trees  have  been  negleeted,  in  pmning  severely 
BOW  to  get  them  into  shape,  the  result  will  be  that 
they  will  throw  out  shoots  still  more  vigorously 
from  near  the  parts  cutaway.  When  these  shoots 
appear  in  spring,  pull  them  out  while  young  with 
the  inger  and  the  thumb.  The  current  of  sap  will 
then  flow  strongly  into  the  shoots  left,  and  the 
ratio  of  growth  will  in  the  end  he  nearly  equal 
through  all  the  branches. 


The  want  of  success  is  to  be  ascribed  to  two 
causes.  The  first  is  the  Uok  of  care,  second  and 
principal  is  the  laU  period  at  which  the  •ctcint  are 
cut.  When  the  cherry  bod  is  once  swollen,  it  is 
very  difficult  to  get  it  to  grow.  They  should, 
therefore,  be  cut  before  there  are  any  signs  of  swel- 
liug — and  that  time  is  late  in  the  present  or  early 
in  the  coming  month.  They  should  be  buried  in 
the  grouod  deep  enough  to  be  beyond  the  influence 
of  the  son,  whence  they  can  be  taken  out  and  used 
when  needed  throughout  the  grafting  season. 


SCIONS  AND  CUTTINGS. 

SCIONS  for  grafting,  and  cuttings  from  grapes, 
should,  if  possible,  be  prepared  during  the 
present  month.  They  should  be  tied  up  in  bundles 
of  about  twenty-five,  and,  as  su.gested  above,  be 
buried  in  the  ground,  out  of  the  reach  of  sun  and 
frosty  where  water  does  not  lie. 


LOOK  FOR  BORERS. 

THE  present  is  a  good  season  to  go  over  your 
apple  and  pear-trees  in  search  of  borers.  At 
this  time,  as  they  are  pushing  their  way  down  into 
the  stems  for  winter  protection,  they  commit  the 
most  serious  ravages.  A  cut  with  a  jack-knife  up 
and  down  the  rtems,  so  as  to  avoid  girdling  as 
much  as  possible,  is  the  most  certain  way  to  des- 
troy them.  Tarred  paper  placed  about  the  stem 
in  spring  will  keep  them  out,  if  you  succeed  this 
fall  in  destroying  those  that  have  already  made  a 
lodgment  in  your  trees.  Or,  late  in  the  present 
month,  scrape  the  dead  bark  from  the  trunks  and 
larger  branches  of  your  trees,  and  some  dry  day 
wash  them  with  a  mixture  of  sal-soda  and  rain- 
water—a pound  of  the  soda  to  a  gallon  of  water. 


CHERBT  GRAFTS. 

THB  most  diflicuU  scion  to  grow  is  that  of  the 
cherry.  We  have  employed  experienced 
grafters— 'distrusting  our  own  skill — to  set  cherry 
leioBS,  and  on  one  occasion  not  one  grew  in  the 
lot,  some  twenty- Are  in  number.  We  have  suo- 
eeeded  ourselves  in  two  out  of  three;  but  a  few 
stems  to  operate  on« 


HINTS  FOR  THE  MONTH. 

GRAPE-VINES  may  be  pruned  as  soon  as  the 
leaves  have  fallen,  though  it  can  also  be  done 
at  any  time  during  the  winter  when  the  wood  is 
not  frozen.  If  you  desire  to  lay  down  and  cover 
your  vines,  for  winter  protection,  you  will  have  to 
prune  now.  Cut  young  vines  back  to  three  buds, 
and  mulch  with  leaves.  Old  vines,  that  have  not 
been  trained,  need  to  hare  the  past  season's  growth 
cut  back  to  two  buds.  If  necessary  cut  out  some 
of  the  old  canes  entirely. 

Apple,  pear,  cherry,  plum,  quince,  and  other 
hardy  fruit-trees  may  now  be  planted.  Dig  care- 
fully, and  set  in  holes  somewhat  larger  than  is 
sufficient  to  admit  the  roots  in  their  natural  posi- 
tion. Cut  off  ragged  f  nds  of  roots,  and  shorten  In 
the  tops  a  little.  Let  the  holes  be  deep  enough  to 
allow  of  some  good,  rich,  well-rotted  compost  to 
be  thrown  in  before  the  trees  are  planted.  Or, 
perhaps,  better  to  manure  the  surface  soil,  and 
mulch  with  coarse  litter.  Currants,  gooseberries, 
raspberrle#)  and  blackberries  may  also  be  set  out 
this  month. 

Old  strawberry  beds  should  be  covered  as  soon 
as  the  ground  freexes.  Be  careful  not  to  cover  too 
soon.  Use  whatever  comes  most  convenient — 
straw,  salt  hay,  corn-stalks,  or  pine  boughs,  the 
Utter  answering  excellently  in  most  cases. 

(SOI) 

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EDITORS'   DEPARTMENT. 


Harpers'  Bazar  is  not  only  the  leading  publica- 
tion in  the  fiuhion  world,  bat  also  ranks  amon^ 
the  first  of  those  who  would  raise  the  tone  of 
American  soeiety.  Its  literary  character  is  above 
the  average;  its  aeries  of  artioles  '^  Manners  upon 
the  Road"  are  always  characterised  by  their  ster- 
ling good  sense;  and  its  editorials  attack  boldly 
and  brareTy  the  follies  of  the  day  and  of  the 
American  people. 

The  nnmber  of  the  Banar  before  ns  contains 
an  excellent  editorial  entitled  "  Pass^e/'  which  we 
copy  for  the  benefit  of  our  readers. 

'•  We  have  borrowed,  in  our  social  conversation, 
a  foreign  word,  appllosble  to  no  foreign  thing  or 
state  of  things,  and  we  use  It  with  wholesale  and 
proseriptive  audacity  in  relation  to  every  unmar- 
ried woman  in  society  whose  fS^ce  has  lost  any  of 
the  lustre  of  its  earlier  years. 

" '  Yes,  she  is  pretty,'  we  say  ^  'she  dresses  well ; 
talented  too,  and  agreeable;  but  then  she  is  a 
little  pasB6e;'  and  with  that.  Beauty  shrugs  her 
shoulders,  entirely  oblivious  of  tbe  time  when  her 
turn  shall  come  to  be  pushed  aside,  and  Youth  and 
Guilelessness  shall  put  their  heads  together  and 
whisper  the  same  shocking  word  as  she  goes  by. 

"  It  seems  to  us  that  few  words  are  used  with  so 
much  valgarity  in  the  usage  as  this  one— a  vul- 
garity that,  if  it  does  not  imply  the  gratification 
of  the  grosser  senses  to  be  the  end  and  aim  of  all 
things,  does  imply  the  pre-eminence  of  the  flesh, 
indeed,  above  all  things. 

"  She  is  pass^e.  Past  what  ?  Past  her  bloom  t 
Is  bloom,  then,  all  that  there  is  to  live  for,  that 
she  is  to  be  characterized  in  life  solely  with  ref- 
erence to  it?  Is  it  the  object  of  one  side  of  soci- 
ety merely  to  display  the  bloom,  and  of  tbe  other 
to  admire  it?  And  do  we,  then,  reduce  our  draw- 
ing-rooms to  the  level  of  a  Georgian  girl-market, 
and  count  out  of  life  everything  but  the  supple 
contour,  the  flour-like  skin,  the  creamy  shoulderi 
the  plump  cheek  ? 

'*  Certainly  one  would  think  so  when  listening 
to  the  thoughtless  sneer  that  the  word  oontains. 
We  say  that  our  friend  is  pass6e.  Is  she  past  her 
intelligence,  her  good-nature,  her  power  of  enter- 
tainment, her  wit,  her  usefMlness  generally  ?  On 
the  contrary,  she  has  usually  but  just  attained  the 
greater  part  of  them.  8he  has  but  Just  attained 
experience  euough  to  enable  her  to  comprehend 
and  join  in  conversation  above  the  mediocrity  of 
gossip  and  titles  and  compliment;  her  gayety  is 
not  mere  giggling,  but  there  is  in  it  something  of 
the  flash  of  encountering  intellects;  she  has  dis- 
cretion enongh  to  be  silent,  and  knowledge  enough 
to  speak  on  occasion ;  no  longer  raw,  or  shy,  or 
painfully  self-conscious,  her  maoners  have  a  charm 
of  ease  that  gives  ease  to  all  around  her;  if  she 
(302) 


has  aecompllshmAntSy  they  are  practised  and  ma- 
ture, and  you  are  spared,  for  instance,  the  familar 
horror  of  a  school-girl's  music ;  if  she  has  not  the 
rosy  loveliness  of  her  youth,  she  has  a  knowledge 
of  the  arts  of  the  toilet  that  make  her  dress  per- 
feet  and  herself  an  attractive  objeoti  in  fact,  she 
has  only  Just  become  capable  of  enjoying  and 
giving  enjoyment  in  society ;  and  ao  far  fnm  the 
young  idiots  wbe  call  her  pa»6e  having  aay  right 
to  slurs  in  her  regard,  it  is  she  who  elieuld  be 
herself  an  arbiter  of  soeiety,  and  have  authority 
to  proBounee  whether  or  not  tliey  are  in  any  senie 
At  to  enter  its  charmed  eireliss. 

"  Indeed,  it  may  well  excite  all  the  wonder  that 
it  does  among  Buropeans  that  the  young  are  here 
allowed  to  aheorb  all  the  eojoymoDts  of  our  social 
]ifo*-the  young,  who  have  nothing  bat  their  yoath 
or  their  beauty  to  givof  whose  minds  and  man- 
Bora  are  almost  totally  ••trained  and  iBSuiBeieiit; 
who  are,  indeed,  objeets  of  pleasnrs  to  the  eye^ 
and  wherein  they  yield  other  pleasure  or  profit  do 
ao  rather  in  a  enbsidiasy  way  than  in  the  main. 

<<  We  do  not  wish  to  •ndervalue  the  elements  of 
tenooonee  a»d  fiwsbttesa  whioh  the  young  brings 
or  a^  supposed  to  bring,  with  them;  but  we  main- 
tain that  the  virtue  of  years,  with  their  knowledge 
of  the  world  we  live  in,  and  tbeir  preparation  for 
the  world  we  hope  to  live  in — their  wisdom,  their 
grace,  and  their  charity— are  of  at  best  eqoal 
value,  and  deserve  equal  recognition  in  the  plsces 
where  men  and  women  meet  together;  and  we 
protest  against  the  curving  of  the  '  contumelioiis 
lip'  over  the  claims  to  courtesy  and  consideration 
of  the  woman  beyond  her  girlhood  ;  and  we  would 
beg  to  remind  those  who  so  fiippantly  deal  her 
doom,  that  the  chosen  companion  of  the  great 
men  of  history,  the  friend,  the  lover,  the  one  whom 
they  have  sought  to  enliven  their  hours  and  give 
rest  to  energies  wearied  with  work,  has  not  been 
the  buxom  belle  with  'all  her  blushing  hoBon 
thick  upon  her,'  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  object 
of  their  dread  and  their  contempty  the  paif6e 
girl.- 


"No  process  is  so  fatal  as  that  which  would  east  all 
men  in  one  mold.  Every  human  being  is  intended 
to  have  a  character  of  his  own,  to  be  what  no  other 
is,  to  do  what  no  other  can  do.  Our  common  nature 
is  to  be  unfolded  in  unbounded  diversities.  It  if 
rich  enough  for  infinite  manifeetations.  It  is  to 
wear  innumerable  forms  of  beauty  and  gloiy.  Ev- 
ery human  being  has  a  work  to  oarry  pn  within, 
duties  to  perform  ahead,  lAfluenoep  to  exert,  whieh 
are  peculiarly  bis,  and  which  no  oonsotenee  but  his 
own  can  teach.  Lot  him  not  enslave  his  oonsoieoee 
to  others,  but  act  with  the  .freedom^  strength,  sad 
dignity  of  one  whoso  highest  Uw  is  in  his  ova 
breast" 


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EDITORS'    DEFABTMENT. 


Bcribner  A  Go.  har^  published  tke  firat  series  of 
Max  Mailer's  "  Soienoe  of  Laagaage."  The  toI- 
vme  comprises  nine  lectnreA,  which,  to  use  the 
smthor's  words,  **  form  a  short  abstract  of  .several 
ponrses  delivered  from  lima  to  tima  in.O^tford*" 

Professor  MaUar  brings  a  large  a^holarahip  and 
deep  enthusiasm  ta  hii  worl^  .and  no  one  can  ^ead 
it  without  gaining  some  new  insight  into  the  power 
and  range  of  this  graft  miraele  of  Ungnago»  our 
ohiefest,  dearest»  "  and  most  intimate  postesf  ion." 

The  book  will  hardlj  be  a  popular  one  in  the 
.M«al  Sanaa  of  the  ward,  it  b«iog  written  espe- 
oially  for  the  philologist  and  the  scholar ;  yet  aa^ 
person  of  moderate  culture  will  £nd  the  volume 
full  of  entertainment  and  inatmotion. 

The  history  of  our  mother- tongue  is  traced 
with  most  careful  research  through  all  its  Indo- 
European  branches  to  its  beginnings  in  mono- 
syllabic roots. 

With  regard  to  some  of  the  author's  theories 
respecting  the  origin  of  speech,  he  may  be  right  or 
wrong.  Here  "  doctors  disagree ;"  bat  his  subject- 
matter  is  so  important,  and  treated  in  so  masterly 
a  manner,  that  we  wish  every  hian  and  woman 
could  read  and  enjoy  this  book. 

A  BOMFmiBOir  MOUNT  l¥A9HISIO'VOaiu 

One  evening,  a  few  weeks  ago,  a  large  bonfire 
was  lighted  on  the  top  of  Meant  Wasblwgten, 
which  was  visible  at  Ponlind,  Maine,  a  distaaea 
of  seventy  miles. 

"  Fortunately/'  says  the  PuHUtnd  Tranmrnpt, 
**  it  was  a  clear,  meonlees  evening,  with  neither 
elond  nor  base  upon  the  horiton.  -Whan  the  inn 
went  down  the  White«Monntain  range  Uomed  ap 
grandly  against  the  violet  aky,  niad  in  robes  «f 
velvety  purple,  as  delieate  and  downy  as  the 
eheek  of  a  damson.  Long  belore  eight  e'eloek 
the  ontllnes  of  the  monntakia  faded,  and  onr  bori- 
sen  no  longer  included  even  the  burly  form  of 
Pleasant  Mountain  in  Denmark,  nor  any  of  the 
lesser  Intervening  hills  exoept  those  within  ^  few 
miles.  At  half-past  eight,  the  signal  roekeU  that 
had  been  going  up  from  •Mr.  Allen's,  on  Deering 
Street,  were  answered  at  last  from  70  miles,  away. 
Thore  was  in  the  northwest  a  littta  neddish  glow 
■o  Ugh  up  above  the  apparent- horison  ae  to  a»- 
toniah  us.  It  seemed  to  be  in  the  sky  rather  than 
npon  the  essrth.  This  was  the  banHra  npon  the 
•mnmit  of  Mount  Waahingtaai  at  laat !  It  was 
mneh  broader  than  the  atar^pointa  that  glHterad 
above  it,  but  was  not  so  diatlnct.  It  tras  like  the 
ligfaUd  end  -of  a  cigar.  A  iglass  Wovgbt  It  out 
more  distinctly,  and  the  4liekering  of  the  flames 
was  visible^  and  tha  shower  of  a|iarfka  thrown!  up 
and  borne  awair  by  the  wind.  No  part  of  the  out- 
line of  the  mountain  eenld  be  traced,  exeept  just 
where  the  bo^ftxeiUlnminated  the  narrow  platform 
of  the  summit.  So  that  It  seemed  like  a  oeleatial 
«athar  than  a  iaijwptrlal  pbtnoineaoa.    It  must 


hiere  been  viBtble:£u  ^on^  at  lea,  and  sailors  who 
saw  it  must  have  marvelled.  If  they  recognized 
it  by  its  position  as  the  mountain  top,  then  the 
granite  pile  might  have  been  easily  transformed 
into  a  volcano  in  their  imaginations." 


HORTICVI«TI7RAIi    8CHOOI«    FOR   1¥0- 
MKN  IBT  SfASSAtHCTSBTTS. 

A  year  iigo,  a  school  to  instruct  women  in  horti- 
isultnre  was  etarted  in  HaMaehnsetts,  and  has  so 
far  proved  highly  successful.  The  Boston  TVowjIer 
says  that,  "  during  the  year,  eight  young  ladies, 
students^  have  ipcmt  from  M  IQ  e%ht  hours  daily 
in  tho  garden  or  greeny  house,,  doing  all  the  work 
except  the  heaviest  and  ooarsest,  and,  as  the  fruit 
of  their  toil,  have  .supplied  the  families  of  a  dosen 
or  more  amp\y  with  vegetables.  Each  has  given 
from  .thirty  to  forty  mi^i^tes  daily  to  the  recita- 
tions in  botany,  etc.  I^ow  ope  of  the  young  ladies 
.is,  about  to  start  a  grean-hoase  and  garden  at 
Jamaica  Plain,  and  another,  at  s^nie  other  poiAt 
near  Boston." 


THB  CRTLmiKlW  OFFKRIHO. 

We  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  pictorial  em- 
bellishments this  month.  ''The  Children's  Offer- 
ing," th^' single-page  engraving,  is  one  which  Is 
seldom  surpassed  In  beauty  and  artistic  grace.  A 
yoiing  girt  has  woven  a  chaplet  of  towers  to  do 
honor  to  the  Virgin,  whose  figure,  it  may  be  sup- 
p'ottd,  is  visibTc  in  the  way8l<ie  cross.  Her  brother 
is  playing  a  hymn  off  hts  shrill  pipe,  while  his 
companion  seems  ^  be'siHmtfy  uitering  an  Ava 

«Weh«re  often  seen  what  may  be  called  ''way- 
aide  devotioa"  treated  by  varioue  painters,  but 

none  more  pleasantly  and  poetically  than  we  find 
it  here. 


TBK  PTTPPIM^*  JffVliSKRT. 

,  W^  present  our  readers,  this  month,  with  a 
beautiful  picture  with  the  nbove  title.  A  noble- 
looking  mother  is  stooping  from  her  customary 
dignity  of  demeanor  to  play  with  the  funny  little 
morsels  of  puppies  that  surround  her.  The  whole 
family  seem  quite  at  home  in  the  apartment— ap- 
pareotly  a  gentleman's  dressing-room— aa  though 
they  feared  no  reproof  for  their  intrusion,  or  for 
.(he,  freedom  they  are  inak^g  .with  their  master's 
belongings. 


SNGLISH  CLiASSICS. 

The  Appletons  have  done  the  reading  public 
a  favor  by  their  late  popular  editions  of  Chaucer, 
Dante,  Milton,  and  Seott, 

The  poems  are  issue8  In  heat  paper  bindings 
aad<e)0ar  print, -and  at  a  pHoe  s6  low*~not  eaceed- 
Ing  flfty  cents  apieee^that  these  Snglish  elasalet 
oaghtttow  to  be  (bnadin  the  hamblett  hemes. 


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S04 


ARTHUR^a   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


THB  HOMJiS  MAOAZINB  FOR  187)1. 

Oar  Proftpeottts  for  next  jesr  is  given  in  this 
namber.  It  will  be  seen  that  all  oar  literarj  de- 
partments are  to  be  anvmaUj  attraetiTe,  and  tbAt 
we  mean  to  keep  "  The  Ladt's  Home  Maoazirb  " 
steadily  in  advance  of  all  eotemporaries  in  the  ex- 
cellence, Tarieljy  and  interest  of  its  pages. 

To  make  the  "  Home  "  as  perfect  a  magaiine  as 
It  is  in  oar  power  to  oreato,  will  oontinne  to  be  oar 
steady  aim. 

OUR  PRKMIVfll  FOR  187S. 

Oar  premiam  to  getten-np  of  olubs  for  next 
year  will  be  a  charming  original  Chromo,  en- 
titled '*  The  Church  Mocse,"  expressly  made  for 
as  by  Messrs/Duval  A  Son,  of  our  city.  Each  copy 
of  this  beaatifal  work  of  art  will  cost  us  more  than 
doable  the  price  paid  for  our  elegant  steel  engrav- 
ings, and  we  intend  girlng  it  as  a  premium  fofr 
erery  ohib  of  sabseribers  to  the  Hove  MAOiriHS, 
large  or  small.  ** 

All  who  have  seen  this  ChroiAo  pronoanoe  it  one 
of  the  sweetest  and  most  attraotive  pictures  re- 
cently publiehed.  It  represents  two  dear  little 
girls  in  a  church  pew  surprised  in  the  mi«ist  of  the 
service  by  the  sadden  appearance  of  a  mouse  on 
the  cushions.  The  startled  look  on  their  faces  as 
they  glance  sidelong  over  their  book  at  the  tiny 
intruder,  is  very  qoaint  and  amusing.  It  cannot 
fail  to  be  a  favorite  picture  with  all  who  receive  it 

TAKB  WOnCK, 

In  remitting,  if  you  send  a  draft,  see  that  it  Is 
drawn  or  endorsed  to  order  of  T.  S. -Arthur  A  fi«ns. 

Always  give  name  of  your  town,  eooaty,  and 
st«te. 

When  you  want  a  magazine  changed  from  one 
office  to  another,  be  sure  to  say  to  what  post-office 
it  goes  at  the  time  you  write. 

When  money  is  sent  for  any  other  publication 
than  our  own,  we  pay  it  orer  to  the  publishtr,  and 
there  our  responsibility  ends. 

Let  the  names  of  the  subscribers  and  your  own 
signature  be  written  plainly. 

In  making  up  a  club,  the  subscribers  may  He  at 
difTereot  post-officeS. 

Canada  subscribers  must  send  12  cents,  in  addi- 
tion to  subfecription,  for  postage. 

Before  writing  tis  a  letter  of  inquiry,  examine 
the  above  and  see  if  the  question  you  wish  to  ask 
is  nut  answered.  •  - 


/^^  Postage  on  "The  Lady's  Hove  Maca- 
EiMK  "  is  twelve  cents  a  year,  payable  at  the  office 
where  the  magasine  is  received. 


/a^  Clubs. — We  arg^  as  he retolbre,  upon  all 
who. are  going  to  make  up  oli»bs,  te  Iwgin  at  onosb 
Tho  sooner  you  begui,  the  easier  you  viU  ted  itt 


THR  GHIIjRRRBI'S  HOtTR. 

Bee  Prospectus  for  1873,  In  this  number.  The 
editor,  who  gives  his  most  earnest  work  to  this 
magatine,  striving  to  mak«  it  the  purest,  most 
attractive,  and  most  beautiful,  offers  it  to  all  who 
love  their  ohifdren,  and  who  desire  to  fill  their 
tender  minds  with  things  pure,  and  true,  and  good, 
as  a  wise  counsellor,  a  loving  fHead,  and  pleasant 
companion. 

THE  Hove  MAOAiiim  and  The  Childbsh's 
Hour  will  be  sent  one  year  for  $2.50. 


CIiI7BBfHe  VriTH  OTHSR  MAOAZIUBS. 

Home  Magasine  and  Children's  Hour,     .     .  $2.50 
Home  Msgazine  and  Lady's  Book,     .     .     .    IM 
Home  Magatine,  Lady's  Book,  and   Chil- 
dren's Hour, 5.(W 

Lady's  Book  and  Children's  Hour,      .    .    .    3.50 


ANOTHRR  BAD  BOOBl. 

Ouida's  new  story,  "FoUe-Farine,"  is  thus  dis- 
posed of  by  the  Chrittian  Union  : 

"  As  a  disclosure  of  the  abysses  of  anguish  and 
despair  which  materialism  is  opening  out  to  iti 
followers,  this  fiction  has  a  possible  use;  bat  for 
ordinary  novel  readers,  and  oonsidering  the  strong 
power  which  favorite  authors  wield  over  their 
admirers,  we  most  say  in  IVssifciMsa— and  we 
measure  our  words — the  Indians  of  the  Upper 
Oxiaooo,  with  their  cwrore,  a  film  of  which,  on  a 
pin's  point,  oarrles  inataat  death,  distil  not  a  mors 
fatal  poison  than  is  concealed  within  the  pages  of 
this  book  of 'Ouida's.'" 


MoTHBitBOOD.-*-''  It  would  somotimea  seem,"  says 
Mrs.  Stowe,  ''  as  if  motherhood  were  a  lovely  srti- 
ftce  of  the .  great  Father  to  wean  the  heart  from 
selfishness  by  a  peaeeful  aad  gradual  process.  The 
i»abe  is  self  in  aaother  form.  It  is  so  inUrwoven 
and  identified  with  themothor's  lifo,  that  she  pssMS 
by  almost  insensible  gradations  from  herself  to  it; 
and  day  by  day  the  iastinotive  love  of  self  waaei 
as  the  child-love  waze«»  filling  the  heart  with  s 
thousand  new  springs  of  tonderness." 

JHThiskt  Ai  a  Mbdicoib. — A  gentleman  in  Wash^ 
ington,  apparently  in  a  deoliae,  called  in  one  of 
the  most  eminent  physieians,  but  as  he  did  net 
rapidly  recover,  he  told  the  physician  that  whisky 
had  been  reoommanded  to  him,  and  asked  if  it 
would  do  any  good.  "Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "ii 
would  help  you."  **  W  hy,  then,  do  you  not  give  itf ' 
said  the  siok  man.  **  Baeause  i  have  given  it  to  a 
dosea  geatlevan,aad  all  hM'e  beoome  dronkaida" 

I  HAVE  had  the  Orover  A  Bahef  Family  Sswhig 
Machine  about  ten  years.  It  has  bean  a  rare  prise. 
I  have  nut  paid  out  a  siagla  dollar  fur  repain.  ^ 
is  su  simple,  snd  the  ititoh  so  durable^  thai  X  weohl 
not  ohange  it  ier  any  other. 

Uith  AL  B.  Fmai^  7(»3  Baparior  Bu,  Cltrelsnd. 


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KEPT  IN. 


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A  MERRY   CHRISTMAS. 

An  Jllustf^ation   ff^m   i.The   Childf^en's  fioui\j_" 

SEE  PROSPECTUS. 


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^^^ 


LULU'S    COMPLAINT. 


BY  HESTER  A.  BENEDICT. 


!*■  ft  poor  *lttle  •orrowfVil  Iwby, 
For  Bridget  la  ^wftT  down  •Utlrs; 

Mr  Utten  has  tatchea  mv  finder. 
And  D0U7  wonH  mj  her  p'ftyers. 

I  hftlaH  Men  mr  bootlftil  muninft 

Since  ever  so  ion*  mdo; 
▲n*  I  alnt  her  tnnnln^ett  Iwby 

No  londer,  for  Bridget  MUd  lo. 

Mr  ma*t  dot  mnoder  n«w  baby: 
Dod  dived  It— He  dld-ycsVrday, 

An'  it  kles.  It  kies,  oh  so  deffull 
I  wU'  Ue  woald  Ute  It  away. 

I  don't  want  no  **  tweet  Mttle  •later I** 
I  want  my  dood  mam^u^  I  do; 


I  want  her  to  tlM  me,  an*  tlsa  m^ 
An'  tall  me  her  p'eelous  Lulu  I 

I  dees  my  bid  pana  will  b'in*  me 
A  Mttle  dood  tlnen  tome  day. 

Here's  nar»e  wld  my  mammals  new  baby: 
I  wis'  s'e  would  tate  It  away. 

Oh.  oh,  what  tunnln'  yed  flndert^ 
It  sees  me  rite  out  o'  Its  eves! 

I  dess  we  will  teep  It.  and  dive  it 
Some  tauny  whenever  it  kies. 

I  dees  I  will  dive  It  my  Dolly 

To  play  wid  mos'  every  day: 
And  I  dess.  I  dess—   Bay,  B^dcct, 

As'  Dod  not  to  tote  it  away. 


Illustrations  from  ''The  Children's   Hour."    See  Prospectus, 


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F-ASHION  JDEP^RTMEISTT. 

FASHIONS  FOB  DECEMBER. 

December  fairly  inaagarateii  the  season  for  winter  liwhions.  Cloth,  yelrety  and  the  heayy  and  warm  wooUes 
>brics,  are  now  taking;  the  place  of  the  Itchter  materials  of  fall  wear. 

The  velvet  polonaise,  richly  made  and  trimmed,  is,  of  course,  the  most  stylish,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
lost  ezpennive  over-garment  that  can  be  worn.  But  for  the  vast  majority  or  womai,  whose  means  preclnd* 
le  posftibllity  of  velvet,  cloth  pelisses,  made  with  or  without  pelerine  capes,  or,  for  moderate  weather,  tbs 
umerous  varieties  of  jackets  in  cloth  or  cashmere,  embroidered,  will  recommend  themselves. 

Furs  are  the  next  consideration  in  a  winter  costume.  A  set  of  Airs  this  season  comprises  a  muff  soda 
>ngt  flat  boa.  Capes  or  collars  are  worn  by  elderly  ladies.  Jackets  will  be  worn  in  black  Astrachan  snd  sed* 
km.  Jackets  of  seal-skin,  bordered  with  black  martin,  will  be  popular.  These  Jackets  will  be  cut  paletot  in 
>rm,  cut  up  at  the  back  and  sides,  with  revers  in  front. 

Black  marten  will  supersede  mink  in  popular  favor.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiftal  ftirs  in  the  market,  lad 
t  the  same  time  one  of  the  cheapest 

Bonnets  of  velvet  are  always  the  most  s^lish  for  winter  wear.  They  will  be  worn  this  winter  In  varioss 
olors  to  match  the  dress,  though  there  is  nothing  that  <s  more  elegant  than  a  blaek  velvet  bonnet  Tbese 
Uter  may  be  worn  by  changing  the  aigrettes  to  suit  the  shade  of  the  accompanying  costume. 

The  large  square  veil  of  black  dotted  lace,  simply  thrown  over  the  bonne't  or  hat  end  fastened  al  the  ndc* 
3  folds  with  black  pins,  are  now  the  only  kind  worn,  with  the  exception  of  the  ordinary  ones  of  colored  nasB. 

Biaids  now  surround  the  broad  loose  colls,  and  a  jewelled  comb,  mounted  asa  coronet  is  worn  In  front  oftbm. 

The  all-wool  serges  are  excellent  materials  for  wear,  and  particularly  good  in  climates  where  a  good  doi 
•f  warmth  is  required.  Moreover,  they  are  not  expensive,  and  are  so  easily  made  by  ladies  having  a  seviog 
nachiue,  that  they  meet  nearly  all  the  requisites  for  a  serviceable,  economical  winter  costume.  The  ^Car 
nelite"  serge  is  the  most  desirable.  The  most  fashionable  method  now  of  making  them  is  with  askirtaod 
Mionaise,  whiah  also  simulates  a  basque.  They  are  trimmed  with  cross-cut  folds  of  the  same,  piped  with  nlk 
m  the  upper  edge. 

Very  neat  house  dresses  are  made  of  black  and  white  twilled  mohairs,  trimmed  with  folds  of  some  Usek 
roollen  material,  stitched  on  with  white.    White  cashmere,  embroidered  with  black,  is  very  distinguft. 

Verv  pretty  morning  dresses  of  twilled  flannel,  in  scarlet  and  blue,  are  displayed,  embroidered  with  whik 
vool.  They  are  of  the  French  gored  shape,  with  a  handsome  flower  pattern  embroidered  in  white  wool  don 
he  front  upon  the  wrists  of  the  sleeves,  and.  when  no  cape  is  added,  around  the  neck.  A  pelerine  espeii 
lometimes  added,  however,  beautifully  worked  to  match,  and  a  belt,  with  or  without  sash  ends,  is  always  attscoed. 

Crape  overdresses  for  evening  wear  are  richly  embroidered  this  season,  and  then  bordered  with  firingeor 
Spanish  blonde.  Some  evening  dresses  have  as  many  as  two  or  three  overdresses  of  tulle  or  crape;  bat  fee 
ire  made  m  silk  like  the  dress,  as  it  is  rightly  considered  a  waste  of  material.  A  trimming  upon  the  long  skill 
low  frequently  simulates  an  upper  skirt 

We  copy  the  following,  in  relation  to  the  probable  prevailing  styles  for  opera  and  concert  wear,  from  Da* 
■e»r«  Magazine  of  Fn»hion: "  Of  course  opera  dress,  especially  during  the  early  part  of  the  season,  is -never  to  be 
M>n9idered  the  same  as  ball,  or  what  is  termed  'fUfl'  evening  dress.  Later,  when  large  parties  and  balls  u* 
tiimerous,  ladies  not  unf^equently  drop  in  to.  the  opera,  on  their  way  to  the  festivity,  where  their  preseoeeli 
M>t  required  until  later  in  tlie  evening,  m  which  case  their  dress  is  of  a  more  elaborate  description.  Ordiosrilf. 
inwever,  the  handsome  silk  dinner  dress,  with  its  beautiful  lace  ornaments,  or  pretty  fichu,  is  considered 
Iress  sufficient  with  a  rich  white  or  scarlet  embroidered  opera  cloak  as  a  wrap. 

"The  vests,  and  collars  of  exquisite  lace,  and  the  immense  variety  of  charming  capes,  and  dainty  finishimp 
in  mnsltn  and  lace,  are  a  most  welcome  addition  to  the  toilet  for  opera  and  concert  purposes.  They  *  dress  ap' 
1  soft  neutral,  or  delicate  tinted  silk  in  a  wonderful  way,  and  are  most  becoming  to  young  as  well  as  older 
ladies.  They  are  still  modelled  on  the  pelerine  style,  varied  by  taste  and  skill.  A  new  and  very  efllsetiN 
design  consists  of  rows  of  white  guipure  on  a  Brussels  net  foundation,  separated  by  nanow  insertions,  tbreogli 
which  chenille  is  run,  or  narrow  velvet. 

"  Concert  dress  only  dllTers  from  opera  dress,  in  the  bonnet  being  almost  untfbrmly  retained,  and  walkiai 
costumes  sanctioned.  Recently,  however,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  add  a  request  mr  *full  evening  drwi^' 
which  means  no  bonnets,  to  the  invitations  to  very  fashionable  concerts.'* 

COSTUMES  FOR  EARLY  WINTER.  {Sae  doubU^xiM  BHgravma.)  ' 
No.  1.— Home  dress  for  a  miss,  arranged  with  a  skirt  of  bright  Scotch  plaid,  bordered  with  a  bla8,ki»' 
plaited  flounce,  headed  with  a  bias  fold  i  and  an  overdress  of  black  alpaca  or  cashmere,  braided  with  »cs^ 
let  souUche.  The  skirt  of  the  overdress  is  full  and  draped  very  high  at  the  sides,  the  back  fklling  witho* 
looping.  The  plaited  waist  is  buttoned  down  the  centre  of  the  back,  and  a  handsome  plaid  sash  completes  ton 
thoroughly  practical  suit. 

No.  2.—Costume  de  promenade  in  dark  stone-colored  Empress-cloth,  trimmed  with  bands  and  plsitlngsof 
the  material,  bound  with  heavy  gros-grain  silk  ot  the  same  color.  The  design  of  the  skirt  trimming  is  very 
simple,  yet  stylish,  and  can  be  easily  copied.  The  Polonaise  Is  illustrated  separately  on  the  reverse  of  the  don- 
be  page.  Turban  of  a  new  shape,  trimmed  with  velvet,  gros-grain  silk  and  ostrich  tips  of  the  same  shads,  tb« 
difrerence  in  the  materials  causing  an  apparent  dlfferenee  in  the  shades. 

No.  3.— A  simple,  graceful,  stylish  walking  costume,  in  deep  plom-colored  satine,  trimmed  with  broad  bsnds 
of  blaek  velvet  handsome  bullion  fringe  and  braiding.    The  overskirt  has  the  gracefully  draped  apron  so  be- 
coming to  slender  figures.  susUined  at  the  sides  by  velvet  sashes,  and  is  slighUy  looped  just  back  of  the  itm  ^ 
1  he  jacket  is  ii^niversally  becoming,  and  is  fitted  with  one  dart  in  each  front    Th^  overskirt  and  jacket  cooW 
"'  ^'  "  '  >ly  made  in  cashmere  or  satine,  trimmed  aa  fllnatrated. '     '  "'" 

good  style  for  one  for  house  wear. 


be  very  ef^ctively  snd  appropriately  made  in  cashmere  or  satine,  trimmed  aa  fllaatoated,  to  be  womwiUit 
variety  of  skirts.    The  jacket  is  a  goc  *       ■     -  -     • 


HATS  AND  BONNETS  FOR  WINTER. 

No.  1.— A  gray  felt  turban  of  a  new  shape,  the  brim  turned  up  all  around,  and  the  crown  perfectly  flat  on  the 
top  and  inclined  toward  the  f^ont  The  garniture  consi.sts  of  alternate  folds  of  garnet  and  gray  silk,  dieposed 
straight  around  the  brim,  and  a  double-twisted  rouleau  of  garnet  and  gray  silk  placed  along  the  edge  of  tM 
crown,  on  the  top.  terminating  in  the  back  in  a  full  cluster  of  garnet  and  gray  plumes,  f^om  underneath  whieb 
a  long  sash  of  gra^  silk,  trimmed  with  rich  fringe,  falls  over  the  shoulders. 

No.  2.— A  particularly  bfcoming  bonnet  of  gray,  uncut  velvet  the  crown  high  and  straight,  and  thebria 
and  small  curtain  slightly  drooping.  Alternate  folds  of  gray  velvet  and  uncut  velvet  finish  the  edge  and  so> 
round  the  crown,  which  is  surmounted  by«  high,  soft  puff.  The  garniture  Is  all  placed  on  the  right  side, 
almost  directly  in  the  back,  and  consists  ox^a  tali  cluster  of  gray  plumes  surrounding  a  large  blue  satin  flo*<r, 
t[om  which  depend  long,  trailing  sprays. 

No.  3.— A  front  view  of  No.  2. 

No.  4.— A  charming  hat  in  Marie  Louise  blue  corded  sttk,  the  crown  formed  of  a  high,  soft jMifl;  and  the 
brmi  drooping  at  the  sides  and  in  fi'ont  but  turned  up  in  the  back.  The  trimming  consists  of  a  loose  roaiesB 
of  silk,  surmounted  by  black  Chantilly  lace,  which  proceeds  from  the  large  silk  bow  on  the  left  side,  acrosstM 
front  and  right  side  to  a  clust««r  of  black  ostrich  tips  which,  with  the  long  streamers  of  black  gros-grsin  ribbos, 
complete  the  garniture  in  the  back. 

So.  6.— Black  velvet  bonnet  with  a  fbll,  pufTed  crown,  a  rather  deep  curUin  formed  of  blaek  lace,  and  ttj 
brim  turned  from  the  face  in  fi-ont  leaving  room  for  a  fnll-facnd  trimming  of  ruohed  lace  and  a  fUll-Wown  pw* 
rose.  A  heavy  rouleau  of  velvet  entirely  encircles  the  bonnet  between  rows  of  black  ChantUly  lace  snd  stoR 
of  hlack  ostrich  tips  on  the  right  side  toward  the  front  and  two  velvet  tabs  tn  the  back  comblete  the  garartaw- 
Long  velvet  bndea,  edged  on  one  side  with  wide  lace,  tied  low  down,  and  narrow  Ue«trings  of  pink  ribbOB. 


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Swift    fades  the  land  I  love  be   •   hind 
Where  -  e'er  my  cru-el  fate  shall     guide 


Bae,       Th«  ra    -    -    ging  sea  be-tore  me 

me»       Mj  heart  for  thee  shall  er-er 


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<^   /- 


lies.  The    drea-ry  vHnd,  socold-ly  blow-    ing,' But  e-choes  back  mvmoumftil 

burn,  Jx^      mem*-rythQ'X      oft  may  see        thee,  A-las  1  for  methere^ano    re- 


ff 


i 


a 


^-^ 


m 


z:az 


t=c=az 


sighs, 
torn. 


May        Heav'n  watch     o'er.' 
May        ^eareo^^lc. . 


the*,    while     &r,  •  while 


VOL.  xxxvm.— 21. 


Digitized  by 


«ogle 


314 


g^ 


ABTSUB'B  LADY'S  SO  MX  MA9AZISB. 


^ 


tefejc 


^^^^ 


m 


'far    from  th«e  I 


tC- 


roam. 


Fare  -  well,  thoa  land  where  hope  is  blighted,        Ftee- 


^^r=^^jfff^^f    J    If    J'J  .,||^^ 


well    mj&iherUnd,m7hoiiM,  Fare  •  well  thouland  where  hope  is  blighted.  Fare- 


Wn^  -^i^ 


i=i 


i 


i 


^   J.    .TtJ!^ 


m 


^ 


atftit 


^ 


^  ;  u 


■o^ 


well     my  tktherland,  my  home.  Fare  •   well  mj  fatherland,  my  home,        Fare-well  my 


Fath  •  er^land,         my  home. 


^'■i    i     iJi'JiJilJiljig^lj  ,,IJ' 


m 


-X^ 


3^^ 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


Arthde's  LADrs  Home  magazine. 


DECEMBER,   1871. 


IN  SUNSHINE  AND  NOT  IN  SHADOW. 


BY  T.  S.  AJITHTTB. 


TWO  meD,  Danned  FMrohild  and  >(ar|in, 
walked  homeward  together  at  the  clofla  of 
an  aalunm  day.  •  Their  f tores  weve  in  tbe  same 
block,  and  4h^  were  businees  friieiida.    . 

Fairohildwaa.ooe  of  your,  bright,  ohflfry 
men,  who  have  a  9111  Ue  aod  .a..{4ea9i^nt  word 
for  every  one ;  wtule  Martin .  wa^l  resery^, 
l»ooding,  and  quiet 

^'  Oome  in,  and  let  »e  phow  you  a  pictare  I 
bought  at  Eurle's  inelFeek,"  md  J^^irohUd^aa 
jhe  paneed  at  the  ddor  of  hi»<heiBte.. 

"Thank  you  I  B^tr  pot' thjis  evening. ; , Some 
other  time  I  will  be  pleaied  to  look  at  it,''. re- 
plied Ilfortia,  as  he  moTed>fotFwiu?d«i 

But  his  firiend  laid  a  band  on  his  ariik  and 
sfiid :  '*  Gome ;  I  want  you  tp  ^e  it  nowif  and 
drew  him  toward  the  deor^  Hartin  yielded^ 
and  went  in  to  see  ti^e  ptctvuie. 

As  they  entered,  Mr.  Fairduld  talking  in 
his  animated  way,  and  sendii]^  his  voice  along 
the  hall^  there  came  to  the  ears  of  Martin  the 
glad  cries  of  children  and  the  quick  .pattering 
o£  liitle  feet.  In  «  moikieiit  .his  friend  was  snr» 
rounded  by  a  happy  group  of  ohildven^  all  so 
glad  to  see  him  Uttt  .the^  could  not  jr^rtrftin 
their  feelings  eveki  iki  the  ]^8e8ence^of  a  Mnmger* 
The  mother,  soon  joiSMd  thrar,  with  her  fiioe 
aglow  with  welcocoifig  snitUea. 

«My  Inead  Mr.  Martin/',  rndd:  Fnixuhiid. 
^  I  want  hin^  to  see  our  iiew  picture*""  > 

Mn«  FaircMld.  rocaived  ^liin.w^!  a  (frank, 

easy  grace,  and  then  gRthariug  then^ii^  obil' 

'  drpn  about  her,  drew  tlifai  baek4Q.tbe.n.«ttery, 

leaving  her  .hnaband  aiid .  hlM  friend  to  look  at 

•  ihepulntttig,  ,...    •   •   ••,.;■'>.> 

But  MaKiQ  did  not  see  mitdbkin  the  picture 
to  interest  hijto,  fine'  aa  ilt>icai^i;>r  there  hlul 
been  et|ddenly  unfolded  4o  Mn  |^a»  a>  living 
pietare;  and  though  aai  suddenly  jtithdrawn, 
ite-photognqphed  image!  >wsas.«a  diafinettohis 
ininurd  eyeis  aa  thttieiafnetttBa  had  boan/tothe 
outward 


As  be  walked  slowly  homeward,  Martin 
gazed  and  gazed  in  a.  kind  of  wonder^g  be- 
wilderment on  this  picture.  A,  feeling. of  sad- 
ness, c^pt  into  his  heart.  Why?  Wa?  there 
no  music  of  children's  voices  in  his  home?  no 
hurrying  of  lilrtle  feet  whei)  he^  crppeed  the 
thrcfthoW? 

,  Tl\ere  were  childien'^a  voices  there,  but  they 
..were  hushed  at  his  coming.  His  presence  i^ell 
.9ppn  his  home,  oftener  in  shftdp^iP  than,  in  Bun- 
shine.  Why?  Was  there  no  love  in,  the 
.  leitjber's  heart  7    It  was!  foil  of  lpve^but»  alas  I 

^.  xepresRed  by  a  reserved  temperament,  and 
pyerlaid  with  the.  parfea  of  bosineas,  whicl^ — 
£>9Jish  man'l— h«^  cai^ri^  boine  with  him  ^ 
often.    He  was  hux^gry  for  children's  loving 

.  fareeses,.  but  with  astrange^  cold  repression  of 
manner  held  his  pwn  dear  on^  mray&om  li^im. 
They  could  not  get.  near  thefatl^er  .^hose  ^eart 
was  ftdl  of  coneealfd  teaderness*. 

Mr^  Martin  did  upt  know  thpiliit  was.all>is 
own  fault..  "My  children  are  not  Ijkeio^er 
ohildisep,"  he  had. 0^^' said, to  hionelf.  ,  .  ,. 
,  .  ''Ah,'if  I  a>uldl  ^d  a  :frMcoine  hom^lil^Le 
that  I"  he  iugh^,t  as  he  jioKxved  sloirlr  ^ Ws^ . 
:  Then.  >tt!cfane  .into  the^  mftn's  tib/paght  ti^at 
.ptaybe' he  might  b^.H  little  to.bl^nifiTr-that  ba 
didruot  always  take  hooi^  ^ith  him  j^  che^rfiil 

Jlpirit  Hei  tried  to  pu^b  ti^a  thou^taway, 
but. it  woiUd  not  be  ^et.aaidp  of  repressed.  .,A 
picture  of  the  way  hi»  enteceii  hi»  bopae-rsiJ/Bpt, 
neaerised,  and  celd^aAd  the  chc«ry  n^anqer  in 
whieh  he.  had  seen  Mr.iFnirehild  enter^^s, 
stood  side,  by  jdde  in.  ibJA  Imf^ationy  and  the 
contrast  waa;  very. fllrikiag»:  .  .      > 

;  t  AtDd  DoveiheMal-laalhfbc^ti  to  dawn  upon 

..hiamind*  J9e  waa>s.|9reatfdfal«morein.iiQlt 
than  he  badibr  fU'inalant  Auiciad.  .  Lovfland 
gladocaa  awaited  'hifai  at  h9teepbut  .hl^  had,  jip 
•o  thia  tiflsa,  ahiil  up  alKtb^debri  o£  entnMce 
to  hia  hearty  aad  batied  them  eut-»Qr^  il  he 
had  opened  aagr  oltlMdooti)Jn.lMd,heldtkifm 

Digitized  by  CjOtjgie 


316 


ARTHUR'S   LADT'8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


10  little  aj&r  that  only  a  few  stray  beams  were 
permitted  to  come  in.  He  saw  and  felt  this 
now.  ,    . 

It  is  no  eagy  diing  foi-  %  man  to  break  up  a 
oc^d,  repressed  eltariot,  ^ro#n  harcf  by  hmg  ' 
habit — to  change  his  manner  at  home,  where 
one  is  so  apt  to  be  too  really  himself  good, 
bad,  or  indiflerent-— to  let  his  feelingf  put  on 
their  true  ezterioi^-to  be  moody  when  one  is 
moody,  reserved  when  one  feels  a  little  dull,  or 
irritable  when  the  mind  is  in  any  way  fretted. 
Ontside,  we  conceal  our  defects  and  unamiable 
peculiaritieB,  bat  let  them  come  forth  too  often 
at  home. 

So  it  had  been  with  Mr.  Martin ;  and  this 
&Gt  was  growing  more  and  more  distinct  in  his 
thonght  Now,  this  waking  up  to  a  oonsdons- 
ness  of  haying  been  seriously  at  fault  was  not 
calculated  to  give  his  mind  a  more  cheerful 
tone.  He  felt  rebuked,  and  a  little  ashamed  of  i 
himself.  Pride  was  hurt  To  go  home  in  just 
the  frame  of  mind  this  new  awakening  had 
produced  would  not,  he  saw  instinctively,  help 
matters.  His  feelings  were  under  a  cloud; 
how,  then,  was  his  presence  at  home  to  Ining 
sun^ine? 

For  full  half  an  hour  Martin  walked  the 
streets,  battling  all  the  while  with  the  old 
moody  demon  that  had  so  long  possessed  him, 
but  not  getting  the  victory.  At  last,  taming 
his  feet  resolutely  homeward,  he  said  tp  him- 
self, with  a  kind  of  desperate  self-will:  *'ril 
act  a  part,  if  I  can  do  no  better  T' 

Then  he  tried  to  think  of  what  he  should 
say,  and  how  he  should  act,  and  before  he 
had  reached  his  door  the  programme  was  set- 
tled. It  was  simple  enough.  He  woald  pick 
up  little  Kate,  and  give  her  a  hug  and  a  kiss 
twice  as  fervent  «9  usual ;  he  would  put  his  arm 
about  Nelly,  his  oldest  child,  and  say  some- 
thing kind  and  tender;  he  would  throwa  play- 
fol,  familiar  word  at  Ben,  the  shy  boy,  who 
ooald  never  get  very  near  to  his  Ikther,  and 
apeak  in  a  cheery  way  to  his  good  and  faithful 
wife,  whom  he  loved  with  a  purer  and  dee|ier 
love  thUn  even  she  imagined. 

There  was  not  mock  heart  in  all  this,  for  it 
wad  against  a  bad  habit  of  feeling,  long  in- 
dulged; bat  Mr.  Maidn  saw  the  right,  and  hii 
mind  was  nuule  up  to  do  die  right. 

The  hand  that  hei4  hi«  lalch  kef  tremUed  % 
little^  hot  he  opened  th^door  of  his  hooM  ahd 
walked  in  with  a  flxaa  sl^.  How  quiet  all 
: inlet  He  set  Ut  fait'dowA  heavily,  coughed 
•load,  And  in  other  ways  gaite  aedse  of  his 
presenoe.  But  bo  glad  voiass  of  ddldrin,  no 
p4t«eri]lg«f;U«aefee^hiiMlyatomiBg.  Hi« 


heart  sunk  a  little,  and  beat  more  heavily.  If 
Katy  had  come  running  down  the  stairs  at  that 
moment,  he  WQuld  have  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
an^  hi^gged  ber  i^il&  in^prtssible  em<ltion. 
Bal  \kk  ichM^,  thoagh  she  heard  her  fether 
enter,  did  not  stir  from  where  she  sat  with  her 
mother. 

Martin  walked  briskly  up  the  stairs  that  led 
to  the  femily  sitting-room,  using  great  mental 
self-compulsion.  His  programme  must  be 
carried  out  I  It  could  but  fell.  He  threw  open 
the  door  with  onusnal  quickness,  and,  stepping 
in,  said  in  a  light,  playful  voice :  "  Why,  how 
•till  you  all  are  I"  at  the  same  time  lifting  little 
Katy  in  his  arms,  and  giving  her  the  warmot 
hug  and  kiss  riie  ever  remembered  to  have  le- 
cdved. 

Now,  it  was  marvelloos  the  instant  change 
his  pleasant  words  and  loving  act  wrought  in 
thi|t  room.  It  was  as  if  a  broad  sweep  of  sun- 
light had  come  Into  it  with  a  sudden  illominap 
tion.  His  am  was  soon  about  Nelly's  wais^ 
whose  countenance  put  on  the  new  beauty  of 
gladncM.  After  that  all  was  easy,  becanae 
natural  and  horn  Che  heart.  He  did  not  cany 
out  his  programme  in  literal  exactness,  bo^ 
what  was  much  better,  let  his  new*born  im- 
pulsee  express  themselvea  as  they  wonld-Hiot 
in  any  marked  excess,  bat  with  a  genuine 
warmth  and  heartiness  that  all  felt  to  be  real 

It  was  a  sweet  episode  in  life-— that  evenbg. 
All  felt  its  peaee  and  satiifection— none  more 
deeply  than  Mr.  MarUn.  The  good-night 
kisses  that  were  pressed  on  his  lips  lay  there 
so  warm  and  pleasant,  and  with  such  a  new 
flavor,  that  he  oould  not  sle^  fer  etjoymeDt 
until  long  after  retiring. 

On  the  next  evening  Martin,  as  he  tuned 
his  steps  homeward,  felt  a  dull  pressure  on  hie 
feelings.  The  old  bad  habit  of  mind  had  re- 
turned, and  he  did  not  feel  equal  to  the  effitft 
required  to  thfow  it  o£  Tlie  very  consdooe- 
ness  of  this  state  made  it  worse.  As  he  stood 
with  hie  hand  on  the  door  of  his  home,  ready 
to  push  it  open,  he  hesitated  to  go  in. 

'^  I  shall  bring  ahadow,  and  not  sunshine^** 
he  said  in  his  thoughts. 

Then  he  swmig  open  the  door,  and  stepp^l 
into  the  halL  Boarcely  had  he  done  so^  when 
a  glad  cry  from  little  Katy  came  ringing  down 
the  suirft,  aod  in  the  next  momebt  she  was  in 
his  ams,  hogging  and  kisibg  hiuL  What 
lees  than  hugs  and  kkafeaeould  he  give  hi  le- 
torn?  itwiuaaifthet^poieeofaneleotiic 
hatletyi  JmA  tauehed.  Love  went  in  isvift 
ourrent  tk>'th4  tether's  hearty  and  back  agwio  ^ 
Kat/s,  in  delicioos  thrills. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


AN  EVEIfING    SCENE. 


817 


Half  blindly,  half  oonscioufdj,  Mr.  Martin, 
with'Katj  in  his  arms,  went  up  to  the  fiunily 
aittini^room.  Nelly  met  him  with  a  bright 
countenance  and  a  loving  kiaa  at  the  door,  .and 
shy  Benny  drew  dose  to  his  Bide,  and  looked 
up  wistfully  in  his  face. 

Ail  was  eai^  now.  He  pat  his  arms  tenderly 
about  Nelly,  spoke  cheerily  to  the  boy,  and 
laid  an  unusual  kiss  on  the  lips  of  his  wife. 
Ah]  that  ki«  was  sweeter  to  her  heart  than 
he  imagined.  It  made  his  face  radiant  for 
hoars. 

Another  evening  of  frank  and  easy  social 
life  blessed  the  home  which  had  been  growing 
oold  and  dreary  so  long.  Little  Katy,  who 
had  usually  kept  at  a  distance  from  her  father, 
wont  to  sleep  in  his  arms,  and  Nelly  got 
her  chair  as  close  to  his  as  she  could  draw 
it  while  she  studied  her  lessons  for  the  next 
day. 

After  Eaty  was  asleep,  Mrs.  Martin  asked 
Nelly  to  play  something  for  her  £ither.  She 
h»d  been  ti^og  lessons  for  over  a  year,  but 
Mr.  Martin  had  never  shown  any  interest  in 
her  progress,  and  did  not  really  know  whether 
she  had  any  taste  or  skill  in  music 

Nelly  went  to  the  piano^  and,  to  her  father*s 
great  surprise  and  pleasure  played  for  him  an 
old  familiar  piece  that  took  him  back  many 
years — back  to  his  Other's  house  when  he 
was  a  boy.  His  eyes  were  wet  when  her 
fingers  rested,  and  the  old  melodies  died  on 
the  air. 

The  hearty  praise  that  fSell  from  Mr.  Martin's 
lips  was  as  pleasant  a  surprise  to  Nelly  as  had 
been  her  skill  in  performance  and  her  choice  of 
music  to  her  father. 

For  an  hour  Nelly  played  and  sang,  giving 
as  pure  a  delight  to  one  who  had  not  dreamed 
of  the  sources  of  pleasure  tha)  lay  at  his  very 
foet|  as  he  had  ever  known. 

It  was  not  so  hard  afterwards  for  Mr.  Martin 
to  repress  his  old  moody  states  in  returning 
home.  He  came  now  in  sunshine  and  not  in 
shadow,  with .  cheeiy  words  and  not  in  repres- 
sive silence^  and  it  was  like  day-d&wn  to  the 
bix4^  awaking  eveiy  heart  to  music 


of  penoB  pmnotes 
of  body,  and  this  in  turn  naturally,  begets 
purity  of  mind  and  moral  elevalioib  Such 
I  arequile  as  mveh  ooooened  inihsving 
L  M'.tidjf  and  «•  cleim.  as 
the  outer  and  theTisible;  tiieyaiApiire  fh»m 
piilUUJpK  ftot  policy^  • 


AN  EVENING  SCENE. 

BY  STSVADSON  ▲.  HAIL. 

EINK,  and  parple,  and  gold, 
Gold,  and  purple,  and  pink, 
The  oloads  far  baok  on  the  skies  are  rolled. 
The  son  his  long  day's  work  has  told 
In  time's  eAains  another  link. 

Lovely  Is  all  o'erhead. 

Lovely  Is  all  below, 
The  woods  in  Uving  green  are  spread, 
The  ground  with  flowers  is  oarpetod, 

And  the  winds  ace  whispering  low. 

The  west  is  aU  aglow 

With  many  a  varied  hoe, 
In  many  streams  the  beauties  flow, 
Crimsoning,  coloring  all  below^ 

Changing  the  old  to  new. 

The  moon,  with  blashing  face, 

Now  smiles  down  on  the  scene. 
And  one  by  one,  throagh  the  mighty  space, 
The  stars  steal  out  and  take  their  plaoe, 

Smiling  at  their  queen. 

From  over  the  shaded  stream. 

Sleeping  so  calm  and  stfll. 
Like  music  in  a  dream^ 
As  soft  as  a  lover's  theme. 

Comes  the  voioe  of  a  whippoorwilL 

Pink,  and  purple,  and  gold, 

Gold,  and  purple,  arid  pink. 
Slowly  away  from  sight  have  rolled. 
Many  more  stars  into  sight  have  strolled. 

And  twinkle,  and  smile,  and  blink. 

The  skies  have  darker  grown, 

The  moon  still  brighter  shines. 
The  wind  has  taken  a  solemn  tone, 
Now  stopping  awhile,  then  murmuring  on. 

Swaying  the  leafy  vines. 

the  katydid's  soft  song 

Sounds  i^p  in  the  dark  old  trees. 
Now  whispering  lew,  then  swelling  strong. 
It  rises  and  fUls,  and  is  borne  along. 
Dying  with  the  breese. 

Gold,  and  parple,  and  pink. 

Pink,  and  parpk,  and  gold, 
la  the  ehains  of  tiflM  is  another  link. 
The  sun  has  sank  in  the  night's  dark  brink— 

Aqother  day  is  told. 


Eat  and  drink  in  order  to  live,  instead  of 
linng|/ip  mmj  iot  ^  ^fttnnd  dzink» 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


HEBOIO  WOMEN  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 


THE  LADY  ALICE  LISLE. 

r^  WM  late  on  a  dark  summer'a  night,  the 
day  following  the  diBattrons  field  of  Sedge- 
moor,  on  which  the  forces  of  the  king,  under 
the  incapable  voloptoaiy  FerctBham,  had  an- 
nihilated the  rebel  army  of  Monmouth,  owing 
scarcely  less  to  the  incapacity  and  want  of 
judgment  of  the  leader  himself,  than  to  the 
cowardice  of  his  general  of  the  horse,  Lord 
Gray,  of  Werk.  The  sce^e  lay  amid  the 
wooded  hills  of  Hampshire,  or  that  skirt  of 
the  country  which  is  nearest  to  the  confines  of 
Wiltshire.  The  weather  was  wild  and  stormy, 
though  in  the  height  of  hummer,  the  wind 
blowing  very  freshly  in  heavy  gusts  from  the 
south-west,  with  occasional  squalls  of  sharp, 
driving  rain.  The  skies  were  very  dim  and 
gloomy,  although  the  moon  was  nearly  at  the 
full,  so  densely  were  they  overlaid  with  masses 
of  thick  gray  douds,  drifting  onward,  still  on- 
ward, layer  above  layer^  before  the  driving 
storm,  so  as  to  blot  the  stars  entirely  from  the 
Tieible  firmament,  and  only  at  times,  to  suflTer 
a  faint  lack-lustre  gleam  of  the  wading  moon 
to  struggle  through  the  rifts  of  the  changeful 
vapors.  Dark,  however,  and  inauspicious  as 
the  night  would  have  been  pronounced  by  oi^ 
dinary  wayfarers,  it  was  yet  hailed,  for  the 
causes  which  would  have  rendered  it  obnox- 
ious to  others,  by  two  pedestrians,  who,  seem- 
ingly almost  overdone  with  fktigue,  travel- 
stained,  and  splashed  from  head  to  foot  with 
fifty  different  shades  of  mud  and  clay,  con* 
tinned  to  plod  sturdily  though  slowly  onward, 
through  the  half-forest  scene,  amid  which  ran 
the  narrow  and  unfrequented  country  road  by 
which  they  were  travelling. 

One  of  these  men,  though  he  carried  osten- 
sibly no  arms,  nor  wore  any  of  the  fegular 
trappings  or  insignia  of.  the  soldieVi  had  yet 
something  in  his  port,  carriage,  and  demeanor, 
which  at  once  indiealed,  to  an  experienced 
eye,  that  his  proper  ]|>ro4eBskN]  was  that  of 
arms.  His  broad*  leafed  hat  wtm  ornamented 
with  a  band  and  feather,  and  though  he  was 
on  foot  he  wore  high  horseman's  boots,  from 
which,  either  in  his  haate  or  forgetftilneBB,  he 
had  n^lected  to  remove  a  pair  of  heavy 
spuft. 
The  other  person  wurokler,  leM  ttUeticf  in 
818 


his  build,  and  .was  evidently  tu  more  wearisd 
than  his  stouter  companion,  and  it  was  with 
pain  and  difficulty  that  he  straggled  MAj 
through  the  deep  mire  and  broken  rats  of  the 
ill-rode  country  road.  He  was  dreased  in 
black,  with  the  band  of  a  NonoonfMiniat 
clergyman  about  his  neck,  and  tlie  doee-fittbg 
black  skull-cap,  which  had  procured  for  \m 
sect  the  contemptuous  name  of  crop-ear,  under 
his  steeple-crowned  hat. 

"  It  is  nouse,**  he  aid,  at  length,  after  Btmib 
bling  two  or  thrae  times  so  badly  that  he  had 
an  bat  fallen;  •<I  cm  go  no  fhrther.  Though 
my  life  depended  on  it,  I  could  not  go  anodier 
mile." 

"Your  life  doeb  depend  on  it,*'  replied  the 
othijr,  shortly;  "of  a  surety  the  avenger  of 
blood  is  dose  to  our  heels,  and  the  broad 
swords  of  the  Blues  are  just  as  thirsty  for  the 
blood  of  a  preacher  of  the  Word,  whom  th^ 
call  a  trumpeter  of  sedition,  as  to  that  of  a 
J  -man  at  arms.  Up !  up !  friend,  and  onwaad  1 
Oive  me  your  arm  and  let  me  lead  you ;  nay  I 
if  It  must  neede  be,  I  will  carry  yon.  Per  the 
house  of  the  wbman  of  Israel,  whom  men  call 
the  Lady  Alice,  cannot  but  be  lithin  a  short 
half  mile,  and  there  shall  we  have  shdter,  for 
the  asking,  until  this  tyranny  be  overpast" 

The  preacher,  who  had  sat  down  utterly  ex- 
hausted on  a  bank  by  the  wayside,  replied 
only  with  a  groan  to  this  friendly  exhortation, 
but  he  arose  to  makeanodierefibrt  for  hia  lii^ 
and  with  the  assistance  of  the  stalwart  arm  of 
his  younger  and  hardier  companion,  toiled  on- 
ward up  a  steepish  ascent  whibh  lay  befoi« 
them,  stumbling  at  every  step,  and  dedariog 
his  inability  to  proceed  eveh  fbr  the  sake  of 
life. 

As  they  arrived,  however,  at  the  summit  of 
tii^  hiir,  a  glimmering  Ytght  met  theh-  eyes, 
seen  faintly  and  it  intervals  through  the  ibli- 
age  of  the  thick  woodlands,  which  filled  the 
slopes  and  bottom  tyfvnnall  htpoflandhito 
which  they  were  descending,  watered  by  a 
rapid  and  tmiultiwiis  bfook,  ewollen  by  the 
reeent  rains,  whoMmarmttri  came  up  to  thair 
ears  heavrieaad  nenaciag; 

^'fitsaten  bepndiedr  •KefadmedtheaoMier, 
as  he  saw  the  tMMy  glwun,  ^ire  aveaav«lt 
That  light  homaitt  the  lattiee  df  the  Lad^tfae 
pious  reUct  Q^  the  Ood-tering  patriot  Mm 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


SEROIQ    WOMEN   OF   TEE   OLDJSK   TIME. 


319 


LJsle.  Tb»  0oonds  of  ftlw  brook  made  me  aoN 
of  it.  Gooragey  mj  Mend  (  a  Hbw  more  etepey 
and  our  toil*  a&d  perik  shall  be  over." 

*'God  Bend  it  be  bo/'  laid  the  preacher. 
**  Bat  think  jou  ahe  shall  give  us  shelter  when 
she  knows  who  we  are,  and  fiom  what  deed 
we  oome  ?  " 

**  Ay,  do  I  r'  replied  the  other,  confidently. 
**  There  is  that  in  the  heart  of  Alice  Lisle  that 
would  not  safer  her  to  yield  up  even  her  most 
deadly  enemy  to  the  sword  of  the  pursuer. 
She  is  all  woman  charity,  and  saintly  tender- 
neea  and  men^.  Besides,  for  her  there  is 
little  danger;  she  is  known  throngh  the  land 
for  her  loyalty,  and  for  her  deeds  of  love  to 
the  Cbvaliem  in  the  days  of  their  tribulation. 
No  one  by  h^  prayers  and  intercession,  nay  I 
by  her  active  aid,  saved  more  lives  of  the  king's 
party  than,  the  Lady  Alice.  Ko  one  shed 
more  tears,  <»  more  openly,  over  the  death  of 
King  Oharles,  when  to  shed  tears  in  itself  foir 
SQoh  cause  was  perilous.  Hay  I  had  John 
Lirie  listened  to  her  counsels,  or  yielded  to 
her  entreaties,  he  never  had  borne  the  name  of 
regicide^  or  perished  in  a  foreign  land  by  the 
kldTes  of  assassins  for  his  aeal  m  the  canse^ 
No  officer  of  the  enemy  would  ever  think  of 
seaxching  in  her  premises  for  rebels,  and  wece 
ahe  even  convicted  of  harboiing  them,  the 
country  with  one  voice^  Tory  as  much  as  Whig, 
would  cry  aloud  in  her  behalt  Come  on,  we 
are  saved,  I  tell  you..  But  it  needs  not  to  tell 
her  whence  we  come.  She  knows  you  for  a 
Noooonformirt,  and  may  well  believe  that 
you  are  pureued  for  preaehing  without  li- 


As  he  said  these  words,  they  had  come  to 
the  banks  of  the  flooded  stream,  which,  or- 
dinarily a  mere  thread  of  water,  was  crossed 
by  a  ford  scarce  ankle  deep  in*  usual  weather. 
Now  it  was  a  wild  roaring  torrent,  at  least 
wauBt  deep,  and  bridgeless.  Still  there  was  no 
alternative,  it  must  be  orossed  or  they  must 
die  on  the  hither  bank  so' soon  as  the  cavalry, 
which  were  scouring  the  countiy  on  every 
side  in  merciless  puxauit,  iliould.coBie  up  with 
them. 

The  sddUer  bivasted  it  the  flMt^  and  bravely ; 
for  though  the  current  wae  so  strong  as  almcst 
to  take  him  off  his  legs,  he  persisted,  foreed. 
hiswAyto  tlieforliier«lde,wiuch  he  reached 
unharmed,  and  then,  aAer  pausing  a  nrnmeni 
to  Ncover  his  breathy  lelurMd  to  aaskt  his 
wcakerand  moro  timid  eovipaaiett  acvoas  the 
d«Bgeraus  ford.  It  Miquiied  souse  pewwasien 
toindueethe  dftviae,  who  was  for  iDore  darnig. 
in  the  resistance  to  the  anthori^  ef  aMn,  and 


defiance  of  the  perib  of  the  law,  than  in  en- 
durance of  fotigue  and  suffering  or  opposition 
to  physical  dangers,  to  venture  himself  in  the 
deep  and  dangerous  flood ;  nor,  indeed,  was  it 
strange  that  a  person  of  weak  nerves  and  in- 
considerable bodily  force  should  prefer  the  in- 
curring of  a  distant  and  uncertain  danger,  to 
rushing ,  into  what  would  seem  immediate 
death. 

The  energies  of  the  military  man  were,  how- 
ever, victorious  over  the  fears  and  hesitations 
of  the  preacher;  bat  it  was  not  without  some 
gentle  violence  that  he  compelled  his  friend  to 
trust  to  his  own  courage  and  power,  which  he 
asserted  were  folly  equal  to  the  preservation 
of  both  from  a  greater  danger  than  any  threat- 
ened by  the  sullen  eddies  of  the  swollen 
brook.    : 

His  actions  indeed  made  good  his  assertions, 
but  it  was  not  without  a  severe  struggle^  and 
the  exertion  of  every  nerve  to  the  very  utmost, 
that  ha  succeeded  in  dragging  out  his  helpless 
and  half-drowned  companion,  on  the  forther 
shore ;  for,  ofi^ing  no  resistance  to  the  stream, 
and  oppoong  only  an.  inert  body  to  its  foroe^ 
he  stumbled  in  the  hard  channel  and  was  swept 
down  the  stream,  dragging  his  more  robust 
auxiliary  haplessly  along  with  him  for  some 
yards*.  It  is  doubtfol,  indeed,  whether  either 
of  the  two  could  have  escaped,  for  the  soldier 
showed  no  disposition  to  extricate  himself  at 
the  sacrifice  of  the  other,  had  not  the  branches 
of  a  laige  willow  tree,  growing  in  the  fence 
through  an  opening  of  which  the  stream  passed 
into  the  adjoining  fields,  swept  the  surfooe  of 
the  waters,  and  follen  by  chance  into  the  ex- 
tended hand  of  the  stronger  of  the  fugitives. 
By  aid  of  this,  he  soon  reached  the  dry  ground, 
and  dragged  out  the  groaning  and  exhausted 
preacher,  whom,  finding  that  he  was  now  really 
unable  to  proceed,  he  hoisted  on  lus  shoulders, 
and,  weary  as  he  was  himself  bore  for  nearly 
half  a  mile  to  the  gate,  which  gave  access 
through  «  low  brich  wall  to  the  demesnes  of 
the  Lady  Alice  Lisle. 

It  was  a  small,  old-foshioned,  red- brick  hall, 
with  the  window  casings  and  the  angles  faced 
with  white  stone;  a  small  court-yard,  with 
gmoothly  shaved  tur^  and  a  few  formal  ever* 
gresDs,  Jay  upon  U,  and  behind,  half  screened 
by  a  belt  of  plantation,  were  seen  indistinctly 
the  outhonses  attached  to  the  dwelling  of  a 
sural  pie|KDetor  in  those  days,  stables  and 
graiiariesi  and  p^geon-house,  and  bams,  and 
nwlt-house,  while  the  baying  of  several  laige 
do^s  torn  the  farm-yaids  showed  that  the 
•look  waa  not  kit  unprotected. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


820 


ABTHUiR'S  LADTB'  SOUk   MAGAZINE. 


The  Kght  which  the  fngitiTes  had  seen  -  ftom 
a  distance  fltill  bnrned  calmly*  at  the  window 
ef  a  small  parlor  to  the  right  of  the  door,  and 
as  they  drew  nearer  to  the  house  they  eould 
distingnish  the  figare  of  the  lady  bending  o¥er 
a  large  vohime,  which  they  at  once  reoognited 
as  the  Bible. 

**  It  is  a  good  omen/'  said  the  faint-hearted 
priest.  **  One  so  employed  shall  scarce  refnse 
Christian  charity  and  succor." 

"  I  tell  you  that  she  would  not  do  it,  were  she 
assured  that  she  should  lose  her  own  life  there- 
by." 

"  Verily,  a  sainted  woman  V*  said  the  preach- 
er, "  and  worthy  to  be  held  a  mother  of  Israel." 

''She  is  worthy  to  be  held  a  right  noble 
English  lady,"  answered  Nelthorpe^  abrttptlyi 
as  if  he  were  half- disgusteci  either  by  the  cow- 
ardice or  the  caiit  of  his  companion,'  whom  be 
addressed,  now  that  they  were  fer  the  moment 
in  a  place  of  safety,  as  master,  thongh  with  hr 
less  warmth  of  manner  than  he  had  done  while. 
they  were  both  in  actual  danger. 

At  the  first  summons,  the  door  of  the  ball 
was  opened  by  a  very  old,  .gray-headed  senring 
man,  whom  Nelthorpe  instantly  addressed  by 
name,  as  an  old  acquaintance,  bidding  him  tell 
the  lady  that  he  and  pious  and  learned  3ia8ter 
Hicks  were  at  her  door,  belated  and  weaiy 
wanderers,  and  fagiti^es  for  conscience'  sake, 
with  men  of  Belial  at  their  heels,  praying  for 
a  morsel  of  food  and  a  night* s  lodging  until 
the  motrow  morning,  when  they  would  go  on 
their  way  refreshed  and  thankful. 

The  old  servitor  shook  his  head  doubtfally, 
and  seemed  reluctant  to  be  the  bearer  of  such 
a  message  to  his  mistress,  who  he  perhaps 
foresaw,  with  the  preciseness  of  ag^  affection^ 
might  be  endangered  in  consequence.  But  the 
Lady  Alice  had  heard  something  of  what  was 
passing  without,  and  while  the  old  xnan  was 
hesitating,  opened  the  parlot  door- and  made^ 
her  appearance  in  the  hall,  inquiring  what  waa  ■ 
the  matter,  and  who  were  the  risiters  at  so 
late  an  hour.  ■  i 

She  was  a  very  aged  woman,  with  the  still 
abundant  tresses  of  her  snow*wUte  hair  bmided 
plainly  across  her  brows,  beneath  her  stiffly 
starched  muslin  cap.  Her  Ikce^  howeTer,  atill 
retained  traces  of  nnoommoa  fomer  bean^, 
and  the  benefvolenee,  tranquillity,  and  senane 
inildness  whibh  beamed  firom  evety  lineament, 
rendered  her  fiice  still  mngalarly  ^easaatiand: 
attractire.  ber  figure,  which  •  was  tadi'  «inl 
slender,  was  still  full  of  gnuse,  and  her  terety 
movement  was  made  witli  that •  easy  eli%aBc4 
wiiich  is  perhaps  the  ttoat^diitittottfe  ptoof  of 


a  high  and-  gentle  education,  and  which  we 
neter  hi\  to  atlrftnte  to  the  oonaoieaaness  of 
good  birth  and  breeding,  and  to  the  inflnenoB 
of  a  mind  at  ease  with  itself  and  at  peace  witii 
others. 

Her  voioe  waa  .low  and  gentle^  and  thoogk 
she  spoke  half  reproachfully  to  the  old  8e^ 
vant  for  his  churlishness  and  want  of  charity 
)  in  hesitating  to  admit  men  in  each  weaiy 
plight  and  peril,  the  softness  of  her  tones  and 
the  quietude  of  her  manner  made  her  words 
seem  anything  rather  than  a  oenaoie. 

A  change  of  raiment  was  speedily  sapplied 
to  the^  fagittves,  with  one  of  whom,  Nelthorpe, 
she  wae  personally,  though  slightly  aoquainfffxl, 
while  the  other  she  knew  by  reputation  only, 
and  that,  perhaps,  not  too  favorably,  as  a  veiy 
sealoos,  somewhat  intolerant,  and  ooofessedly 
raHher  turbulent  Dissenting  minister. 

The  Lady  Alice  waa  herself  «  sincere  loyal- 
ist^ and  a  devoot  and  devoted  member  of  tiie 
Charch  of  England,  thongh  it  had  been  her 
lot  in  early  life  to  be  mated  with  an  Inde> 
pendent  and  a  JEt^icide^  whose  erxofs^  whose 
crimes,  and  whoee  untimely  death  had  steeped 
her  life  in  sorrow,  and  blanched  her  dark  hair 
immaturely,  though  it  had  failed  to  dond  the 
cairn  and  religious  serenity  of  her  cooaposed 
sAd  gentle  spirit.  Still,  neither  in  the  polit- 
ical nor  the  religious  creed  of  the  Lady  Alice 
was  there  one  tonch  of  intolerance^  and  so  fiill 
was  her  heart  of  that  truly  feminine  chivaliy, 
«of  that  almost  maternal,  atnae  d  hospitaUe 
dnty  which  ever  prompts  woman  to  defend  and 
protect  the  helpless,  that  it  is  probable  that,  as 
Nelthorpe  said,  had  her  worst  enemies,  nigr, 
the  very  assassins  of  her  husband,  stood  on 
her  threshold^  daiming  protectioiL  Dram  tie 
avenger  of  die  Uood  hard  on  the  traces,  sbe 
wonld  have  granted  it>  womanly  pity  conqQe^ 
ing  human  resentment,  and  the  seaae  of  daly 
peevailing  over. all  fear  of  oonaeqaences. 

'  Thus^  though  she  did  not  greatly  admire  or 
respect  the  charactes  of  her  nocturnal  tisU- 
ants^  and  peihaps  half  suapeoted  the  resstw 
of  their  desperate  position,  she  never  thoogl^t 
for  one  moment  of  denying  them  asylum 
against  their  punuers.  Pechapa  she  did  not 
reilect  on  the  oonseqaenoea  to  henelf ;  p»* 
baps  able  belieyed  tM  her  charader,  her 
weU-knewn  loyalty  and^^dautted  mrn»  to. 
the  oause.  oC  the  CamUen^.wlwn  that  cause 
waa  at  the.l0«eat»  would  pioteet.Jier^-elioaKi 
herdeedof  noes^rbediaaoirered;  bathadab* 
beski  folly  Aware  oi  «11  that  rwaa.  to  foihm,  oar* 
tMa  it  is  that  in  no  reapactwenld  iwr.«oi)diMt 
have  been  altered.      . 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


HEROIC    WOMHir   OP    THE   OLDEN    TIME. 


3^1 


So  soon  as  th^  Irere  Aiy\y  and  coiqfortfrbly 
clad,  meat  and  wisie  were  Bet  before  them,  and 
when  they  vere  thoroughly  warmed  and  re- 
craited,  a6  thet  BtiU  persisted  irt  declaring 
themselves  in  mortal  peril  of  pnrmdt,  although 
when  they  wonld  hare  entered  into  particnlar 
details,  the  lady  re^lntely  refhsed  to  lislen ; 
when  the  time  for  retiring  had  arrived,  they 
were  conducted  to  such  hiding-places  as  the 
old  house  afforded— Hioks  to  a  secret  chamlier 
within  the  thickness  of  the  wall,  having  its 
entrance  frokn  the  back  of  a  fireplace  in  one 
of  the  upper  rooms,  and  Neltborpe  to  an  inner 
arched  recess  of  the  malt-hoose,  the  mouth  of 
which  was  in  part  concealed  by  a  pile  of  grain 
heaped  against  it;  and  here,  wkh  good  store  of 
mattreraes  and  bedding,  they  were  left  to  enjoy 
the  delight  of  Sou^d  and  secure  slumbers  after 
foar-and-twenty  hours  of  uninterrupted  toil 
and  terror. 

So  soundly  did  they  ftleep,  and  till  so  late  an 
hoar,  that  the  snn  was  near  to  the  meridian, 
and  neither  of  them  had  yet  made  his  appear- 
ance, the  lady  respecting  their  fatigUe,  and 
forbidding  that  they  should  be  aroused ;  when 
suddenly  sounds  were  heard,  which  made  them 
start  in  terror  from  their  coudies.  The  long 
blast  of  a  cavalry  trumpet,  succeeded  by  the 
trampling  of  a  troop  of  horse,  and  a  loud  and 
pimnltaneous  knocking  at  all  the  doors  of  the 
house,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  force  of  dis* 
mounted  troopers  with  carbines  in  their  hands, 
their  officers  demanding  admittance  In  the 
king's  name,  which,  as  it  could  not  be  re- 
sisted, was  immediately,  if  not  cordially  ac- 
corded. 

The  garments  of  the  ^gitives,  which  were 
BtiU  drying  by  the  kitchen  flre^  were  instantly 
discovered  and  identified  as  those  of  Nelthorpe 
and  Hicks,  both  of  Whom,  as  the  lady  now 
learned,  positively,  for  the  first  time,  had  borne 
arms  against  the  king  at  Sedgemoor,  and  being 
proclaimed  traitofs,  she  was  herself  liable  to 
tlie  pains  and  penalties  of  high  treason,  ibr 
harboring  and  secreting  them.  A  vigorous 
search  ibilowed,  and  as  the  general  eharacter 
of  snch  hiding-places,  in  the  old  halls  and 
manor  houses  of  that  day,  had  become  almost 
uulversally  known  during  the  late  civil  wars, 
in  the  course  of  which  many  of  the  Cavaliers 
had  found  protection  in  them  iVom  their  Puri- 
tan pursuers,  it  was  not  long  before  Hicks  and 
Nelthorpe  were  both  discovered  and  made  , 
prisonerB,  and  the  Lady  Alice  herself  was  com-  ^ 
manded  io  hold  herself  as  attached  for  high 
treason,  and  to  prepare  for  immediate  removal 
to  the  county  town,  where  an  e^mordinary 

VOL.  XXX viu.— 22. 


circuit  was  about  to  be  held  for  the  eflfectual 
suppression  of  the  rebellion  and  extirpation  of 
the  rebels.  It  was  only  as  an  especial  favcr 
that  the  aged  lady  was  permitted  the  use  of 
her  owft  t^rriage  to  convey  her  to  the  prison,  * 
in  which  she  was  immured  like  a  common 
felon,  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  infamous  Jef- 
fries, who  was  already  appointed  to  hold  the 
circuit,  known  afterward  as  the  bloody  asBizep, 
by  the  cold-blooded  and  barbarous  tyrant,  the 
worst  man  and  most  atrocious  king  who  ever 
sat  upOD  the  throne  of  England. 

It  may  well  be  said  that  her  fate  was  decided 
before  she  was  brought  to  trial,  for,  although  it 
was  proved  beyond  question  that  the  venera- 
ble lady — ^who  plead  her  own  cause,  unaided  by 
counsel,  confronting  the  insolent  and  shameful 
abuse  and  ravings  of  Jeffries  with  meek  and 
calm  self-confidence — was  not  even  aware  that 
the  battle  of  Sedgemoor  had  been  fought  on 
any  grounds  beyond  mere  popular  rumor; 
much  less  that  either  of  the  prisoners  had 
borne  arms  in  that  afikir— though  she  had  sent 
her  own  son  to  support  the  royal  cause,  and 
fight  against  the  very  rebels  she  was  now  ac- 
cused of  harboring — though  it  had  not  been 
proved  in  any  court  that  the  men  she  was  now 
arraigned  for  sheltering  were  actually  traitors 
— though  the  jury  twice  presented  favorable 
verdicts,  they  were  sent  back  with  roars  and 
bellowings  of  almost  frantical  abuse  by  the 
monster  Jeffries,  who  called  them  knaves  and 
villains,  browbeat  the  witnesses  with  foul- 
mouthed  vituperation,  and  claimed  the  convic- 
tion of  the  prisoner,  on  the  ground  that  her 
husband  had  officiated  as  one  of  the  regicide 
judges — a  fact  not  proved  in  court,  and  irrele- 
vant, had  it  been  proved — until  at  length 
driven  to  their  wits'  ends,  half-crazed,  and 
wholly  terrified  by  the  furious  ahd  appalling 
menaces  of  the  chief  justice,  they  at  length 
brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty,  though  coupled 
with  the  strongest  recommendation  to  mercy. 
Utterly  disregarding  this  recommendation,  the 
monster  sentenced  her  at  once  to  be  burned 
alive  on  the  following  day,  and  it  was  only  by 
the  strong  remonstrances  of  all  the  clei^,  and 
especially  of  the  bishop  of  Salisbury,  a  most 
loyal  prelate,  who  had  lent  his  own  carriage 
horses  to  draw  the  royai  artillery  to  Sedge- 
moor, that  he  was  compelled  to  renounce  his 
determinatfon  of  putting  her — an  aged  and 
most  venerable  woman,  of  most  blameless  life, 
and  now  convicted  only  for  one  of  those  acts 
of  womanish  mercy,  for  which,  in  the  darkest 
of  the  middle  ages,  and  in  the  first  strife  of  the 
bloodiest  civil  war*,  no  woman  had  ever  been 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


322 


AMTHUM'8   LADY'S   MOMS   MAQAEiifX. 


c^ipitally  puniih^d^^to  a  death  the  jno»t  horrl-  .) 
b^,  widiout  allowing  an  ap{>eal  to  the  iD«rcj» 
if  not  to  the  justioa  of  tbt>  kiog. 

The  appeal  wu  made,  intercefsioo,  Intrea- 
ties,  of  the  strongest,  soUcitatioai  of  thei  luoet 
urgent  were  offsred,  hut  tb£  aavage  aod  cow- 
ardlj  bigot  was,  aa  ever,  mercilefs — ^ihe  qnlj 
mercy  Jhe  woald  graxU.  wa»  th^  oommutation 
of  her  panUhmeot  from  the  atake  and  faggota 
to  the  block  and  aze-*-for  he  had  promiaed 
Jefiriea,  be  said,  that  he  would  not  pardon, 

So,  in  the  cleameaa  of  her  innocence^  coi>- 
Bciooa  of  her  juatification  on  high,  ahe  bow<^ 
her  gray  bead  dauntleaalj  to  the  block,  and 
died  indeed  a  heroine,  and  little  leaa  than  a 
aaint  and  martyr,  on  the  very  aame  day  on 
which  Elizabeth  Garnet,  an  anoient  matron  of 
the  anabaptist  perauaaaon  waa  actually  burned 
to  death,  almoa^  under  the  eyea  of  the  rathieaa 
Jamea,  for  a  like  offence,  at  Smith6eld«  They 
were  the  first  women,  it  ia  belief  ed,  thai  ever 
suffered  in  England  for  any  aimilar  offence — 
they  are  the  last  whO'  have  been  oapi tally  pun- 
ished therein  for  any  ])o^itical  crime,  and  the 
last  they  will  be  forever.  Their  fame  growa 
brighter  and  their  memosiea  dearer,  every  day, 
while  that  of  the  murderer  becomes  blacker 
hourly,  as  freah  inveatigationa  biing  forth  freah 
proofs  of  hia  utter  infamy.  It  is  something  to 
know  that  he  waa  punished,  even  in  Ihw  world, 
as  few  men  ever  have  been  puniahed — that  he 
was  deserted,  at  hia  utmost  need,  by  hia  own 
children,  and  that  he  died  thai  moat  abject  of 
tlungs — not  of  men — a  pauper  king,  aubaisted 
on  the  charity  of  his  own  country's  foea 


M' 


PRESENTIMENTS. 

BYC, 

J  ANY  presentiments  are  not  only  remarka- 
ble and  alxikiog  in  themaelvea,  bnt  lead 
the  mind  to  look  within  and  about  for  the 
cauaea  that  produce  them.  Natural  knowledge 
Btrivea  in  vain  to  feel  her  way  io  explaining 
those  marvels  of  the  mind.  And  among  all 
the  branches  of  the  aupernatural,  there  ia  no 
one  that  has  been  bo  liule  diacuaaed  by  philo- 
dbphical  writers  aa  that  generally  known  foy 
the  term  presentiments. 

And  yet  no  branch  of  the.  invisible  and  nn- 
kiwwn  is  better  entitled  to  our  oonatderatMn, 
Many  and  well-authenticated  instances  might 
be  mentioned  to  establish,  their  existence. 
Tli«y  have  often  occurred  to  men  whom  char- 
aciera  for  firmneaa  aud  intelligence  clearly  ex- 
empted them  from  all  auspicion  of  having  been 


the  viothna  of  viy  of  tiioae  mental  infinnities 
wbioh  lead  to  ao  manjK  false  preaentimente  or 
groundless  (Sovebodinga  among  thoae of  an  o|^)o* 
aite  character.  And  aU  candid  and  xefitcting 
minda  will,  pcobehly  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  these  ImpreBaioaa  are  an  intimation  of 
coming  eventa,  which  Providence^  either  di- 
rectly or  through  the  agency  of  Hia  special 
api^itual  measengtrs,  gives  to  na  to  warn  ub 
of  the  threatened  evil,. that  we  mi^r  avoid  it, 
or  that  we  may  be  better  prepared  to  meet  the 
fate  which  we  mey  not  be  permitted  to  escape. 
Or  pevhapa  Providence  eperatea  by  theee  ttys- 
terioua  afiiritnal  aympathiea  by  which  one 
nund  aomelimea  benomea  apprised  of»  or  af- 
fected byi  what  ia  silently  passing  in  another 
mind,  and  rm^  receive  tmpreaaiona  of  approach* 
ing  evil  from  -attendant  aplritual  beings,  who 
may  be  near  uf,  and  who  may  wiah  to  avert 
the  doom  which  they  fear  may  overtake  us. 
AU  ia  probably  vnder  aome  fixed  law  of  Prov- 
idence which,  though  but  imperfectly  revealed 
to  ua,  ia  well  calculated  to  caxry  out  the  de- 
aigna  of  Him- who  does  all  things  wedl. 

A  aumber  of  inataawea  are  on  vecprd  of  pie- 
aentinoenta  that  oocurxed  to  peraopa  who  per- 
ished in  t^  Richmond  theatre,  in  1&I2,  whieh 
were  mentioned  to  friends  aome  daya  previous 
to-  the  firev  and  which,  after  that  event,  were 
r^parded  with  mueb  intereat  and  aurprise. 
One  of  those  premonitiona  appean  to  have 
been  the  meana  of  saving  a  faokily  from  de- 
strmotion.  The  play  announced  for  that  night 
waa  an  attractive  one/  A  gentleman  proposed 
to  bis  family  to  attend  the  theatre  that  even- 
ing, and  several  times  through  the  day  spoke 
of  th«  pleaawre  he  antlicipi^  thegr  should  all 
enjoy  in  .wUiieasing  the  pdrisNcmatice*  But 
towards  night  he  became  uauaually  thoughts 
fhl,  and  aa  the-  hour  of  the  perfotroaaoa  ap- 
pi«aobed,  he  became  unacoonntably  impreaied 
with  the  idea  that  some  fearfni  tealamity  was 
that  night  to  fall  on  the  company  aaaenahled  at 
the  theatre ;  rand  liie  premonition^  in  apite  of 
all  hia  efierta  to  ahake  it  oft  became  ao  strong 
and  definite,  that  he  reaolved  to  rem«io  ^^ 
honie»  He-commenced  reading  to  the  ladies 
a  longrand.AUterefttiAf  atory>  avoiding  all  eon* 
veraation  4bottt  the  theatre.  But  the  atoiy 
didnot  make  the  ladiea  foi^  the  theatcei  and 
they  aapid  it  waa  time  to  go.  Then  he  asked 
them  to  femtain  at  home  with  him*  They  were 
much  aurprised  and  diaapptfinlied,  and  in  a  few 
houm,  and  while  atiU  liateningto  the  atory»  they 
were  ataftled  by  the  alarm  of  fire.  The  pre- 
sentiment  had  saved  them* 

DBiJVTfBT.D^  Wis. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


BESSIE^S  FIEST  SCHOOL. 


BY  L.  A.  B.  C. 


BESSIE  was  only  fourteen,  but  she  was  tall, 
and  quiet,  and  womanly,  and  looked  all  of 
three  ^ears  older.  She  was  the  prize  acholar 
of  the  village  school,  and  the  eldest  of  eight 
children,  and,  of  course,  such  an  accumulation 
of  honors  gave  added  dgnitj  to  her  speech  and 
bearing. 

Then  Bessie  took  up  the  responsibilities  of 
life  very  early.  At  an  age  when  most  girls 
only  feel  that  they  are  placed  in  this  world  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and  that  everybody  else 
should  labor  to  promote  their  pleasure,  Bessie 
began  to  reflect  that  each  one  had  work  to  per- 
form, and  those  who  neglected  to  do  their  share 
thrust  the  burden  on  willing  and  overtasked 
shoulders. 

Bessie's  father  was  poor,  and  worked  hard  to 
feed  the  hungry  mouths  of  his  nestlings. 

"  I  am  old  enough  to  help,"  thought  Bessie. 
So  one  day  she  astonished  her  father  and 
mother  by  declaring  her  intention  of  attempt- 
ing to  teach  school. 

"Well,  well, well r  said  her  father.  "Hadn't 
you  better  apply  for  the  situation  of  matron  of 
the  Orphan  Asylum?  I  see  they  have  ad- 
vertised for  one.  Your  age  and  experi- 
ence— " 

"But  you  needn't  make  fun,  papa  Lincoln, 
for  I'm  in  earnest.  You  know  I'm  a  better 
scholar  than  Janie  Ferrers,  and  she  taught 
school  last  summer.'^ 

"  But  your  judgment^  child,"  said  her  mother. 
"  How  could  you  govern  a  school  ?  You  are 
only  a  child  yourself." 

"Oh !  I  should  govern  by  morai persuasion^  as 
Squire  Watt  says.  I  think  my  judgment  is 
splendid  I" 

"  She  won't  die  of  modesty,"  suggested  papa. 
"Let  her  try  to  engage  a  school.  Nobody 
would  employ  her.  Then  she  will  have  a  less 
exalted  opinion  of  her  judgment." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  darling  papa.  If  you  will 
only  let  me  try,  I  hav6  heard  you  say  a  thou- 
sand times  that  try  never  was  beaL" 

Bessie  at  least  displayed  tact,  if  not  judg- 
ment, in  applying  for  a  school  by  letter,  for  she 
was  a  beautiful  penman,  and  this  fact  would 
become  apparent  before  her  baby  face  was  seen. 
She  soon  received  a  reply  from  the  school  agent 
of  a  neighboring  district,  who  was  "favorably 
impressed  with  her  note,  and,  if  she  would 


gTv^nf'  « l>«rsonal  interview,  they  would  discuss 
the  subject  of  terms,"  etc. 

For  all  Bessie  assumed  so  much  assurance, 
her  heart  was  in  a  terrible  flutter  at  .the  pros- 
pect of  tliis  business  interview)  and  her  fingers 
trembled  fo  she  could  scarcely  tie  her  bonnet. 

"  Now,  don't  I  look  pretty  old,  mother  ?"  she 
pleaded,  standing  up  as  tall  as  possible,  and 
trying  to  smoqth  down  her  dimples, 

"  Quite  old-maidish,  if  you  don't  smile." 

She  had  a  pretty  serious  expression  in  her 
brown  eyes  when  she  was  "  meditating,"  as  her 
mother  called  it,  that  made  her  look  quite  wo- 
manly. She  had  "  let  down  "  her  dresses,  and 
"done  up"  her  hair,  and  really  began  to  feel 
like  a  schoolma'm. 

She  was  terribly  afraid  the  dreadful  school 
agent  would  hear  her  heart  beat,  or  see  her 
fingers  flutter,  when  a^  last  she  stood  in  his 
august  presence. 

"You  are  the  writer  of  this  letter?"  he 
asked,  very  sternly,  producing  Bessie's  dainty 
note— the  sixth  she  had  written  before  send- 
ing it. 

"Yes,  sir,"  faltered  Bessie. 

"I  wanted  to  make  sure  you  acterlly  did 
write  it,  cos  some  on  'em  get  somebody  to  write 
for  'em" — Bessie  shrewdly  guessed  he  had  done 
so — "and  so  we  don't  get  good  writers,  you 
see ;  and  I  want  my  chillen  to  larn  writin'  and 
'rifmtic,  if  they  don't  larn  nothin'  else.  I  don't 
care  nothin'  about  grammar;  taint  no  account 
no  how.  I  never  studied  it,  an'  I  git  along  jist 
as  well,  fur  all  I  see.  Now  about  wages.  We 
can't  pay  more'n  two  dollars.  The  school  will 
be  twelve  weeks  long  if  we  don't  pay  but  two 
dollars." 

Bessie  assented,  and  ventured  to  ask  if  the 
school  had  a  reputation  for  good  behavior. 

"  0  Lor*,  yea— the  best  behaved  school  in 
town — all  except  Tom.  Miles.  .  He's  an  awful 
boy,  and  no  mistake.  He  goes  to. school  a  pur- 
pus  to  make  trouble,  and  he  ginerally  makes  it. 
You'll  have  to  git  a  big  switch  and  lick  him. 
All  the  teachers  has  to." 

Bessie's  whole  soul  revolted  at  the  thought 
of  striking  a  hnma^  crea^uxe«  She  wouldn't 
strike  a  dumb  brute.  She  was  indignant,  and 
said  quite  boldly :  ^*  1  think  I  can  get  along 
without  striking  him." 

*'  No  yer  can't ;  he  alnt  like  nobody  else." 

Digitized  by  Cjd^P  IC 


314 


ABTHUR'B   LADT'8   BOMB    MAGAZINE. 


A  man  entered. 

''  Mornin'y  neighbor  Smith.    This 
Mis*-" 

"Lincoln." 

**  Miss  Lincoln,  the  new  schoolmarm.  Mr. 
Smith's  got  aboat  fortj-leTen  young  ones.  I 
was  jest  tellin'  her  about  Tom  Miles.  She 
thinks  she  wont  have  to  lick  him.  Hat  ha! 
ha!" 

"  He^s  a  tough  costomer,"  said  Mr.  Smith, 
who  had  evidently  studied  grammar ;  "  a  tough 
customer,  Miss  Lincoln.  If  jou  don't  have  to 
thrash  him,  I'm  no  prophet,  that's  all." 

"I  shall  try  the  other  way,"  said  Bessie, 
archly,  and  all  the  dimples  gleamed  out. 

"You  look  young — not  more  than  sixteen 
now,  are  you  ?  "  insinuated  the  agent. 

Bessie  was  frightened. 

"  I  am  sometimes  thought  young  looking," 
she  faltered;  then  with  a  desperate  effort  to 
change  the  subject :  "  When  did  you  say  your 
school  is  to  commence?" 

"In  two  weeks." 

Bessie  made  haste  to  bid  the  agent  good- 
morning. 

She  had  a  neighbor's  horse  and  wagon,  and 
drove  herself.  From  the  agent's  she  went  to 
the  school  committee,  one  of  her  own  teachen^ 
and  blushingly  requested  a  certificate  of  schol- 
arship to  teach. 

"Why  yes,  of  course,"  patting  her  cheek; 
"  but  aren't  you  rather  young  yet?  You  ought 
to  be  trundling  hoop  and  playing  with  the 
doU-babies." 

Bessie  pouted. 

*'  I'm  sure  it  aint  my  fault  if  I  am  young." 

But  tiie  certificate  was  made  out,  the  com- 
mittee-man took  it  to  another  member  to  sign, 
and  Bessie  started  for  home,  ezoeedingly 
flushed  and  triumphant. 

Her  parents  Were  proud  and  fearful  of  her 
puccess,  but  resolved  to  let  her  have  her  own 
way. 

So  in  doe  time  Bessie  walked  into  the  rude 
school-house  with  its  fmioke-stained  walls  and 
disfigured  desks,  and  stood  up  in  the  teacher's 
place.  Twenty-five  curious  faces  were  turned 
towards  her.  She  made  a  little  speech  about 
her  pleasure  in  meeting  them,  and  hoping 
their  relations  might  prove  mutually  plevant 
and  beneficial.  She  should  strive  to  do  her 
duty,  and  was  equally  confident  they  would 
endeavor  to  do  theirs. 

Then  she  took  her  pencil  and  a  little  book, 
and  proceeded  to  record  the  names  aod  ages  of 
her  pupils. 

A  great  lubberly  fellow,  with  long^  uncombed 


hair,  wicked-looking  eyes  and  dirty  hands, 
gave  his  name  in  a  bravado  style  as  "Tom 
Miles,  fifteen  years  old." 

Bessie  smiled  sweetly  upon  him,  bat  she  felt 
that  her  smiles  were  lost,  for  he  eyed  her  with 
a  malicious  and  evil  look,  as  if  measuring  her 
physical  strength  with  his  own. 

Bessie,  like  many  young  teachers,  felt  great 
confidence  in  her  moral  powers.  She  looked ' 
upon  the  dull  and  illbred  children  as  a  wide- 
spread field  for  missionary  labor.  Throogb 
her  labors  all  this  desert  should  blossom  m 
the  rose.  Dirty  faces  and  tangled  heads,  igno- 
rance and  depravity,  should  disappear  under 
the  sunlight  of  her  untiring  and  conscientioiu 
efforts.  Poor  Bessie  I  she  almost  believed, 
in  the  exuberance  of  her  untried  faith,  that  alie 
would  soon  gather  grapes  of  thorns  and  figs  of 
thistles. 

At  noon,  her  kind  but  inquisitive  boarding- 
mistress  asked  her  how  she  liked  her  school. 

"Was  Tom   Miles  there?     He's  an  awful 
boy  1    You'll  have  to  whip  him.    There  aljit ' 
no  other  way  to  get  along  with  him." 

^ow  Bessie,  with  all  her  sweetness,  was  a 
perverse  little  thing,  and  she  began  to  rebel 
against  this  universal,  abuse  of  poor  Tom. 
"  Give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  hang  him,"  she 
thought.  Then,  too,  ahe  had  a  woman's  faith 
in  the  goodness  of  all  men.  She  was  sure 
there  was  some  good  in  poor  Tom,  and  if  he 
had  no  friends  in  the  world,  she  would  be  a 
friend  to  him.  Her  heart  softened  toward  the 
uncouth  rascal,  and  all  her  sympathies  were 
roused  in  his  behalf.  ^ 

In  the  afternoon  she  began  with : 

"  Now  your  lessons  are  all  assigned,  let  us 
spend  an  hour  in  studyii^g  them.  School  'u 
the  place  to  learn  and  study,  and  I  am  sure 
you  all  feel  the  importance  of  improving  these 
golden  moments." 

She  thought  this  quite  a  pretl^r  speech,  and 
so  did  the  scholars,  with  one  exception,  for  the 
books  rustled  with  an  industrious  souud,  and 
a  studious  buzzing  followed. 

All  but  Tom.  Ue  sat  with  an  impudeot, 
idle  stare,  his  book  closed  beibre  him. 

Bessie  went  to  his  side^  took  up  the  dog- 
eared geography,  and  pointed  out  the  lesson. 

"  You  didn't  understand  where  the  lesson 
was,  Thomas?" 

"Yes  I  did." 

"  Perhaps  you  know  it  already  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  come  to  school  to  study  ?  " 

"I  do' know." 

"What  then?" 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


BESSIE'S    FIRST   SCHOOL. 


325 


"Oh,  fer  the  fan  on't,"  with  a  aaoc/  grin,  as 
if  he  intended  to  Irritate  the  temper  of  the 
teacher  and  oatrage  the  qaiet  harmony  of  the 
school.  Bat  Bessie  coaM  not  be  irritated. 
She  had  determined  to  overlook  every  aggres- 
sive action  from  Tom,  consiHtent  with  dis- 
cipline of  the  school,  so  she  very  mildly  said : 

**You  will  change  your  mind,  unless  you 
know  so  much  you  don't  need  to  study,*'  with 
a  smile  of  friendly  confidence. 

Tom  looked  uneasy.  Beseemed  to  prefer^ 
frowns. 

Presently  a  querulous  voice  cried  out :  "Mis- 
tress, Tom  keeps  pinching  me." 

Bessie  could  scarcely  para  over  this  with- 
out a  reprimand,  but  it  was  only  a  mild — 
"  Why,  Thomas  I" 

When  he  went  out  at  recess,  he  threw  a 
lighted  match  back  into  the  school-room. 
This  she  quietly  passed  by.  He  did  not  come 
in  again  for  half  an  hour  after  the  bell  rung. 
But  Bessie  persistently  took  no  notice  of  his 
flagrant  conduct. 

The  next  day  he  spent  a  few  moments  in 
study.  Bessie  was  profuse  in  her  praises.  But 
his  evil  nature  predominated.  He  was  noisy 
and  disorderly,  disturbing  the  school  by  loud 
whispering  and  moving  his  books  and  slate 
about.  In  the  afternoon  he  addressed  a  re- 
mark to  another  scholar  in  a  loud  tone  of 
voice. 

"  Thomas,"  said  Bessie,  quite  sternly,  "  vou 
will  remain  after  school." 

Tom  grinned  with  satisfaction  that  he  had 
at  last  succeeded  in  making  himself  an  object 
of  interest. 

AVhen  the  school  was  dismissed  the  boy 
made  a  movement  to  go,  but  Bessie's  quick, 
imperative  "  Thomas,  stay  here  I "  held  him; 
for  he  was  a  pitiful  coward,  as  all  bullies 
are. 

She  stood  between  him  and  the  door,  the 
picture  of  wrathful,  indignant  Juno,  until  the 
last  curious  face  had  disa|)peared ;  then  she 
sat  down  beside  him,  and  called  him  by  name. 

"Thomas." 
'"Wall?" 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  detained  you 
here  for?" 

"To  lick  me,  I  s'pose." 
"  Would  that  make  a  good,  kind,  studious 
boy  of  you?" 

"No  sir-ee.  But  they  alius  does  it,  an'  I'm 
ready." 

**  No,  Thomas,  I  shall  never  strike  you.  I 
want  to  talk  with  you.  I  want  to  tell  you 
Bomething.    Will  you  look  up  ?" 


He  raised  his  eyes  a  moment,  but  the  tender 
light  of  hers  dazzled  him,  and  he  looked  down 
again. 

"When  I  came  here,  Thomas,  everybody 
told  me  what  a  bad  boy  you  were,  and  said  I 
must  whip  yon.  I  didn't  believe  you  were  all 
bad,  Tom ;  I  won't  believe  it  until  you  prove 
it.  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  am  determined  to 
be  your  friend  as  long  as  you  will  let  me.  I 
want  you  to  learn,  and  I  will  help  you  all  I 
can,  and  you  must  show  these  folks  that  Tom 
Miles  can  be  somebody  yet  Oh,  Tom,  it 
makes  my  heart  ache  to  hear  them  say  such 
things  of  you  T' 

Poor  Bessie,  she  meant  all  she  said ;  she 
didn't  mean  to  be  a  baby,  but  her  voice  quiv- 
ered, she  brushed  away  the  tears,  choked  down 
a  sob,  then  covered  her  sweet  face  with  her 
hands  and  cried,  snd  poor  Tom,  whom  all  the 
floggings  of  the  past  had  failed  to  subdue,  who 
had  received  them  with  that  same  stolid  grin, 
was  completely  conquered.  He  laid  his  head 
down  and  cried  like  a  great  baby. 

Bessie  conquered  her  emotion  in  a  moment, 
and  laid  her  soft  hand  on  his. 

"  Now,  Tom,  you  can  be  a  man  if  you  will, 
and  I  will  help  you— yon  can  study  hard  and 
make  up  lost  time,  and  we  will  show  them 
that  Tom  Wi\en  isn't  on  a  straight  road  to  the 
gallows,  after  all." 

"  That's  sol"  blubbered  Tom,  wiping  his  eyes. 
"Nobody  ever  cared  nothin'  about  me  afore." 

The  battle  was  won.  Bessie  went  home 
with  a  lighter-  heart  than  Alexander  or  Napo- 
leon ever  bore. 

In  the  morning  Tom  was  there  before  her. 
He  had  been  at  the  school-house  an  hour, 
studying  the  lessons  for  the  day, 

"Well,  how  do  you  make  it,  Tomf  she 
asked,  pleasantly. 

«Oot'emall." 

In  a  few  days  Tom  was  at  tbe  head  of  his 
class.  When  he  went  up  above  two  or  three 
of  the  best  scholars,  all  the  school  looked  in 
amazement  Then  a  laugh  went  round,  as  if 
some  irresistible  joke  was  in  it.  Tom  looked 
exceedingly  proud  and  foolish,  as  if  he  was  in 
a  strange  place. 

"  I  guess  you  were  never  at  the  head  before, 
eh,  Tom?"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  rather  guess  not,"  said  Tom.  Then  with 
an  air  of  conscious  power,  he  added :  "  But  I 
can  do  it  again." 

And  so  he  did.  And  the  district  gossips 
were  pusiled  beyond  expression. 

The  agent  declared  it  did  beat  all  creation 
h3W  that  gal  managed  Tom  Miles." 

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ARTHUM'8   LADT'8   HO  MS   IfAGAZINS. 


Before  Beasie  went  home  Bhe  was  engiiged 
for  aQot)ier  term,  which,  fairlj  crowned  her 
triumph.  Her  father  declared  he  would  have 
to  build  a  new  wing  to  the  house,  she  was  bo 
expanded  with  vanity. 

No,  she  was  not  vaip,  but  so  thanhftd  that 
through  her  efforts  one  poor  bouI  had  been  led 
into  the  light  of  earnest  and  upright  endeavor. 
For  Tom  Miles  establinhed  a  new  reputation, 
and  ultimately  became  a  good  and  intelligent 
citizen,  honored  and  esteemed  by  his  fellow- 
men.  He  never  forgot  whose  hand  first  led 
him  out  of  darkness  into  light. 

And  though  Bessie  has  long  since  left  the 
teacher's  desk  for  a  dearer  post,  and  now  only 
teaches  her  own  little  boys^  she  still  rememb«r8 
with  pride  and  pleasure  her  first  schooL 

SUNSHINE  IN  DWELLINGS. 

THE  time  will  very  likely  come  when  sun- 
shine, or  sunlight,  will  be  so  utilized  as  to 
be  the  entire  remedy  used  for  very  many  dis- 
eases. That  it  is  a  wonderful  vitalizer,  none 
can  doubt  who  know  anything  about  it. 

But  how  many  houses  are  constructed  with 
a  view  to  getting  all  the  sunshine  possible,  es- 
pecially when  so  much  needed  as inwinter  and 
spring?  The  living,  or  sitting-room^  at  these 
seasons  of  the  year,  at  least,  should  have  a  full 
southern  exposure,  with  large  windows  to  let 
in  the  sunshine.  Sleeping  rooms,  wardrobes, 
closets,  passage-ways,  should  receive  the  cleans- 
ing, vivifying  influence  of  the  sun.  Sickly 
persons  should  court  the  sunshine  as  much  as 
possible— sit  in  it,  lie  in  it,  luxuriate  in  it.  It 
doesn't  cost  anything,  only  appreciation. 

A  room  warmed  neither  by  the  sun  nor  by 
fire,  is  unhealthy,  and  not  fit  for  habitation. 
It  is  a  poor  theory  that  sends  men,  wooden  or 
children  oflfintoa  cold  room  to  sleep,  on  health 
principles,  when  warmth  has  been  excluded 
for  a  day  or  a  week,  or  perhaps  months.  The 
change  in  the  temperature  of  a  room,  having 
both  fire  and  sunshine,  after  the  sun  goes 
down,  is  exceedingly  marked.  A  perceptible 
chill  is  felt 

Wait. — Perhaps  the  greatest  lesson  which 
the  lives  of  literary  men  teaoh  us  is  told  in  a 
single  word — wait.  Every  man  most  patiently 
bide  his  timei  He  most  wait.  Not  m  lisUess 
dejections ;  not  in  restless  pastime^  not  in  quer* 
ulous  dejection,  hnt  constant,  steady,  cheerful 
endeavors,  always  willing,  and  folfiUii^  and 
accomplishing  his  task,  that  when  the  ocoasion 
comes  he  may  b^  equal  to  the  oocasion. 


THE  LITTLE  MAPLE  MONUMEST. 

BY  SAa^B  J.  C.  WBimsSBT. 

DBAR  Uttle  waif!  thsj  did  aot  know. 
When  first  thy  tiny  leaves 
Shone  throagh  the  mess  and  garden  flowery 

Beneath  our  sweet  hone  eaves. 
Thy  slender  boughs  would  ere  long  bead 

Above  their  quiet  rest. 
And  moist,  green  leayes  drop  purpling  Ehtde 
Above  thehr  throbless  breast ! 

Two  silvery  Mays  and  golden  Janes, 

And  red  Ootobers  came, 
And  saag  and  shone  and  sighed  aronnd 

Thy  little  infant  frame, 
As  lovingly  they  watched  thee  rise 

TTp  from  thy  mossy  bed. 
And  spread  thy  slender  arms  around. 

And  drop  thy  robe  of  red. 

They  lored  thee  here,  dear  little  waif. 

Before  He  took  them  there 
Where  green  leares  never  fade,  and  flower* 

Are  ever  fresh  and  fair; 
Kow  in  this  silept,  solemn  yard, 

In  shade  thy  yoone  boughs  make, 
I  sit  by  them,  and  talk  to  thee — 

Transplanted  for  their  sake. 

Three  grieflful  years  have  gone  since  thou 

Sloodst  sentiDel  where  th^  sleep; 
How  many  bitter,  bitter  tears 

Thou'st  seen  their  orphans  weep  ! 
In  noonday  sun  and  twilight  shade- 

We've  knelt  beneath  thee  here; 
No  other  spot  on  sll  the  eavth. 

To  us  is  half  so  dear. 

The  ones  who  loved  us  best  are  laid 

Beneath,  asleep— not  dead — 
Li/e'9  dearett /orm9  are  underneath. 

And  thou  art  overhead ! 
I  smooth  thy  glossy  leaves  and  lisabs. 

That  o'er  bm  breesy  bend ; 
It  seevetk  so  like  shaking  hands 

With  some  dear,  old-  time  friend. 

Thou  hast  a  home  look^  little  waif— 

We  feel  they're  not  alone 
In  this  deserted  yard,  beneath 

Thy  bonghs,  when  we  are  gone; 
If  angel  eyes  can  look  away 

From  scenes  of  heavenly  light, 
I  know  they  ssDil»  to  see  ribce  keep 

Watch  o'er  them  day  and  night. 

In  coming  years  thy  arms  will  reach 

O'er  him  and  me,  at  test 
Beside  our  buried  blessings  here— 

Life's  desreat,  truest,  iKsst; 
Then  who  will  kneel,  with  faithful  heart. 

Beneath  tbee^ Heaven-sent-^ 
And  love  thee  for  oMr  eahe>  and  Wtep> 

Pear  little  M^lk  |l«atftf«fT  ? 


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FtJN'  WITH  THE  DQCTOE. 


BT  KATE  SDXHEBI^AIID. 


"^HOisitr 


'Br.  Oarpuft,  misa.'*     '.'."'. 

"Oh,  fiddlestick  on  Dr.  Campus ;  I  wish  he 
would  stay  at  home,  and  miqd  his  own  busi- 
ness I" 

These  brief  sentences  passed  between  Miss 
Mary  H&yfiower  and  the  servant,  whb  had 
made  her  appearance  at  Mar/s  chamber  door 
after  adm  itting  a  visitor. 

"Carpus  is  quite  a  passable  fellow,"  Jane, 
Mary's  sister,  remarked,  smilin'g^  a  little  sar- 
castically. 

"You  had  better  go  (jown  and  entertain  him 
then." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  misQ !  I  beg  leave  to  d^- 
dine  that  honor,  fli^  attentions  a^-e  special, 
and  my  pretty  8i9ter  Maty  is  th^  object  6f  them. 
I  wish  you  joy„  Mrs.  Dr,  Carpas." 

"Now  that  i^  too  l^ac(,  sis  I .  I  declare  I  will 
insult  him  if  you  worry  me  after  that  style  V* 

"  No,  don*t  do  that,  Mary.  No  lady  can  be 
excused  for  w?intonly  insulting  a  gentleman." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  He  la  intolerable 
to  me,  and  yet  persists  ih  coming  here  two  or 
three  times  a  week.  If  he  would  only  ask  for 
you  occasionally— or  if  the  girls  were  at.  home? 
But  no,  *Miss  Mary  Mayflower'  is  the  word, 
and  I  n^ust  pan^e  myself  down  and  endure  his 
tittle-tattle  for  an  hour.  I  wish  I'd  sent  word 
down  that  I  was  not  at  home." 

"  And  90  burden  your  conscience  with  a  lie  I" 

"Exactly;  that*s  the  rub." 

"  No,  no,  sis.  That's  not  the  remedy ;  say 
that  you  are  engaged,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  see 
him." 

"Tm  not  too  much  engaged  to  see  company ; 
so  that  would  be  as  much  a  lie  as  the  other." 

"  Say,  then,  that  you  cannot  be  seen.  Base 
your  actions  on  the  truth,  and  abide  there." 

^That  is  easy  enough  to  advise,  but  notao 
easy  to  do." 

"  It  would  be  easy  enough  for  Mary  May- 
flower, if  she  once  set  her  head  that  way.  My 
aister  ia  not,  I  believe^,  in  the  habit  of  stopping 
^  half-way  ■  measures,  or  to  ask  what  may  be 
the  result  of  an  action,  if  she  feels  much  in- 
dination  to  do  it.'  So  I  must  conclude  that 
there  are  some  attractions  about  Dr.  Carpus, 
after  all." 

"Oh,  of  course — some  wonderfully  strong 
attractions  I"    returtied    Mary,  half-laughing, 


half-vexed,  as  slie  lefl  the  room  to  attend  Dr. 
Carpus  belo^. 

"Good-evening,  doctor.*' 

""Good  evening,  Miss  Mary." 

Were  said  with  a  forced  sinile  of  pleasure  on 
one  sid^  and  a  real  one  on  (he  other.  Then 
came: 

"  It  is  a  delightful  evening." 

"Yes,  beautiful." 

"The  air  is  foft  and  halmy  as  Mayi" 

"  Yes,  "We  have  had  very  pleasant  weather 
lately." 

"  The  finest  I  ever  remember  to  have  known," 

A  pause. 
*•  "How  beauUful  the  evening  is  I"  resumed 
Carpus,  elo<j^uentJy.  "The  moqn  is  brilliai\t, 
and  the  stars  shine  with  an  unusual  lustre. 
Mars,  Jupiter,  and  Saturn  are  all  above  the 
horizon.  It  is  rare,  indeed,  that  our  firmament 
is  so  richly  studded  with  gems." 

^'Rarely,  indeed." 

•'Have  you  met  with  NichoPs  Architecture 
of  the  Heavens?" 

"No,  sir." 
.  "  Speaking  of  Saturn  reminds  me  of  the  vol- 
ume. I  donH  know  when  I  have  been  more 
interested  in  a  work*  His  nebular  hypothesis 
is  most  admirably  sustained.  By  it  the  rings 
of  Saturn  are  more  easily  accounted  for  than  h^ 
any  other  theory  I  have  ever  met.  Likewise 
the  sodiacal  lights,  comet%  systems  of  star^, 
the  vast  nebulous  masses  that  lie  far  off  in  the 
almost  infinite  depths  of  space,  and  only  dimly 
revealed  by  the  aid  of  powerful  telescopes, 
and  in  fact  the  whole  universe  of  suns  and 
stars." 

"  It  must  be  an  attractive  volume.'* 

"Exceedingly  so;  especially  to  the  student 
of  natural  science.  To  me  it  haa  been  a  feaat 
of  reason.  In  the  science  of  astronomy  there 
is  something  that  lifts  a  man  out  of  himself-;- 
that  carries  him  up,  as  it  were,  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  his  mind — something  thai  reveals  thp 
divinity  withiahim." 

As  .Dr.  Carpus  (whom  the  reader  ought  to 
know  waa  a  young  M.  D.,  with  a  diploma  six 
months  old,  handsomely  framed  and  hung  up 
conspicuously  in  his  office)  said  this,  he  could 
not  help  rising  in  hia  ehair,  and  taking  a  turn 
or  two  across  the  fioor,  at  the  same  time  his 
right  hand  sought  his  forehead,  and  brushtd 


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ABTETIR'8    LADY'S   HOME    MAGAZINE 


back  the  long  hair,  to  reveal  its  (the  fore- 
Lead's)  ample  (in  his  mind)  dimensions. 

As  this  is  a  very  good  {tlaca  to  say  it,  it 
might  as  well  come  in  here,  that  Dr.  Carpus 
was  a  young  man  of  twenty-two,  who  had  a 
good  conceit  of  himself.  He  had  graduated, 
after  a  regular  course  of  three  years'  instruc- 
tion, with  more  credit,  according  to  his  own 
idea,  than  any  other  student  at  the  University. 
It  is  true  that  the  professors  of  chemistry 
and  astronomy,  if  asked  their .  opinion  of 
the  matter,  might  have  given  a  different  opin- 
ion. '  Still,  Carpus  was  sincere.  He  really 
thought  he  had  graduated  with  distinguished 
honor. 

The  good  conceit  of  himself  which  thus  led 
him  into  a  false  estimate  of  his  worth  in  this 
respect,  accompanied  him  in  all  other  matters. 
In  opening  his  ofBce  he  had  no  doubt  but  that, 
in  the  course  of  a  very  short  time,  he  would  be 
overrun  with  business.  Six  months'  experi- 
ence rather  made  his  mind  waver  in  regard  to 
thiH,  when  a  friend  suggested  that  it  was  next 
to  impoBsible  for  an  unmarried  physician  to 
Hucceed.  He  munt  have  a  wife  to  add  to  his 
professional  importance.  The  hint  was  at  once 
taken,  and  Dr.  Carpus  began  to  look  around 
for  some  one  whom  he  should  be  willing  to 
take  as  a  partner.  In  considering  this  matter, 
he  laid  it  down  as  a  governing  rule  in  the  case 
that  Mrs.  Carpus  must  be  rich  and  beautiful. 
Among  the  large  circle  of  his  acquaintances, 
no  one  struck  his  fancy  so  completely  as  Miss 
Mary  Mayflower.  Her  fkther  was  reputed  to 
have  no  Bmall  share  of  this  world's  goods,  and, 
as  for  Mary,  she  was  called  a  beauty  every- 
where. Mary  Mayflower  became,  therefore, 
the  object  of  his  particular  attentions^  greatly 
to  the  sprightly  maiden's  annoyance. 

Thus  much ;  and  now  we  will  go  on  with  our 
story : 

The  doctor,  after  taking  a  few  digniBed  turns 
across  the  floor,  resumed  his  seat  near  Mary, 
and  started  a  new  theme  of  discourse,  in  which 
he  coald  show  ofl^*  to  advantage.  At  last  he 
thought  it  time  to  retire,  and  let  the  exhibition 
which  he  had  made  of  himself  have  its  true 
effect  upon  the  maiden's  mind. 

"Thank  Heaven,  he  has  gone  at  last!"  ex- 
claimed Mary,  glancing  into  the  room  where 
her  sister  Jane  sat  reading.  "  I  declare,  he  Is 
the  most  conceited,  egotistical  fellow  I  have 
ever  had  the  misfortune  to  meet !  He  is  down- 
right intolerable  to  me,** 

**  Heigh-ho !  And  is  that  the  way  you  epeak 
of  an  absent  lover  ?'*  returned  Jane,  laughing 


"  Lover  I  Don't  talk  of  a  lover  to  me,  or  1 
shall  lose  all  patience." 

" "Why  dott't  you  send  him  off,  then?" 

**  How  can  I  send  hira  ofi"?  T  treat  him  u 
coldly  as  I  can,  but  he  don't  take  the  hint." 

**  That  he  no  doubt  attributes  to  love's  shrink- 
ing embarrassment." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  will  you,  Jane!" 

"  H9 1  ha  I  keep  cool,  my  pretty  sis  I" 

^'  How  can  I  keep  cool  under  such  dream- 
stances  ?  To  be  beset  in  this  way  by  a  con- 
ceited young  upstart  of  a  doctor  ia  too  muehr 

"People  are  already  beginning  to  vet  it 
down  as  a  match,"  chimed  in  the  fuc-loTug 
sister. 

"  Indeed,  Jane,  that  is  too  much,"  Mary  now 
said,  gravely.  "  Who  has  made  any  allusion 
to  it?"' 

"  Oh  1  as  to  that,  huiidreds,  for  what  I  know." 

"Now,  tell  me  one" 

"  Sarah  Mortimer  insinuated  aa  much  the 
last  time  I  saw  her." 

"Sarah  Mortimer  didT 

"Yes,  certainly.  And  I  don't  see  abythio^ 
so  very  surpriHing  in  it,  .The  infereace  u 
natural  enough,"  replied  Jane,  with  provoking 
calmness. 

"  Now  isn't  all  this  too  much  for  any  one  to 
endure?  Why,  I  would  not  have  my  nime 
coupled  with  that  of  Dr.  Carpus  for  any  con- 
sideration in  the  world.  It's  a  downright 
insult.  The  fact  is,  I'll  oflend  him  the  next 
time  he  comes  here,  and  so  put  an  end  to  the 
matter." 

"No,  Mary,  you  must  not  do  that." 

"Yes,  but  r  will— the  conceited  fooll" 

"Mary,  Mary!"  Jane  said,  in  a  soothing 
tone,  "  don't  get  so  excited  about  a  mere  trifle 
like  this.  Wait  patiently  until  the  declaration 
comes,  and  then  refer  him  to  pa,  who  will  send 
him  off  with  a  flea  in  his  ear." 

"  Indeed,  then,  and  I  won't  do  any  wch 
thing.  I'll  insult  him,"  returned  the  ex6ttd 
maiden. 

This,  and  much  more,  passed  between  the 
sisters  before  they  retired  to  rest  for  the  nigh^ 
On  the  next  day,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mayflower  left 
Boston,  to  be  gone  a  couple  of  weeks,  leaving 
their  two  daughters  to  keep  house  in  their 
absence. 

Among  other  memhers  of  the  family  was  a 
pretty  little  Spanish  poodle,  who  was  by  b° 
means  the  least  important  personage  in  ihe 
house.  It  so  happened,  a  day  or  two  after  the 
departure  of  the  old  folks,  that  Fido  waa  »cc^' 
dentally  thrown  down  stairs,  in  consequence  of 
which  one  of  his  fore  legs  was  pretty  b*^/ 


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r 


FUN   WITff    THM   DQOTOE, 


829 


hurt.  AAer.  the  alarm  that  followed  Ibis  seci- 
0118  acKudent  had  subeided^  and  Fido,  with  his 
leg  bandaged,  was  laid  upon  the  sofa,  Mary, 
into  whose  mind  a  bright  thought  suddenly  in- 
truded itself,  exclaimed : 

"Jf  I  don't  do  it,  my  name  is  not  Maiiy 
Mayflower," 

"  Do  what,  sis?"  Jane  asked,  looking  up  in 
surprise. 

"I  mean  to  have  some  fun  with  the  doctor." 

"What  doctor?" 

"Dr.  Carpus." 

'•Howr' 

'*  I  am  going  to  seud  for  him. professionally." 

"Maryl" 

*'  I  am.  Fido  needs  a  physician,  and  I  don't 
know  any  one  who  would  be  so  likely  to  un- 
derstand his  case  as  the  learned  Dr.  Carpus?" 

"  Why,  Mary  I  are  you  crazy  ?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  Pm  serious.  The  young  nmn 
wants  practice,  and  I  feel  a  benerolent  wish  to 
advocate  his  interests." ' 

"  It  would  be  a  capital  joke  I"  Jane  said,  so 
amnsed  at  the  idea  that  she  could  not  retain  a 
grave  countenance^ 

*<It  will  be  a  capital  joke,  for  Til  do  it  this 
very  day." 

"  Bot  will  you  see  him  T" 

'* Certainly  I  will;  and  look  as  solemn  as 
the  grave." 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  after  that.  Dr.  Car- 
pus sat  conversing  with  a  young  fellow<»ptac- 
titioner  in  regard  to  future  proppects.  Carpus 
was  very  sanguine,  especially  in  respect  to  the 
impression  he  was  evidently  making  upon  the 
heart  of  Mary  Mayflower.  Jn  the  midsl  of 
this  conversation  a  messvnger  came  in  great 
haste  with  a  note.    He  opened  it  and  read : 

"Please  caU  at  Mr.  Mayflower'aln  haste." 

"  Has  anything  serious  happened  ?"  the  doc- 
tor asked,  in  a  serious  voice. 

But  the  messenger  had  already  disappeared. 

"That  looks  well,  don't  it?"  Carpus  re- 
marked to  his  friend,  with  a  self- satisfied  air. 
''  I  shall  feather  my  nest  there,  certainly.  But 
I  must  go  immediately.  Nothing  the  matter 
with  Mary,  I  hope." 

A  few  miuutes  ailer  Dr.  Carpus  sapped 
from  the  office  he  stood  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
/  Mayflower*s  dwelling.  The  servant  who  ad- 
uutted  him  directed  faim,  with  asei^iotis  air,  to 
goupstoirs  into  the  front  chamber.  With  a 
quick,  quiet  step  he  ascended  thestain,  tapped 
lightly  at  the  chamber  door,  and  then  opened 
it  softly  and  went  in.  The  room  was  psrtially 
darkened,  but  not  so  much  obscured  that  he 

uid  not*  perceive  Mary  seated  near  the  bed, 


upon  w[bich  lay  the  unfortunate  poodle,  with  a 
thick  bandage  around  one  of  his  fore  legs. 

"  Has  anything  serious  oocurred?"  asked  the 
doctor,  ae  he  paused  apd  looked  into  Mary's 
anxious  facet. 

"  Nothing  very  serious  I  hope,  doctor ;  but 
we  have  been  drcniulfuUy  frightened.  Poor  Fido 
fell  down  a  whole  flight  of  stairs,  and  has  hurt 
himself  very  badly  I  am  afraid.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do,  father  and  mother  being 
away,  and  so  I  sent  immediately  for  you." 

For  a  few  moments  Dr.  Carpus  hardly  knew 
where  he  was,  or  what  to  say  or  do.  It  was 
plain,  serious  as  Mary  seemed,  that  she  was 
quizsing  him,  and  that  she  had  chosen  a  meth- 
od, to  annoy  and  mortify  him  of  all  others  the 
most  efiectual.  Vain  and  self-important  as  he 
was,  his  character  had  in  it  a  spice  of  de- 
cision and  irmness.  He  was  likewise  proud- 
spirited, and  this  determined  him  not  to  ex- 
hibit a  portion  of  the  surprise  and  indignation 
that  he  felt.  Turning  coolly  to  the  bed,  he 
removed  the.  bandage  from  Fido*s  leg,  and 
carefully  examined  it,  much  to  the  pain  of  ihe 
poor  dog^  who  uttered  a  constant  succession  of 
distressing  cries.  He  then  replaced  the  ban- 
dage more  carefully,  and  ordered  thit  said 
bandage  be  kept  constantly  wet  with  vinegar. 
A  prescription  was  written  and  handed  to 
Mary,  with  directions  how  to  administer  the 
medicine.  Bowing  then  gravely,,  imd  with  a 
dignified  professional  air,  he  promised  to  call 
punctually  on  the  ^ext  mornii^g^  and  de- 
parted. 

In  the  morning  he  came  ab^at  the  same 
hour,  entered  witli  perfect  comppsare,  bowed 
to  Mary,  who  was  in  the  sick-chamber,  with  a 
courteous  smile,  and  then,  turned  to  look  after 
his  patient,  whom  he  pronounced  better.  An- 
other prescription  was  written,  and  again  the 
physician  departed.  This  wa^  cpntinued  for 
a  wi^x  sadly  to  the  anoQf  anea  of  Mary,  who, 
howeveri  ki^pt  np  her  assumed  cl^araoter  as 
perfectly  as  did  the  doctor.  By  this  time  Fido 
oould  run  about ;as  usual;  and  as  |jlie  doctor 
still  called  in  regularly^  Mary,  had  to  request 
him  tosuapend  his  professional  visit^  as  their 
little  pet  tfi^n^  to  be  quite  restot)»d. 

pA  Carpus  bQwed  and  smiled  courteously 
at  this,  and  then  leA  the  house.  Of  course 
Mary  was  neyer  a(l^  .troubled  with  his  com- 
pany. 

It  happeued  about  six  months  afterwards, 
when  the  whole  story  had  gone  the  rounds, 
and  Dr.  Carpus  had  been  annoyed  by  it  to  his 
heart's  content,  that  a  collector  stepped  into 
Mr.  Mayflower*s  store  and  presented  a  bill  for 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


ARTHURS   LADY'S   EOMB    MAGAZINE. 


two  hubdred  dollars  for  medical  attendance  in 
his  family. 

"  But  I  don't  owe  Dr,  Carpas  anytliing.  He 
haa  nerer  practised  in  my  ^Ermily.  What  does 
he  mean,  pray,  by  sending  me  a  Wll?" 

**  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  the  collector  re- 
plied. "  He  gave  me  the  bill  kmong  others, 
and  asked  me  to  present  it." 

"It's  very  strange.  He  never  visited  niy 
family  professionally .'* 

"  What  shall  T  say  to  him,  Mr.  MayHower  ?" 

"Tell  him  that  I  say  I  don't  owe  him  any- 
thing, and  am  surprised  at  his  presuming  to 
send  me  a  bill.'' 

"  Veiy  well,  sir;**  and  (he  collector  left. 

An  hour  after,  and  he  returned  with  a  new 
and  more  explicit  bill.  It  called  for  two  hun- 
dred dollars  for  "  edx  visits  and  medicine  to  dog 
Fido."  As  soon  as  he  read  it,  Mr.  Mayflower 
became  very  angiy,  and  said  some  hard  things 
about  Dr.  Carpus.  When  he  had  cooled  off  a 
little,  the  collector  formally  demanded  the  bill, 
and  was  formally  told  to  go  about  his  business, 
and  that  right  speedily. 

On  the  next  morning  Mr.  Mayflower  was 
still  further' confounded  to  find  a  lawyer's  note 
in  his  desk,  setting  foKh  that  he,  the  said  law- 
yer, had  been  insttucted  to  bring  suit  on  a  cer- 
tain claim,  folly  expressed,  'm  flavor  of  Br. 
Garpos. 

Here,  then,  the  matter  began  to  assume 
rather  a  serious  form.  A  lawyer  was  oon- 
snlted,  who  assured  him  that  Carpus  could  not 
possibly  recover  the  amount  claimed,  although 
he  was  legally  entitled  to  regular  fees  for-  his 
services,  whi^h  undoubtedly  woiild  be  awardeid 
him.  But  as  the  prosecution  of  the  suit  would 
neoeseariiy  lead  to  an  unpleasant  exposure  of 
his  dau£(htef,  who,  if  he  defended  the  case, 
would  be  called  into  court  to  give  etidenc^ 
the  lawyer  sertoasly  advised  the  incensed  old 
gentleman  to  settle  the  claim,  unjust  an^  exor- 
bitant as  it  wai,  and  so  get  cleai;'  xii  the  whole 
matter. 

It  took  old  Mr.  Mayflower  sonie  days  to 
make  up  his  miitil  to  pay  th^  bill:  Finally, 
however^  the  team  knd  entreaties  ofipo«r  Mary 
prevailed*,'  who  had  a  dreadful  featr  of  bmg 
called  into  «euH;  ^Her  fVin  ^ith'tfc^  doetor 
brongbe  tfaelangh  on  the  wrong  sid^:    '' 

About  a  week  ailer  the  claim  was  settled  a 
letter  was  received  from  Dr.  Carpuo,  couched 
in  pretty  plain  but  respectful  langihage,  setting 
forth  the  nature  and  eflbcts  of  the  practical 
joke  whicli  the  young  lady  had  yilayed"  otf  i 
upon  him,  and  alleging  that  as  she  had  en- 
Joyed  a  little  funlat  his  expense,  itwaern'o 


more  than  fkir  that  he  should  pay  her  off  is 
her  own  coin.  In  conclusion  he  referred  to 
two  one-hundred-dollar  Mils  which  he  had  en- 
closed, and  stated  that,  as  he  had  no  legal 
right  to  them,  he  could  not  retain  them.  Be 
htA  succeeded  in  making  the  party  who  pro- 
yoked  him  to  institute  a  mock  suit,  sensible  of 
herfcdly,  and  there  he  wsa  willing  to  let  the 
matter  drop;  trusting  that  when  she  next  took 
it  into  her  head  to  have  some  fun  with  the 
doctor,  she  would  think  twice  before  she  acted 
once.  And  here  the  matter  exidiedf  leaving 
both  Dr.  Carpus  and  Mary  Mayflower  some* 
what  wiser  from  having  read  qnite  attentively 
a  new  leaf  to  them  in  the  book  of  human  lile. 

SLEJBPLRSSNESS. 

THE  want  of  ability  to  sleep  well  is  an  indi- 
cation of  impaired^  health  which  demands 
prompt  attention.  As  a  remedy  for  this^  Dr. 
Hall  recojcamends  -tlf  a|  present  associations  be 
, broken  up, .  whatever,  zaay  be  the  sacrifice; 
that  some  more  active  employment  be  under- 
taken ;  or  a  long  journey  be  taken  on  horse- 
back, if  possible,  and  with  a  good  oompanion. 

THE  HILLS  BEYOND  THE  BAY. 

BY   KEEN   E.   REX  FORD. 

GRA.Y  shadows  fall  and  hide  the  daj,    • 
And  lands  beyond  the  sombre  bay — 
The  land  whose  hiUs  hare  all  day  long 
Been  toached  with  sun  and  cheered  with  song. 

So  falls  about -some  lives  the  night, 
•And  hides  the  saoshine  fr*m  the  sight — 
The  raa- kissed  peak*  of  "youth  away 
Beyond. the'  darkness  of  the  bay, 

0  years  between  the  now  aixd  then  { 
Tour  tide  sets  oat  aad  in  again. 
And  widens,  while  the  hill-tops  seem 
To  fade  as  in  some  lingering  dream. 

Oh,  din^  and  dimmer,  on  onr  sight. 
The  far  peaks  fads  into  the  night ; 
The  morning  deems  so  far  away 
At  «wiHght  of  a  vnished  day  !^ 

A  day  of.  saaskiae,  like  a  prayer 
Bint  up  by  earitibt  and  sea,  aad  aur. 
l^ot/airar  ^as  th^  k>pg  day  beea 
Than  youth,  w^icb  eannot  ooma 


The  sun- touched  hills  of  youth  must  be 
Henceforth  a  tender  memory — 
A  day  that  died — a  land  away 
Beyond  an  ever- widening  bay. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


A  DOLLAB  A  PAY, 


Pt  YIBQI^IA  y,  TOTf  NSKKD. 


CHAPTER  XX,  . 

LATE  in  the  aftemoon,  bowHpg  jtvpidly 
along  throagh  the  Btipglvg  aiih-for  Uie 
winter  had  swooped  dowA  now  upoi»  the  earth, 
and  locked  it  up  in  snoir  anfd  gilence-^-Foriyth 
saw  a  boy  on  the  corner  of  t^e  eti^eet.  He 
stood  perfect]!  still ;  a^d  there  waa  soovethiitg 
in  his  attitude^  perhaps,  or  in  the  ^^pressieM^^f  | 
hia  face,  whicdi  arrested  .the  man^s  attenUMi. 
The  latter,  i^ustomed  in  hie  baaiqess  life  to 
prompt  deductions  about  men  and  thingB,  took 
in  the  figure  with  a  glance — the  gr^y,  wom 
suit,  the  bit  of  doth  capi  the  brown  tippet 
about  the  throat,  and  the  pile  of  newipapets 
over  onQ  aroou  Of  a  sudden  the  story  came  up 
which  Creasy  had  told  one  night. ajxNit  that 
generous  little  deed  of  lUmsey's  to  ib^  news- 
boy. 

He  had  hardly  thought  of  it  from  that  day ; 
but  the  whole  caming  hack  vividly  now,  sent  a 
stab  to  the  man's  heart ;  he  saw  the  sobUng 
girl  at  his  feet,  and  himself  standing  there  with 
the  whip  m  his  hand.  What  a  brute  he  looked 
in  his  own  thought,  and  how  he  blessed  Cressgr 
for  the  brave  little  heart  which  had  made  her 
throw  hecse^  fearlessly  into  the  breach,  and 
spared  him  fresh  agonies  of  remorse  I 

And  there  the  boy  stood  in  his  shabby  gray 
suit,  and  the  stinging  winds  grabbing  at  the 
papers  on  his  arm,  and  diving  at  his  hair  and 
nose ; ,  not  a  handsome  picture,  certainly ;  but 
there  was  something  in  the  boy's  eyes  which 
Forsyth  caught,  and  which  struck  him. 

He  seised  the  tube  and  shotted  to  the  coal- 
man, who  drew  up  the  horses  sharply,  and, 
leaning  out»  the  owner  beckoned  to  the  news- 
boy. 

In  a  monaent  Barley  Hanes  caxne  up  to  the 
carriage,  ^tartied  and  alarmed.  What  ooald 
Bamsey  Forsyth's  father  want  oi  kmf 

The  gentleman's  iace  beamed  kindly  upon 
the  newsboy.  Barley  vas  used  ta  curt,  sharp 
orders  and  tones  from  people.  Some  senst- 
tiveness  at  the  core  made  these  always  hurt. 
But  very  few  ears  had  ever  heard  so  kindly  a 
voice  from  the  lips  of  Kiehard  Forsyth  as  the 
one  with  which  he  leaned  out  of  the  carriage 
to  the  shivering  newsboy  in  his  gray  suit  and 
said :  "  Won't  you  jump  in  and  take  a  vide  wkh 
me?  I've  something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 
Barley  was  so  bewildeced  that  he  did  joat 


kniiw  what  to  say,  so  he  blushed  and  blundered 
out  a  '*  Thank  you,  sir;"  and  when  he  aotualigr 
fgund  himself  ^Uing  into  the  carriage,  he  set- 
tled bade  upon  the  thought  that  thistimeit 
was  a  b(mafideditQ»tm — there  wastnothing  very 
remarkable  ixi  that>  he  had  dreamed  about 
Eamaey  Forsyth's  father  and  the  grand  car- 
riage a  good  many  times  of  late. 

Barley  siink:ataong  the  soft,  crimson  cush- 
ions ;  the  carriage  started  again,  and  the  bum 
and  (he  boy  looked  at  eacli  other ;  and  what 
the  man  saw  was  an  honest  young  face,  ^ith^ 
varnish  of  tam  and  a  sprinkling  of  freckles,.  Imt 
a  face  which  fitomised  something  for  its  future 
when  you  came  to  look  closely,  juad  bright, 
wide^^pen  eyes  #hieh  stared  at  the  man  In  ^ 
way  that  pwzsled.him. 

He  spoke  in 'a  minnteb  '*  You  knew  my  bojjr 
a  little^  I  believe-MqyIboy  that  is  dead?"  a 
quiver  and"' lowering  of  his  voioS  over  the  last 
woods. 

"Ohl  yes^  sir/'  answered  Barley,  eagerly^ ; 
"  I  knew  him  a  good  deal.  He  was  my  friend/' 

The  voiee  sounded  very  sweetly  to  the  father^ 
eara.>  I  suppose  in  all  the  world,  nobody  else 
woNdd  haye^aid!fhat  of  Bams^  Fontyth. 

A  Ut  of  pleased  smile  seemed  to  hover  about 
the  man^s  beard* 

''Ah,"  he  sai^^Tm  glad  to  hear  you  say 
that  1    You  thittk  be  waa  a  good  boy,  then  ?" 

He  ashedthe  question  eagerly,,  almost  anx- 
iously,  as  a  tender  mother  might,  and  as  though 
the  opiniot)  of  this  newsboy  was  of  vast  conse- 
quence to  the  man. 

Barley.  Wato  greatly  moved.    Then,  too,  he 
was  quivering  with  eagerness  to  sbow  the  very 
best  of  Bamsey  Forsyth  to  his  father. 
'    "Oh,  I  immo  he  was  good  f  he  answered — 
"  he  was  so.  vei-y  good  to  me—"    . 

The  boy  could  not  get  any  further ;  the  sud- 
den tears  coming  into  his  eyes  surprised  him. 

PWagith  saw.  them;  He  leaned  over  and 
tbuehad  the  red  ■  hand  of  the  newsboy.  *'  Tell 
me  all  about;  it,"  he  aaicL . 

Barley  oommenced.  Perhaps  he  made  bong- 
ling  work  of  it.  He  said  he  did,  when  he  wenl 
over  the  soene  Jn  the  Biipercargo's  account 
book ;  but  the  num  who  listened ,  devouring 
every  word,  never  thought  this ;  and  through 
thecrispi  ierkyisentenoes  one  saw  it  all  again — 
the  lonely  moonlight  on  the  snosK^  and  the  boy 

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332 


ARTHUR' 8   LADT8   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


on  the  corner  with  his  numbed  limbs  and  hia 
sinking  heart. 

Darley  choked  two  or  three  limes  over  this 
tale.  He  was  as  proud  as  he  was  poor ;  and 
had  not  his  strong  desire  to  set  Bamsey  in  the 
best  light  quite  put  all  thought  of  himself  out 
of  the  question,  the  newsboy  would  never  have 
giren  the  gentleman  such  a  broad  peep  at  his 
pOTerty.  But  there  it  was,  almost  without  his 
knowing  it— the  lonely,  supperless  girls  keep- 
ing their  long  watch  for  tlieiv  brother,  and  all 
the  wonder  and  joy  w^ioh  broke  at  last  into 
the  gloom ;  and  the  angel  who  came  with  his 
kindly  words  and  wondeHbl.gift,  and  made  the 
dreary  Cfariaftmas  eve  to  shine  with  comfort 
and  gladness,  waa  Ramsey  Forsyth. 

Two  or  three  times  \.h%  stem  man  had  to 
wip^  the  tears  from  his  eyes*  He  did  n«t  know 
that ;  and  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  at  home, 
even,  until  he  found  the  carriage  rolling  into 
the  gateway. 

.  He  put  his  hand  very  kindly  on  Darley's 
shoulder.  "  You  must  come  in  with  me,  my 
boy,"  he  said,  as  his  own  boys  had  hardly  aver 
heard  him  speak.  "  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you,  and  this  is  my  last  ehanoe.'' 

Barley  thought  of  the  girls  at  home.  They 
would  be  sure  to  wait  supper  until  he  came ; 
but  it  was  early  yet ;  and  so,  because  he  oould 
see  no  help  for  it,  yet  reluctantly  and  with 
trepidation,  he  followed  the  gentleman  out  of 
the  carriage  and  into  the  hall,  still  half  b^Hev- 
ng  the  whole  thing  must  be  a  dream,  and  that 
he  should  turn  over  and  wake  up  and  find  the 
morning  sun  shining  brighily  on  the  small 
panes  of  the  little  chamber  under  the  "lean- 
to,"  just  as  it  had  shone  almost  ever  since  he 
oonid  remember. 

The  boy  was  quite  dazsled  with  the  splendor 
on  every  side  as  he  followed  his  host  to  the 
sitting-room,  where  Proctor  and  Cressy  were 
usually  to  be  found  at  this  time  of  the 
day. 

*^0h,  papa,  Tm  so  glad  you  are  oomeP 
burst  out  Cressy;  and  tlien  she  and  Proctor 
both  caught  sight  of  his  companion  and  stared. 

*'  Shake  hands  with  him,  children,"  said  the 
father,  drawing  the  boy  into  the  centre  of  the 
room.    '*  Your  brother  and  he  were  friends." 

Both  the  young  people  had,  by  this  time, 
zeoogniaDed  the  newsboy,  and  their  father's 
words  was  thtu  best  introduolion  that  he  could 
possibly  have  had  under  that  roof.  Cressy 
came  right  forward  and  gave  both  her  hands  to 
Barley. 

*'  I'm  glad  to  see  yoa  for  Ramsey's  sake," 
she  saidi  in  just  the  kindeat  way  in  the  world. 


And  when  it  came  Proctor's  turn,  how  he  dk 
wring  Barley's  fingers  I 

"Children,"  said  Forsyth,  in  his  prompt^ 
rapid  way,  "  I  might  have  told  you  the  boy'g 
story,  but  I  wanted  yon  to  hear  it  from  his  own 
lips,  just  as  I  heard  it  on  the  drive  home. 
There  is  no  time  to  spare."  Then  he  turned 
to  Barley : ''  Sit  down  hese  among  us,  and  don't 
be  afraid,  my  boy.  Remember  it  is  Ramsey's 
brother  and  sister  who  will  hear  yon." 

Poor  Barley  I  In  the  midst  of  all  tl)at  splen- 
dor, and  in  the  midst  of  that  circle,  too  I  It 
was  very  hard  on  him  I  He  floundered  and 
blundered  at  the  beginning,  and  afterward  told 
hia  sisters  he  should  have  come  to  a  dead  stop 
if  there  had  not  been  Cressy  straight  before 
him,  with  her  bright,  hungry  eyes  on  his  face, 
and  her  eager  voice  breaking  in  with  all  soriB 
of  questions.  At  last  Barley  foiigot  everything, 
and  lived  over  the  scene  again,  and  then  iti 
life  entered  into  his  words  once  more.  Before 
he  was  through,  Cressy  was  sobbing,  and  her 
father  and  brother  were  wiping  their  eyes. 

"  O  papa  I"  burst  out  Cressy,  lifting  up  her 
wet  face,  '*  Fm  thinking  if  only  Ramsey  ooald 
have  known  how  much  good  he  had  done,  it 
might  have  prevented  him  at  the  yetj  last 
moment  from  jumping  into  the  river." 

"O  Cressy,  don't  P*  cried  out  Proctor,  S8 
though  each  of  her  words  had  been  a  dreadfol 
sUb. 

And,  in  the  midst  of  it  all.  Barley  felt  an 
overpowering  impulse  to  shout  oat:  "He 
didn't  drown  himself  I  He  isn't  dead!"  and 
then  the  thought  of  his  promise,  standing  on 
the  depot  platform,  with  the  screech  of  the 
train  away  off  in  the  darkness  of  the  distant 
hollow,  can>e  up  and  sealed  his  lips. 

Into  everything  else  came  the  summons  to 
supper.  Each  insisted  that  Barley  should  re- 
main ;.  and  although  he  felt  reluctant  and  em- 
barrassed, and  a  good  deal  ashamed  of  his  old 
gray  coat,  there  seenaed  no  way  x>f  getting  out 
of  the  invitation,  especially  as  Mr.  For^th 
offered  to  send  the  boy  home  in  his  carriage. 
When  Barley  heard  that,  he  felt  he  mast  be 
dreaming  again.  Such  a  thing  could  not  have 
happened  ia  the  oonsmonplace  atmospheres  of 
real  life. 

Yet  no  guest  so  welcome,  none  treated  with 
so  touching  a  cordiality,  was  ever  ushered  into 
the  handsome  dining-room,  ever  sat  at  the  ele- 
gant table  of  Richard  Fomyth.  The  people 
there  all  felt  that  they  owed  this  )^y  a  great 
debt  The  light  of  the  ikir«8t  deed  of  Bam- 
sey's  life  shone  on  the  young  stranger,  and 
made  him  something  tender  and  sacred  ia  their 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


A    DOLLAR    A    DAY. 


333 


eyes,  but  of  all  the  world,  tfa^  elder  son  stood 
to  this  poor  newsboy  something  fine  and  gen- 
erous which  be  coald  be  to  nobody  else  in  the 
world,  but  just  what  his  father  and  brother 
and  sister  yearned  to  have  the  dead  to  be  in 
their  memory  and  love. 

Darley'd  absolute  faith  in  Kamsey,  in  his 
goodness  and  generosity,  shining  through  all 
the  newsboy's  talk,  was  inexpressibly  grateful  to 
the  hearts  of  his  family ;  and  out  of  your  own 
love  and  loss,  and  only  out  of  that,  will  you 
understand  the  feeling  of  these  people. 

Cressy  made  Darley  sit  next  to  her  at  the 
table,  and  treated  him  very  much  as  though 
he  had  been  a  prince  in  disguise,  instead  of  the 
shabby  little  newsboy  he  was  in  reality. 

He  was  very  much  startled  to  learn  that  the 
family,  on  the  point  of  starting  for  Europe, 
were  to  leave  Thomley  the  next  morning. 

Business  would  detain  Mr.  Forsyth  fer  a 
few  days  in  New  York  before  the  steamer 
sailed.  They  were  to  remain  abroad  an  in- 
definite period,  and  the  grand  house  was  to  be 
dosed  during  the  owner's  absence. 

"To  think  this  is  our  last  supper  here  at 
Thomley  I  I  am  so  very  glad  we  could  take 
it  with  Ramsey's  friend  I"  said  Cressy;  and 
she  smiled  with  a  sweet,  grateful  smile  on 
Darley. 

"  Yes,  it  was  lucky  enough  I  came  across 
you  to-night,  my  boy— strange  I  haven't  found 
out  your  name  yet  I"  answered  the  gentleman 
at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"Darley  Hanes,  sir,"  the  answer  prompt 
enough. 

"  Darley  Hanes  1"  repeated  Forsyth,  setting 
down  his  cup  of  cofiee.  It  was  the  name  of 
the  handsome  young  surveyor  who  had  married 
8quire  Butterfield's  daughter. 

The  little  girl  whom  he  had  met  on  the 
roadside  tone  up  suddenly  to  the  man.  He 
had  quite  forgotten  her  in  his  late  troubles. 

Something  in  the  man's  tones  made  every- 
^y  at  the  table  look  at  him.  He  was  staring 
at  Darley. 

''Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  Squire 
Butterfield  The  asked. 

"He  was  my  grandfather,  sir,"  answered 
Darley. 

"  I  thought  so.  I  knew  him  when  I  was  a 
boy  younger  than  you." 

This  was  all  the  comment  Forsyth  made, 
hut  afterward  his  kindly  manner  was,  if  pos- 
sible^ more  marked  than  ever  to  the  newsboy. 
They — the  young  people  especially — drew  him 
out  of  hi«  shyness  to  talk  about  his  life  and  his 
home  at  the  old  **  lean-to,"  and  the  young  sis- 


ters there,  with  the  daily  newspaper-beat  for 
himself  and  the  daily  trudging  to  the  old  arsenal 
for  Prudy,  and  the  long,  hard  wrestle  with 
which,  year  by  year  and  inch  by  inch,  these 
children  fought  their  great  battle  with  poverty. 

Darley  told  a  great  deal  more  .than 'he  in- 
tended to ;  a  good  deal  more,  too,  than  he  was 
aware  of— the  young  hearers  were  so  full  of 
eager  interest  and  sympathy.  They  led  him 
on,  and  drew  him  ont  with  their  questions, 
until  he  forgot  all  about  the  elegant  supper- 
table  and  his  own  shabby  gray  coat. 

The  whole  was  as  interesting  and  wonderful 
to  Proctor  and  Cressy  as  some  tale  about  folks 
who  lived  in  the  rings  of  Saturn.  What  did 
they  know  about  poverty,  their  youth  lapsed 
away  in  such  wide  spaces  of  ease  and  luxury  I 

With  their  father  it  was  different,  of  course. 
He  knew  all  about  that  struggle ;  but  all  the 
time  there  floated,  in  and  out  of  Darley's  talk, 
the  little  girl  with  the  sweet  face  and  crimson 
sash  whom  he  had  watched,  so  long  ago,  sit- 
ting in  the  corner  of  Squire  Butterfield's 
kitchen. 

They  lingered  for  half  an  hour  later  than 
usual  around  the  supper-table,  although  it  was 
the  last  night  and  everybody  ^as  at  a  high  • 
pressure  with  last  things  to  be  done. 

By  this  time  the  horses  were  outride,  pranc- 
ing in  the  snow,  ready  to  take  Dirley  back  (o 
the  "lean-to,"  just  as  the  fairy  godmother's 
coach  had  waited  to  roll  Cinderella  away  from 
the  palace  gates  to  the  dingy  kitchen  and  the 
old  daily  moll  and  drudgery.  But  it  seemed 
as  though  they  could  not  let  the  boy  go.  Cressy 
plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"  I  want  to  hear  all  about  Prudy's  dream, 
first,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Master  Darley,  we  must  'have  that 
before  we  let  you  off,"  added  Proctor, 

Darley  looked  quite  dumbfounded.  "I 
didn't  know  that  I  had  said  anything  about 
Prudy's  dream,"  he  faltered. 

"But  you  have,"  put  in  Cressy  very  de- 
cidedly. "  You  said,  *  When  I  come  to  tell 
the  girls  about  my  being  here  to-night,  it  will 
all  seem  as  strange  as  though  Prudy's  dream 
had  come  true.' " 

So  it  had  to  be  gone  over  with— the  father 
coming  to  listen  with  a  pleased,  attentive  air. 

The  brother  and  sister  looked  at  each 
other  and  at  their  father,  whin  Darley 
paused. 

Could  a  dollar  a  day,  a  mere  pittance,  do 
all  for  thia  newsboy  and  his  sisters  that  he 
seemed  to  dream  7  Why,  the  yoong  Forsyths 
squandered  far  more  than  that  on  what  their 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


334 


ARTHUR'S   LADY'S   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


father  comprehensively  termed  "gimcracks," 
every  week  of  iheir  lives  ! 

Proctor  and  Creesy  would  gladly  hav6  poured 
out  their  purses  into  the  newsboy's  hands ;  but 
tliere  was  an  inborn  refinement,  a  kind  of 
sturdy  manliness  about  him,  which  showed 
through  the  shabby  gray  coat,  and  made  them 
hesitate  to  offer  him  any  charity. 

So  that  all  Darley  carried  away  from  the 
stately  house  was  a  little  basket  of  grapes  and 
oranges,  which  Cressy  gathered  together  at  the 
laitt  moment,  and  said  :  "  Give  that,  with  my 
love,  to  Prudy  and  Cherry,  How  I  wish  I  had 
k^owu  about  you  all  before  I"  And  Proctor 
aod  Proctor's  father,  when  it  came  their  turn, 
took  leave  of  Darley  as  though  he  were  a  part 
of  him  who  slept,  in  their  thought^  so  many 
fathoms  deep  under  lonely  seas, 

"Papa,"  said  Proctor,  coming  straight  to 
his  father,  from  the  front  door  where  he  had 
watched  the  carriage  roll  oS  into  the  dark, 
"we  must  do  something  for  that  boy,  for 
Bamsey's  sake,  before  we  leave  Thorn  ley." 

"  Yes,  my  son  f  and  then  the  man  caught 
sight  of  Crefisy's  eager  face  behind  her  brother's. 
"  You  shall  decide  yourselves,  children,  what 
is  best  to  do,  and  we  will  talk  it  over  together 
when  all  these  last  matters  are  put  in  train, 
which  will  keep  ua  busy  as  beavers  into  mid- 
night." 

Sure  enough  I  it  was  midnight  when  the 
household  of  three  met  together  in  the  sitting- 
room  again,  and  the  fate  of  Darley  Hanes 
came  up. 

The  young  people  were  wide  awake  and  no 
little  excited  over  the  change  in  their  lives. 
It  could  not  fail  to  possess  and  fascinate  their 
young  imaginations,  yet  the  shadow  which 
gloomed  among  all  their  hopes  and  dreams 
was  the  shadow  of  death,  and  the  thought  of 
Ramsey  and  the  bitter  grief  for  him  came  with 
solemn  hush  into  all  the  excitement  and  bustle 
of  preparations. 

Forsyth  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  To 
an  outward  observer  he  was  much  his  old  self, 
nearly  three  months  having  now  elapeed  since 
that  night  when,  sinking  to  the  floor,  he  heard 
thai  last  cry  from  Bamsey.  The  wound  had 
healed,  but  there  had  been  other  hurts  that 
night  than  the  pi8tol-3hot's.  And  there,  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room  that  midnight,  For- 
syth related  to  his  son  and  daughter  the  scene 
which  had  happened  almost  forty  years  ago  in 
old  Squire  Butterfleld's  kitchen. 

The  children  kneiw,  in  a  vague  way,  some- 
thing of  their  Caiher's  youth.  He  was  proud 
of  being  the  architect  of  his  own  fortnnes,  and 


oAen  took  occasion  to  remind  his  progeny  that 
"they  would  never  know  the  worth  of  a  dollar 
until  they  had  earned  one  in  some  of  the  ways 
he  had  done." 

But  talk  of  this  kind  had,  of  course,  very 
little  effect,  and  was  set  down  with  the  yooDg 
peopU  to  the  general  account  of  their  father's 
grumblings  and  stinginesses;  but  to-night  the 
boy  and  girl  listened,  wonderfully  touched  and 
impressed  with  their  father's  story. 

It  brought  right  up  before  them  his  hard, 
hookelesa  boyhood^  and  they  both  cried  out: 
"  O  papa  I  were  you  ever  like  that — without  a 
friend  or  a  sixpence  in  the  world  7  I  sever 
thought  it  oould  be  so  bad." 

"It  was  just  so  bad,  my  children ;  I  was  that 
very  boy,  ragged,  and  tired,  and  starved,  In 
the  corner  of  the  kitchen,  when  this  newsboy's 
mother  came  with  her  dancing  step  and  her 
pretty,  pitiful  face^  like  an  angel  from  Heaven 
tome," 

"  Papa,"  burst  in  Cressy,  "  there  is  nothing 
I  would  not  do  for  that  boy  and  his  sisters. 
Pm  ready  to  glye  them  anything  Pve  got" 

"  And  I  won't  be  behind  Cressy  this  time," 
added  Proctor.    "  What  shall  we  do,  papa." 

The  father  sat  down  with  a  very  grave  face. 
"Children,"  he  said,  "Pm  afraid  to  give  this 
boy  money.  It  would  be  a  terrible  thing  to 
take  the  pi  uck  out  of  him.  Think  what  a  stout 
fight  he  has  made  of  it  all  these  years  I  It 
would  be  no  kindness  to  spoil  the  stuff  in  him 
by  smoothing  the  road  for  him  to  loaf  over, 
and  go  to  the  devil,  perhaps,  in  the  end.  I'm 
ready  as  you  are  to  help  him,  but  Pve  began  to 
feel  of  late  that  poverty  and  hard  work  are  a 
boy's  true  friends." 

The  children  knew  he  was  thinking  of  Bam- 
sey. They  had  not  a  word  to  say  at  firdt  At 
last  Proctor  burst  out :  "  But  isn't  there  some- 
thing we  can  hit  on  and  not  harm  the  poor 
fellow?" 

Tlien  the  father  went  on  to  develop  his  plan. 
The  grounds  would  remain  under  the  care  of  the 
gardener,  who  was  to  reside  on  the  estate. 
Light  work,  as  an  assistant,  three  or  four  hours 
a  day,  could  easily  be  afforded  a  bright,  in- 
telligent boy,  who  would  be  certain  to  find  quite 
as  inuch  time  on  his  hands  as  he  could  safely 
be  trusted  with,  while  a  dollar  a  day  would  be 
ample  compensation  for  raking  the  flower- beds, 
and  keeping  the  walks  smooth,  and  attending 
to  things  of  that  sort. 

"If  that  boy  were  my  own  I  would  sooner 
stake  his  future  on  that  'dollar  a  day  earned 
steadily  with  his  own  hands,  than  on  all  the 
gold  I  could  pour  into  them,"  said  Forsyth, 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


. 4, \P CKZi LAB  A.  fid  f. 


83d 


solemnly.     Three  mojitbft  b%o,  h&  irould  not 
have  made  this  speech. 

"So  Prudy's  dream  will  haye  come  tme^ 
aher  all/'  aaid  Gc^y,  "It  seeipa  so  little, 
and  yet,  did  you  obsei:ye  how  lus  face  <^d.  light 
up,  talking  about  it  all?  But  t^e  dollax  a 
day  will  be  poor  Eamsey's  gift,  just  as  the  five.i 
dollars  were  that  Christmas  eve.'' 

"  I  think  a  part  was  your  gift,  Crewy,"  added 
Proctor. 

"No,  it  was  not  I"  jealous  for  ^e  dead 
brother^s  honor.  "How  can  yon  84^  that. 
Proctor?    It  was  all  Eamsejis  doing.'' 

"  He  was  Ramsey's  friend.  We  owe  him 
somethiog  for  that,"  added  ITorsyth.  So, it  was 
settled. 

But  if  the  man  had  really  kpoyirn  what  it 
was  that  he  owed  to .  this  newsboy,  I>ajpl^ 
Hanes,  he  would  have  felt  as  though  hiswhole 
fortune  was  not  large  enough  to  cover  the 
debt. 

In  the  old  "lean-to,I'  about  mid-day,  Frudy 
and  Cherry  sat  together,  where  (he  winter  sun 
ehone  at  its  brightest, and  w^jrmeiit; 

Their  thoughts  had  been  swarming  and  their 
tongue  had  been  buzzing  .  ail  the  momiaf^ 
How  could  either  be  stiUi  aAer  the  jnlracle 
which  had  broken  upon  them  the  njght  be- 
fore  I  .         ,  . 

Peering  out  through  ^he  small  pan^,  an 
hour  after  the  supper  table  had  awaited  his 
return,  the  two  amazed  girJ^,had  beheld  the 
Forsyth  carriage  roll  up  to  the  bit  of  brown 
gate,  and  Darley  actnaMy  .  alighting  from  it) . 
"  like  a  king  oj^  a  crpw^ied  oonqueror»  w  the 
very  President  himseltV'  Cherry  averoed. 

A  moment  later,  and  the  grand  c^riage  had 
rolled  away  into  the  dark,  smoothly  and  swiftr 
ly  as  that  other  coach  which  bore  Cinderella 
to  the  palaoe  of  the  prince,  and  .Daiiley  .wta  in 
their  midst,  with  Cressy'^  gift  in  hisha^dy  aad 
his  story — more  wonderful  than  any  romanoe-- 
on  his  lips* 

He  had  gone  over  with  it,  agaia  and  again, 
until,  as  he  said^  a  long  time  ago^  reading 
Kbg  John,  his  throat  got  "rawish;'^  and  ao 
long  as  "the  Morning  News"  and  "Evteniog' ) 
Chronicle"  formed  the  solereliancd  for*"  break-  I 
fasts  and  dinners,"  the  condition  of  Bsriey-  ) 
Hanes's  throat  held  very  intimate  relations 
with  the  dom«etic  economy  of  the  houaahold. 

And  while  the  two  girls  chatted  in  the 
winter  sunshine,  there  was  again  the  roll  of 
wheels,  a  thud  of  horses'  feet  outside,  and 
looking  up  they  saw,  once  more^jthe  haadspliie 
carriage  at  the  gate.  Befose  thdy  oonld  ,^Uect 
^beir  witb,  there  wu  a  thundeiiBg .  knock  At 


thfl.  frpntdoor^  aiid  with-  9ner  impulse  the  sis- 
ters rushed  forward  to  answer  the  coachman's 
su^nmons* 

.Inside  the  cavriage  sat  Forsyth  ai^d  his  son 
and  daiighi^r,  all  gazing  curiously  at;  the  fair 
yQung  faces  which  shone  o\it  of  that  old  front 
d<?or/... . 

The  gentleman  beckoned  to  tb^  gvpi%  uid 
tl^y  came  oiat  and  stood  in  the  frosty  air  by 
the  oarciage^ 

"  We  «VQ  00  oar  way  to  the  d^ot,  little  la* 
dies,  and  have  not  one  moment  to  splire,"  said 
the  gentleman,  in  his  kindest  voiee,tbut  in  a 
great  hurry  eridetitly,  "or  we  wouid  invite 
ourselves  into  the  house,  instead  of  keeping 
you  out  in  the  cold.  But  here  i$  a  letter  for 
your  briber  Darley — that's  the  long  and  short 
of  it— and  you  are  to  keep  it  until  to-oight, 
and  then  give  it  to  him,  with  all  our  loves. 
Good-by." 

The  letter  waa  in  Prndy's' hands,  and  before 
sbs  eopld  staDBjner  out  any  thauku  the  carriage 
wheeled  around*  "i^pt  a  second  to  spare  T' 
cried  Forsyth  to  his  coachman. 

«GkM>d.byI"  "Oood-byl"  shouted  Proctor 
and  Creasy,  and  they  actually  kitsjod  their 
hands  to  the  girU  Btaoding  out. there  with  their 
shiniog  heads  hare  in  the  cold* 
.  Prudy  and  Cherry  went  into  the  house,  and 
plaoed  the  letter,  on  the  mantel,  at  the  most 
conspicuous;  point,  without  spe^^iog  one  word. 
Then  they  turned  and  looked  at  each  other 
with  such  bewildered  faces.  "Prudy,"  said 
Chenqy,  in  a  kiud  of  undertone^  "  you  thiuk 
we  are  awake,  dpn't  you  <?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  ace,"  aaswered  Frudy,  in 
a  low,  half-doubtful  voice,  as  though  she  her* 
self  was  afraid  of  breaking  some  slumber. 

That  night  the  table  was  spread  as  usual, 
only  with  some  hush  in  the  steps  and  voices 
of  the  girls,  for  they  had  been  hiaunted  all  day 
by  a  prescience  that  sqme  great  ervent  was  to 
traujipire,  and  that  this  lay  wrapped  darkly 
within  the  letter  on  the  mantel. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  Barley  reached 
home,  tired  and  cold  and  cross  as  usual  with 
his  long  tramp. 

Two  voices  told  him  the  story,  -hut  it  was 
Pmdy*B  hand  which  gaye  him  the  letter ;  and 
in  the  silence  of  waiting,  indrawn  breaths, 
the  thing  was  opened  and  read ;  .^nd  ihty  knew 
at  laat  thai  Prudy  a  droam  had  eamt  irue^ 

What  moj^e  can;  I  say  than  that  they  lived 
through  it.  Ah,  it  takes  so  much  ghtdness  or 
grief  to  kill  uaI 

Yet  the  great  je^.  shocked,  half  stunned 
them ;  and  such  scenes  followed  afterward  of 


Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


ARTHUR*8   LAD7*8   HOME    MAGAZINE. 


words  tbat  babbled  and  then  btoke  with  their 
own  weights  of  joy ! 

"  You  knoW|  girls,  I  always  stuck  to  it — the 
thing  was  sure  to  come,"  said  Dafley.  "  But 
I  fancied  I  must  be  a  gray-haired  6ld  codger 
first ;  and  here  I  am  an  nn fledged  chicken,  and 
you  girls  are  no  better,  and  the  dream  and 
hope  of  oar  lives  has  come  true.'' 

"It  is  more  wonderful  than  all  the  wonder- 
ful stories  of  Scheherezad,''  put  in  Cherry,  who 
had  been  of  late  deep  among  the  enchantments 
of  the  Arabian  Nights.   ' 

*'And  there  will  be  no  more  worry  about 
rent  day  nor  snppers,"  cried  Prody— this  pror- 
ince  in  the  dii^ision  of  domestic  economy  hav- 
ing fallen  to  her  share— and  her  sweet,  grave 
face  was  alive  with  smiles  and  tears,  and  she 
drew  a  breath  of  ineflaUe  relief  from  some 
great  deep  in  her  soul. 

'*And  no  more  fires,  and  breakfasts,  and 
dinners  to  fret  one's  heart  into  strings  over  I 
Girls,  a  miracle  has  happened  to  ns  I"  cried 
Barley;  and  again  the  poor  boy  burst  right 
into  tears. 

*'  And  Prudy  and  I  can  have  the  crimson 
dresses,  with  the  pretty  hati  and  plumes  we 
have  been  dreaming  about  and  longing  for  ever 
since  we  were  born  1"  bubbled  over  again  that 
irrepressible  little  Cherry. 

But  all  the  things  which  were  said  and  done 
that  wonderful  evening  would  fill  a  book  of 
themselves. 

Ko  wonder  that  the  Danae's  shower  of  gold 
which  seemed  to  have  iallen  so  suddenly  into 
their  lives  should  have  tdmed  the  young  heads 
a  little.  Of  course  they  would  get  steadied  in 
time,  and  learn  that  the  dollar  a  day,  which 
seemed  such  an  exhaustlese  fountain  to  their 
young  imaginations,  still  made  petty  shifts  and 
small  economies  the  order  of  their  lives. 

'  But  now  how  its  golden  arch  spanned  over 
the  skies  of  their  youth.  They  would  never 
feel  so  rich  again— never  as  they  did  on  this 
night  sitting  in  the  old  'Mean-to,"  though  the 
years  waited  up  the  future  like  magi  in  some 
eastern  tale,  with  all  dazzling  gifts  of  honors 
and  splendors. 

It  was  amnsing,  the  plans  that,  taking  root 
in  this  dollar  a  day,  ran  wild,  and  festooned 
and  flowered  about  the  talk  t  Once,  however. 
Cherry  drew  a  long  breath. 

**lt'8  a  great  deal  of  money  to  spend,  Prudy," 
she  stud,  solemnly.  ''  Do  you  think  we  shall 
be  able  to  do  it  7*' 

'*  I  think  we  shall ;  though  it  may  take  some 
time  to  grow  used  to  it,"  amwered  the  elder 
sister. 


At  hat,  however,  the  ihaken  young  brains 
and  hearts  grew  steadied  again. 

••Girls,*  said  Darley,  with  sudden  gravitj, 
''  we  owe  M  this  grand  fortune  to  that  poor 
fellow  who  peiliaps  this  very  moment  is  skulk- 
ing around  some  dark,  wretched  alley  of  New 
York." 

There  was  a  sudden  hush  in  the  swift  talk,  a 
shadow  on  the  beaming  faces,  at  that  speech  of 
Barley's. 

**  If  he  were  only  here— if  we  could  only  tell 
him  to-night  V*  said  Cherry,  sorrowfblly.  "  h 
seems  as  though  we  hadn't  any  right  to  such  a 
bright,  warm  fire,  and  sudi  a  good  supper,  and 
he,  perhaps,  going  without  any." 

"If  his  father  had  said  to  me  just  what  he 
has  in  that  lettei^-in  such  kind  words,  too— I 
couIdn*t  have  kept  back ;  I  should  have  bun^t 
right  out  with  the  truth,  spite  of  my  promise  to 
Ramsey ;  I  know  I  should."  Darley  was  speik- 
ing  half  to  himself. 

**  It  will  be  easier  to  keep  the  secret  now 
they  are  gone  away,"  answered  Prudy. 

But  the  talk  came  out  of  this  eclipse  onoe 
more  into  the  light  of  the  new  fortnne;  form 
these  young  people  clilled  Darley's  wages. 

Suddenly  Cherry  turned  to  her  brother  with 
a  half-ecared  look.  "  What  if  we  should  wake 
up  in  the  morning  and  find  it  was  all  a  dream? 
How  dieadful  it  would  be!" 

"That's  a  fact.  Cherry.  Jf  this  is  a  dream, 
though,  may  I  never  wake  up."  ' 

**  I  never  expected  to  be  so  happy  until  I  got 
into  Heaven,"  said  poor  Prudy. 

"Now  we've  got  all  this  money,"  answered 
Darley, "  I  should  like  to  try  this  world  awhile, 
even  if  I  were  as  sure  of  getting  to  Heaven  as 
vou  are,  you  deftr  little  patient  Griselda  of  a 
Prudy." 

And  as.  Darley  said  these  last  words  be 
looked  at  his  elder  sister ;  and  as  he  thought  of 
all  her  gentleness  and  goodness,  she  grew  to 
him.  not  the  Prudy  of  his  every-day  life,  with 
her  little  \ifk  and  tempera,  but  the  real,  tender, 
loving  sister  she  wa»— the  sister  of  his  boyhood, 
sacred  and  beautiful — ^the  sister  that  she  woold 
be  to  his  thought  and  heart  when  Barley 
shonid  live  to  be  an  okt  man— the  sister  which, 
I  trust,  he  should  find  and  know  again  whefi 
he  met  her  in*  the  dear  gardens  of  God. 

Then  they  talked  of  Joe  Dayton,  and  what 
he  would  say  about  the  good  fortune;  ajid  of 
the  mother  in  Heaven,  and  wondered  if  she 
knew  and  was  glad  over  the  joy  of  her  little 
family  on  earth  that  night 

And  that  wonder  sobered  them ;  and  Darley 
made  brave  resolves  of  the  diligence  and  faith- 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


EVENING. 


337 


fulness  which  he  would  carrjr  to  his  new  work,  ) 
ftnd  of  the  hours  that  he  wo«3d  hive  up  for 
study  at  home*  now  there  would  be  no  more 
hawking  the  papers  round  Thomley  Common 
and  Merchants*  Block ;  while  Prudy's  engage- 
ments would  take  her  for  the  present  to  the  old 
arsenal,  just  as  before ;  so  the  blessed  daily  eare, 
and  order,  and  work  came  to  daim  their  places 
by  the  side  of  the  new  fortune — happily  not  so 
large  as  to  exclude  these. 

And  midnight  gathered  at  last  about  the  old 
"  lean-to,"  and  the  winds  whizzed  outside,  bnt 
the  children  did  not  hear  them*  What  Barley 
and  Cherry  did  hear,  however,  was  Prudy's 
voice  saying,  softly :  "  I  think  it  was  God  sent 
the  dream  for  a  promise,  and  the  riches  after- 
ward." 

THE  END. 


EVENING. 

BT  VMTVR  ▲.  BSMVOrcT. 

THB  long,  long  day  of  toil  and  care  is  ovor. 
The  weary  laborer  has  sought  his  home, 
And  from  wild  woods  and  waving  fields  of  clover, 

To  greet  the  twilight,  bird  and  bee  are  cooie. 
0*er  yonder  valley,  hoir  the  shades  are  oreeping  I 
From  yonder  hillside  hoir  the  red  lights  fade  I 
And,  eh !  bow  oalmly  rests  the  yoang  ohild,  sleep-  ) 
log  > 

Amid  the  blossoms  where  all  day  she  played ! 
Sweet  silence  o'er  the  tired  earth  is  stealing; 

Only  a  bird's  low  song  is  on  the  air; 
And  thoughtfully  we  sit,  and  solemn,  feeling 
God's  love  about  us — His  quiet — eveiywhere ! 

Oh !  in  such  hours  as  these,  how  we  remember 

The  eyes  that  thrilled  us  with  their  earnest  gaze. 
Long  ere  the  heart's  tempestuous  Deeember 

Drop't  moaning  from  the  Indian-summer  days. 
How  silently  from  out  the  land  of  shadows 

They  come  again,  the  beautifal,  the  true. 
Who  roamed  with  us  in  green  and  growing  mead^ 
ows. 

When  all  life's  blossoms  heavy  hung  with  dew; 
Who  sat  with  us  beside  the  hearthstone  lowly, 

Who  knelt  with  us  beside  the  cottage  bed 
A  few  brief  years,  and  then,  with  faces  holy, 

Went  down  to  sleep  with  the  remembered  dead ! 

We  love  them  still  I    Though  sadly  brief  their 
story. 

Its  sweetness  lihgers  in  our  memory  yet 
Do  they  remember,  in  their  faar-oif  glory. 

The  old,  old  ways  whieh  am  eaonot  forget? 
Oh,  how  we  dream  of  them  while  night  is  falling ! 

How  near  us  seems  the  calm  of  thmr  abode ! 
And  hew  we  li«t  to  hear  low  whispers  oalllng 

Our  waiting  spiriU  to  their  rest  with  God. 

voc  xxxvra,— 23. 


Ah,  Ged's  dear  voice  from  out  the  groves  supernal, 
Floats  as  a  sound  of  soft  airs  o'er  the  sea: 

"A  little  while !    Live  for  the  life  eternal ! 
Through  all  the  way  mine  angels  walk  with 
thee." 

0  God,  forgive  us,  if  sometimes — forgetful 

His  ways  are  just~of  our  fair  home  we  dream. 
Listing  the  rustle  of  its  palms,  regretfbl 

That  years,  perohance,  are  lying  dim  between ! 
Forgive  us,  if  sometimes  we  reach  oat  blindly 

For  some  great  joy  to  bless  our  solitude. 
And  cannot  feel  it  is  withbolden  kindly 

By  Him  who  knoweth  'tis  not  perfect  good; 
If  sometimes,  when,  as  now,  the  twilight  lieth 

Upon  low  mounds  our  love  has  tended  long. 
We  kneel  in  its  deep  shade,  with  heart  that  crieth 

Against  HU  will  ''who  doeth  nothing  wrong!" 

Still  darker  grow  the  shadows  in  the  valley. 

Touching,  with  reverent  hands,  the  buds  of  June 
In  their  green  graves;  hot,  where  the  wan  winds 
dally 

With  sweet  sea- lilies,  shines  the  fair,  full  moon. 
Her  bright  face,  mirrored  in  the  slumbering  waters. 

Smiles  up  to  ours,  serene  and  calm,  as  though 
She  had  not  seen  earth's  faires^  fVailest  daughters 

Sink  bnt  last  night,  forsaken,  down  below ! 

Sweet  silence  o'er  the  happy  earth  is  stealing. 
No  song  comes  thrilling  through  the  perfumed 
air. 

And  silently  we  sit^  and  solemn,  feeling 
God's  love  about  us — His  heaven— everywhere  I 


THE   EARNINGS    OP   MAREIED   WO- 
MEN. 

^A  music  mistress''  has  addressed  an  Eng- 
lish paper  as  follows :  "  Mr.  England,  I  am  a 
teacher  of  mttsic.  For  years  I  have  supported 
myself,  my  children,  and — to  a  great  extent — 
my  husband.  I  have  long  been  anxious  to  put 
by  some  of  my  earnings,  but  I  have  been  un- 
able to  do  so  because  my  husband  claims  them 
as  his  own.  When  the  law  for  the  protection 
of  the  property  of  married  women  passed  last 
year,  I  was  under  the  impression  that  I  should 
be  able  to  save  money  for  my  children.  My 
husband,  however,  tells  me  that  I  cannot  teach 
music  without  his  consent,  and  that  this  con- 
sent he  will  withdraw  if  I  do  not  hand  over  to 
him  every  week  all  I  receive  for  my  lessons. 
I  know  nothing  of  law,  but  if  this  be  law  I  do 
not  exactly  see  how  my  earnings  are  protected." 


•<*«<o» 


loiiEKjgBB  is  the  dead  sea  that  swallows  vir- 
tues, and  the  self-made  sepulchre  of  a  living 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


MY  HOUSE  m  THE  PEAB-TBEE. 


BY  B06ELLA  BICE. 


AQREAT  while  ago,  when  we  lired  in  the 
old  log  honse  with  its  stone  jambn  and 
wide  fireplace,  we  had  a  long  curtain  hnng  up 
in  one  comer ;  and  I  don't  know  how  it  hap- 
pened, but  hy  rome  means  that  curtained  cor- 
ner got  the  name  of  the  Pout.  I  suppose  now 
it  was  because  when  any  of  us  felt  badly,  or 
out  of  humor,  we  always  went  into  that  comer 
to — meditate,  or  something  else. 

Our  parents  were  the  Icind  that  Solomon 
tdls  of— they  used  the  rod  freely— so  that 
made  the  Pout  quite  a  place  of  resort— ^some- 
times all  five  of  us  would  be  crowded  in  there 
at  one  time,  howling  like  ^re  hungry  wolves. 

One  evening  I  sat*  in  there  alone — none  of 
the  family  knew  where  I  was.  The  children 
were  playing  at  the  other  end  of  the  big  roomy 
kitchen,  and  my  father  and  mother  sat  before 
the  fire.  I  peeped  out  slyly  and  could  see 
them.  8he  held  the  baby  on  her  lap,  his  fat 
round  face  was  nestling  close  to  her  bared 
breast,  her  eyes  were  bent  intently  on  the 
glowing  embers  between  the  andirons,  and  her 
face  wore  a  troubled,  anxious  expression.  My 
father  had  opened  his  tobacco  box,  and  was 
peering  down  into  it,  searching  for  a  quid  about 
as  large  as  he  would  be  able  to  use  before  bed- 
time. 

"Dear  oh-dearT  my  mother  said,  with  a 
sigh  ;  "  I  don*t  know  how  to  manage  our  Zelle. 
I  tell  you,  Aleck,  youMI  have  to  stop  the  paper; 
she's  not  worth  a  cent  when  there's  anything 
to  read.  If  I  set  her  to  tending  baby,  she'll 
get  hold  of  a  book  or  paper  and  clear  foi^get 
^e  child  altogether. 

"He  pulled  over  her  pot  of  eraasy  dishwater, 
to-day,  while  she  was  doubled  up  over  'Ara- 
bian X^ights,'  and  then  he  crawled  away  into 
the  hen-house,  and  dear  knows  what  all  he 
ate  ;  his  dear  little  blessed  faoe  was  dirty  from 
ear  to  ear,  and  he  had  tasted  and  spit  oat, 
nntil  his  chin,  and  bib,  and  fingers,  and  hair 
were  in  a  dreadful  condition.  I  washed  him 
from  top  to  toe  in  hot  soapeods,  and  then  had 
to  quite  scald  him  before  I  could  get  him  clean. 
I  tell  you  I  gave  her  a  good  drubbing  after- 
ward, and  I  hid  every  book  and  psper  that  I 
could  find.  She's  off  somewhere  crying  now. 
Oh,  she's  more  trouble  to  me  than  the  baby 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  children !  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  who  she's  like — neither  of  us  would 
^838) 


fool  away  time  over  a  book  when  there's  work 
to  do." 

**  Oh,  she'll  get  over  that  when  she's  a  little 
older,"-  said  my  fhther,  leaning  back  and  slip- 
ping his  tobacco  box  into  his  trouser  pocket; 
*'  but  if  you  think  it  the  best  plan,  1  will  stop 
the  paper  when  the  year  is  up." 

"  I  see  no  other  way,'*  said  my  mother,  with 
a  long  sorry  fiice,  as  she  rose  and  laid  the  babj 
in  his  arms  and  went  to  fix  the  yeast  for  the 
next  day's  baking. 

When  they  didn't  see  me  I  slipped  out  and 
sat  on  the  stairs,  resolving  sullenly  that  I  leouid 
have  something  to  read,  even  if  I  did  not  get 
it  by  fair  means. 

So  the  "  Spectator,"  that  came  in  our  one 
weekly  mail,  carried  by  a  boy  on  horseback, 
who  tooted  a  little  horn  as  he  sailed  into  the 
village,  was  stopped,  and  the  few  books  were 
locked  op  in  the  "  chist,"  with  the  exoeptioo 
of  the  dingy  old  History  of  the  United  States, 
Kerrey's  MeditatioDS,  Edwards  on  the  Will, 
and  a  book  on  military  tactics. 

My  dear  doll  was  placed  in  the  upper  drawer 
of  the  bureau,  with  orders  for  me  not  to  lay  my 
handa  on  it  without  permission.  Every  night, 
after  I  was  undressed  ready  to  jump  into  bed, 
I  would  pull  the  draw  open  and  peep  in  and 
look  afiTectionately  upon  my  dear  Juley  Ann, 
and  chirck  at  her,  and  long  to  pat  her  rose-red 
cheeks  and  hold  her  to  my  bosom.  She  wore 
a  new  pink  silk  dress,  with  green  ribbooB 
round  her  waist,  and  head,  and  ankles.  She 
was  as  stiff  as  a  pair  of  tongs,  but  I  loved  her 
very  deariy,  and  so  longed  to  have  a  litde 
dance  with  her  and  become  better  acquainted. 
But  she  was  so  carefully  kept  that  I  outgrew 
my  love  for  dolls,  after  awhile,  and  she  became 
the  property  of  a  baby  cousin,  who  rocked  her 
in  her  little  chair,  and  took  her  dress  o^  and 
put  a  nightgown  on  her  nights,  and  had  all 
the  comfort  and  enjoyment  with  her  that  prop- 
erly belonged  to  me. 

This  hard  bit  of  experience  was  profitable  to 
me  in  the  years  after,  when  little  girls  were  in 
my  care,  for  I  knew  all  the  bare  and  all  the 
beautiful  places  in  the  path  of  childhood,  and 
I  was  careful  that  they  did  not  have  to  walk 
among  shadows.  It  did  not  improve  my  tem- 
per much,  when  I  had  nothing  to  read,  4nd 
^  every  spare  minute  was  occupied  with  some 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


MY   HOUSE   IN    TEE   PEAB-TREE. 


kind  of  work— my  evenings  generally  in  stadj- 
iog  arithmetic  and  learning  how  to  knit.  To 
thia  day,  knitting  and  mathematics  are  my 
bugahooa. 

When  the  spring  months  came,  with  balmj 
south  winds,  and  airs  odorons  with  flowers,  my 
hanger  for  reading  grew  ineopportaUe^  and  I 
went,  one  day,  to  a  woman  who  was  an  insatiate 
reader,  and  crieo,  ana  told  ik*a  my  troubles. 
She  said  she  didn't  want  to  get  my  mother's 
ill  will,  but  she  had  a  trunk  full  of  old  story* 
papers,  and  if  I  conld  manage-  to  keep  them 
out  of  her  sight  I  might  take  them  home,  one 
bundle  at  a.  time»  and  read  and  return  them, 
and  get  a  new  package. 

1  was  so  gladj  I  nearly  hugged  tfaat.cdd  hair* 
oovered  trunk.  Oh,  but  it  did  wM  good  when 
she  unlocked  it,  and  I  bent  down  over  it,  my 
eyes  shining  and. sticking  out  with  r^oicings  I 

The  papers  had  lain  so  long  packed  closely 
that  they  smelt  musty  and  old,  but  sweeter  ftir 
to  me  than  the  fragnmee  of  roses.  There  were 
about  thirty. papers  in  each  bundle,  and  I  was 
to  have  one  bundle  every  week.  All  this  was 
wrong — add  no  good  ever  comes  of  deceiving 
one's  parents,  as  I  found  out  afterwards  to  my 
sorrow.  But  I  was  ugly  and  desperate,  and 
hardly  cared  what  I  did^ 

I  managed  to  secrete  the  papers  Air  two  or 
three  weeks,  and  was  very  happy  when  the 
bsby  was  asleep,  and  the  dishes  washed,  and 
the  yard  swepty  for  then  I  could  get  to  go  off  | 
alone  and  read  a  good  while. 

But  I  did  wish  I  had  a  house  of  my  own.  I 
tried  an  old  comcrib  awhile,  bnt  the  brothers 
and  sister  troubled  me  so  much— wanting  me 
to  play  with  them,  and  make  cupboards,  and 
beds,  and  whirligigs,  and  slings,  and  cam-stalk 
fiddles,  and  bugles  out  of  pumpkin^vine  sterns-^ 
that  I  began  to  look  about  for  a  quieter  place. 

I  had  read  of  rich  old  uncles  dying  aud  leav- 
ing legacies  to  relatives,  and  I  often  wondered 
if  papa's  old  Uncle  Bolus,  in  Maine^  wouldn't 
die  and  lei^ve  me  something:  But  this  fiu^ 
fetched  hope  wa?  blighted  one  day,  when  1 
asked  him  if  old  uncle,  in  Maine,  was  very 
rich.  He  said  he  inferred  not,  because  his 
business  was  not  very  profitable— that  he  kept 
the  town  paupers — a  blind  woman,  a  no-legged 
man,  two  idiotic  young  men,  and  a  scrofulous 
baby,  for  the  sum  of  eighty-eight  dollars  a  year. 
So  my  beautiful  hept  in  that  direction  waa  a 
blighted  bud. 

Then  I  tried  to  make  a  house  for  myself. 
My  mother  bad  two  forks  stuck  in  the  ground 
with  a  pole  laid  across,  on  which  the  kettles 
had  been  hung  while  she  was  boiling  soap. 


The  forks  and  pole  were  still  Uiere.  I  cleaned 
the  ashes  away,  and  swept  the  ground  nicely, 
then  laid  boards  with  one  end  on  the  pole  and 
the  other  on  the  ground,  and  put  sod  all  over 
them.  That  made  a  nice  little  house  if  I  would 
lie  fiat  in  it,  or  sit  just  outside  the  threshold, 
but  creeping  worms  and  ants  annoyed  me  all 
the  time,  and  I  very  generously  gave  my  little 
brothers  entire  possession  if  they  would  promise 
to  be  good  boys,  and  always  take  my  part,  and 
not  laugh  at  me  when  I  got  scolded  and  whipped. 
They  made  good  promises,  and  I  showed  them 
where  to  hang  their  straw  hats  in  the  new 
house,  and  the  best  place  to  put  the  cupboards 
and  the  beds,  and  gave  them  my  candle-box 
for  a  table,  with  one  of  papa's  old  l^reen  baise 
leggings  for  a  fine  table-spread.  It  had  been 
my  damask  tablecloth  for  ^v^  years,  and  was 
in  a  very  tolerable  state  of  preservation  yet 
They  thought  I  was  Tory  generous,  and  the 
eider  brother  promised  to  make  me  a  coasting 
sled  jusi  as  soon  as  he  was  big  enough  to  bore 
a  straight  hole  with  an  augur. 

Then  I  sat  about  contriving  a  new  and  a 
more  roomy  house  for  my  own  and  my  sole 
occupancy.  There  was  a  singularly  shaped, 
tall,  strong  pear-tree  close  to  the  house,  a  tree 
easily. climbed.  We  children  had  all  climbed 
with  noiay  chatter  through  its  gnarled  branches 
many  a  time ;  like  nimble  squirrels  we  had 
swayed  in  its  lithe,  conical  top  often,  and  sat 
up  there  and  told  stories  and  sung  rotmdelays; 
hardly  a  hmb  but  was  smooth  with  handling. 
Now  that  I  was  quite  without  a  house  of  my 
own,  I  b^^  to  look  abont  for  a  suitable  place 
where  I  conld  spend  an  hour  unmolested  and 
unobserved.  I  just  clapped  my  hands  with 
delight  when  I  happened  to  think  of  the  old 
pear-tree. 

Why,  it  would  be  so  romantic  up  there  among 
the  birds  and  blossoms,  and  the  sleepy  droning 
of  the  yellow  bees,  and  the  almost  impercepti- 
ble swaying  of  the  branches,  and  tlie  whispei^ 
ing  of  the  soft  spring  winds,  while  the  plashing 
water  of  the  mill-dam  in  the  distance  was  de- 
lightfully soothing  and  dreamy. 

I  had  read  of  green  isles  in  the  beaotifiil 
lakes  and  broad  rivers,  on  which  lived  hermits, 
and  happy  married  lovers,  and  fair  maidens 
who  never  had  to  wash  dishes,  or  tend  cross 
babies,  or  clean  fish,  or  scour  knives,  or  feed 
nosing  calves — girls  with  long  curls,  who  rowed 
little  boats  with  their  own  skilful  hands,  and 
who  rescued  from  drowning  an  artist,  or  a 
count,  or  a  nobleman  in  disguise. 

S(ioe  stories  were  these,  but  how  much  nicer 
to  recline  up  in  a  pear-tree,  apart  from  the 


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340 


ABTEURB  LADTB   SOUS   MAGAZINE. 


bttxj,  groveUini^  woiid^  witb  fooci  rasding  mal- 
ter  all  troimd  me,  and  no  one  knowing  wb«i« 
I  was  1    The  tkought  waa  tranaportirig. 

The  next  afternoon  my  molher  went  Tlaituig, 
and  left  the  houM  and  children  in  my  oare. 
That  waa  mj  time  to  work.  I  look  a  peak 
measure  full  of  walauta  out  to  the  rock  near  ike 
orchard  fence,  and  told  *the  efaoldren  to  crack 
and  eat  all  they  cooixi  bold — tbat  good  alrong 
walnuts  would  make  them  so  stout  they  eouid 
lift  one  end  of  a  barrel  of  salt  before  they  grew 
to  be  big  men. 

Then  I  commenced  my  labons.  I  took  iJm 
top  of  a  stand  and  pressed  it  down  beiwee* 
four  limbs,  and  made  it  fit  as  tightly  aa  possihli^ 
up  about  ten  feet  irom  tbe  ground.  Iliat  was 
my  floor«  My  little  artt*ehair  was  placed  in 
the  middle  of  it,  and  the  dinner  baaktl  on  a 
twig,  to  pot  papeiv  in  aa  iaal  as  I  rend  thenL 
The  other  unread  papers  were  piled  bende-mjr 
chair.  A  little  footatool  and  the  History  of 
the  United  States  completed  the  ftirnitiire  of 
my  novel  home. 

My  mother  had  ponred  the  cream  in  the 
churn,  and  put  a  low  chair  beside  it  for  me  to 
stand  in,  before  she  started,  with  orders  for  me 
to  churn  it  until  it  was  ready  to  gather.  But 
when  I  began  to  build  and  fix  for  housekeeping 
I  forgot  the  ehnming,  and  never  thonght  of  it 
until  she  came  home  just  before  sunset  and 
found  the  house  alone  and  dirty,  the  little 
ones  out  in  the  meadow,  the  fire  not  kindled, 
and  the  chom  just  as  she  had  left  it-Hfren 
the  dasher  had  not  been  lifted  once. 

I  was  sorry  enough,  but  I  sat  very  stOl  and 
peeped  down  between  the  quivering  leaves  and 
watched  her.  She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
hand  and  looked  down  to  the  meadow,  and 
saw  that  I  was  not  with  the  children.  She 
called  me,  and  called  me ;  but  I  did  not  dare 
td  say  ''hoo-hool''  as  I  would,  if  I'd  not 
been  afraid.  I  saw  her  kindle  the  fire,  and  pin 
a  clean  towel  aronnd  the  ohnm  and  roll  it 
close  up  to  the  cupboard,  then  give  the  baby 
a  buttered  crust  and  set  him  on  the  sheepskin, 
while  she  filled  the  teakettle,  and  looked  in 
the  paotcy  to  see  what  there  was  for  our  sup- 
pen. 

Then  she  took  the  butcher*knife  and  went 
to  the  drooping  elm  at  the  lower  ride  of  the 
door-yard,  and  cut  off  and  trimmed  smoothly 
a  long  lithe  switch,  which  she  whipped  through 
the  air,  to  try  \u  mettle  of  couiwe.  It  out  the 
air  sharply^  and  to  me,  with  raised  ejrebrows, 
liMening  intently,  it  seemed  to  squall  oot 
vengefoUy,  "  Whip  her  1  whip  her  I  whip  her  V* 

Oh,  it  mnkea  me  cringe  yet  when  I  hea)r  a 


whip  mit  the  air  irith  that  sharp,  spiteful  kind 
of  a  shrink  1 

I  oonckided  tbet  I  would  stay  ^P  ^^^  ^ 
die,  quite  like  Ginevra  died,  as  nearly  as  conM 
be  under  the  difl!ctt«nt  drcumstacnoes.  I  thought 
when  my  fiither  climbed  the  tree  in  the  eariy 
fall  to  pidc  off  the  pears  he  would  find  nj 
skelelen,  aiber  the  bunards  had  pidted  out  my 
poor  gray  eyes,  and  the  erows  had  taken  all 
the  fleah  off  my  bare  white  bones,  and  then  he 
would  know  by  the  newspapera  how  and  wby 
I  imd  died.  I  thonght  they  would  be  very 
aorry  then,  and  wish  they  had  used  me  better. 
•  Jnst  then  my  mother  had  spread  the  snovy 
cloth,  and  the  smell  of  the  tea  and  the  htm, 
and  the  good  eream  biscuit  that  she  excelled 
in  making,  oame  up  to  where  I  sat  Mdden  in 
my  hwiy  bower. 

I  did  wuh  I  oould  have  one  moM  good  enp- 
per  with  the  dear  little  brown  yotmg  ones  be- 
fore I  died,  but  I  shook  my  head,  and  com- 
peessed  my  lips,  and  bored  my  istti  into  my 
eyes  and  whispered^  "Never  iii0re-~neTer 
merel" 

My  mother  eame  oat  and  flung  a  little  crim- 
SOB  shawl  over  the  gaite-pest  as  a  signal  thit 
.  papa  should  come  to  tea ;  and  es  she  returned 
to  the  house  she  stopped  in  the  yard  quite  eioee 
to  the  tree,  and  I  distinctly  heard  her  esy  to 
hArself  s  ''  Where  can  she  be—the  good-AM^ 
nothing  lillle  jade  I " 

My  heait  fluttered ;  I  drew  myself  all  np 
into  the  smallest  body  possible,  and  breathed 
very  softly,  and  leaned  back  a  little  for  fesr 
she  ew^  cbaaoe  to  peep  up  and  aee  me.  Thst 
was  an  unincky  movement;  the  weight  of  my- 
self and  chair  fell  too  much  on  one  side  of  my 
badlyanraaged  floor,  and  all  went  over  bsek- 
wards  I  I  went  first,  and  clattering  down  after 
me,  and  upon  me,  came  the  floor,  and  the  little 
ehair,  and  the  big  history,  and  the  footstool 
and  lunch  basket,  while  the  lot  of  papers  looked 
Uke  a  great  flock  of  swans  sailing  downwaid. 
We  all  fell  right  at  mamma's  feet,  and  sbe 
screamed  end  ran  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  tbe 
shower.  I  scooted  down  like  a  shingle,  hcid 
first,  and  landed  on  my  shoulders.  I  vong  a^ 
a  doiefiil  wail  as  I  was  going  down  through  the 
branohes,  the  thorny  limbs  catehiog  at  m7 
hair  and  ears  and  my  new  bib  apron,  tnd 
making  scratches  on  my  neck  and  face. 

As  seen  an  I  ooold  i  acrambled  up  ^^ 
looked  wildly  and  piteourfy  at  my  mother,  who 
stood  biting  her  lips,  while  her  eyes  twinkled 
with  suppressed  laughter. 

She  brought  out  the  whip  that  I  htd  heeid 
whistling  so  vidoasly  an  hour  before,  and,  tak* 


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LOVE    SONG, 


341 


ing  me  by  one  band,  said  my  paDiebment  had 
not  been  Rufficient — that  I  had  deceived  her — 
had  not  churned— had  not  answered  her  oaJl— 
had  not  kindled  the  fire ;  and  she  went  over  a 
list  of  grievancea  that  made  me  thijpk  of  thoao 
set  forth  in  the  Declaration  of  Indep^denceu 
It  was.  a  very  severe  whippings  heavy  across, 
the  shoulders,  and  smactiog  and  tingling  about 
the  neck,  and  hands,  and  bare  feet — but,  though 
the  time  seemed  long^  the  end.  of  it  came;  and 
very  decorously,  I  think  it  was  now,  eh^  turned 
away  and  pretended  she  did  not  see  me  whilQ 
I  gathered  up  the  scattered  papners. 

I  limped  away  more  dead  tl^an  ^iv.^  bruised 
in  soul  and  body  both,  and  after  h^dii^  theni 
securely  down  in  the  middle  of  mj  bed,  b»* 
tween  the  ticks,  I  crawled  off  to  the  griodstoi)« 
block,  and,  leaning  my  head  on  the  eold,  rough 
8tone»  cried  bitterly. 

I  did  wish  I  was  good,  and  I  wondered  why 
I  was  bom,  and  if  ever  anybody  ^ould  be  glad 
that  these  w^  a  Zelle  in  the  world,  I  remevir 
ber  yet  how  I  looked  away  up  into  the  hliM^ 
blue  sky,  and  how  bright  dreams  came  to.  me 
of  what  I  would  be  and  do  and  possess,  when  I 
grew  to  womanhood.  But  the  best  fwd  brightasft 
of  the  dream  was — books,  plenty  of  boofa^. 

The  children  came  out  to  where  I  was  and 
gave  me  some  of  the  meadow  flowers  they  bad 
gathered,  and  told  me  not  to  mind  that,  for 
some  day  maybe  I  would  grow  big  and  tall 
like  Cynthia  UpdegrafT,  the  stout  weaver,  and 
then  I  wouldn't  have  to  be  whipped.  The 
baby  boy,  Jcntie,  put  his  soft  little  pinky  finget 
in  his  mouthy  wet  it,  and  robbed  it  very  gently 
across  the  back  of  my  hand  where  the  scathing 
whip  had  left  a  raised  purple-red  mark.  Theii 
he  lifted  the  scanty  skirt  of  his  old  flannel 
dresSy  aod  gaye  my  red  cheeks  and  sypUeii 
eyes  an  awkward  dig  in  his  attempts  to  wipe 
away  the  tears.  Little  dearl  his  baby  con- 
dolence was  above  all  j^rice. 

That  evening,  after  supper,  I  sat  on  a  box  of  \ 
tallow,  in  a  oorner'of  the  Pout^  alone,  and  my 
heart  was  very  heavy*  Not  a  word  had  been 
said  about  the  flock  of  papers  that  flew  out  of  | 
the  tree  and  alighted  in  the  door-yard,  but  I 
was  io  mortal  dread  for  fear  a  veto  would  come 
next.  But  it  never  came,  and  in  a  qaiet  way 
I  visited  the  old  hair  trunk  once  a  week,  until 
I  had  read  all  it  contained.  I  have  no  Ian* 
guage  In  which  to  say  how  glad  I  was  made  by 
itd  contents. 

Baby  Jontie's  words  were  prophetic^  for  in  a 
few  years  I  was  a  woman—the  w^ried,  worried| 
overtasked  mother  was  gone;  I  taught  school 
^and  esEimed  money,  and  spent  it  for  books  and 


papers ;  I  sold  dried  apples,  and  subscribed  for 
good  periodicals;. made  shirts  for  homeless  old 
fellow^  did  their  patching  and  washing,  and 
took  the  money  earned  and  bought  Moore,  and 
Byron,  and  Milton — Abodes  that!  kept  hid  un* 
der  my  piiiowi  and  kissed  them  as  though  tbey 
were  ''  bone  of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my  flesh." 
I  was  very  happy  when  the  time  came  in 
which  I  didn't  have  to  be  whipped,  and  when 
I  had  a  room  of  my  own,  and  books  plentiful 
lay  all  about  in  reach  of  my  hand — history, 
and  biography,  and  poetry,  and  nearly  every- 
thing I  wanted.  So,  the  life  that  began  ho 
darkly,  and  in  tears  and  fears,  and  so  hedged 
in,  blossomed  out  right  joyously  and  happily, 
and  I  am  none  the  worse  off  for  these  early  dep- 
rivations  and  the  rigid  rules  that  seemed  like 
thraldom  to  me  then.  I  can  better  appreciate 
my  bountiful  blessings  now,  but  my  heart 
always  aches  a  little  when  I  go  back  to  those 
early  years  and  tell  the  children  around  me  the 
story  of  My  House  in  the  Pear>Tree. 


LOVE  SONO. 

BT  KATHKRIlfB   KIKOSTOIT  riLEB. 

WOO  me,  love,  woo  me,  love,  under  the  talip- 
tltMS 

Shaking  its  odoroas  blost oms  high  over ; 
There  do  the  lilies  grow,  there  does  the  erocas 
blow, 
Soft  is  the  moss  to  t3ie  tread  of  my  lover. 
Held  mey  love,  fold  m»,  love,  nnder  the  tulip-tree, 

All  in  the  sileaee  of  eventide  splendor ; 
Woo  me  with  eloquent  glanoe  of  your  eyes  of 
light, 
Woo  ms  with  speech  of  oaresses  so  tender. 

What  is  the  bliss  of  Eld  unto  our  eestaiiy  ? 

8oDg8  of  the  poets  unite  in  our  song, 
Sweets  of  Arcadia's  woolngs,  so  rapturoos, 

Haunt  all  the  shadows  we're  roaming  amonfi:. 
Lo!  how  the  horlxon  oourts  the  great  Oceident — 

Lo  I  how  the  earth  moves  afar  toward  Apollo, 
Watehiag  like  Glytie,  lorn :  thus  love  entrances  us, 

Lores  us  with  witchery— so  do  we  follow. 

What  were  our  life  to  us,  knew  we  loot  loving, 

Binding  us  closer  through  joying  or  sorrow  ? 
Mortal  is  life,  my  dear;  love  is  immortal, 

Rising,  invigorate,  upon  Heaven's  morrow. 
Woo  me,  then,  love,  my  love,  under  the  tulip-  tree ; 

Woo  me  with  eloquence ;  dear  to  you — dearer — 
SonI  in  soul  meeting,  rapt  spirit  with  spirit — 

Death  ne'er  to  sever,  but  draw  us  the  nearer. 

LiTTLB  minds  r^oice  over  the  errors  of  men 
of  geuiu^  as  the  owl  rejoices  at  an  eclipse. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


DIFFIDENCE. 


MR.  H.  W.  BEECHER  give«,  fn  the  Chrii- 
Uan  Uniorij  a  chapter'  on  Diffidence  that 
all  may  piernBe  with  interest  and  profit.  We 
copy  it  for  onr  readers : 

**  I  do  not  understand  Mr«.  W .    When 

I  call  Rhe  is  very  pic^asant  and  agreeahle,  and 
almost  clieats  me  into  the  belief  that  she  is 
really  quite  friendly ;  bat  if  I  meet  her  In  com- 
pany— ^at  a  party  or  at  a  ball — she  is  so  re- 
served, so  coldly  haughty  that  I  make  no 
attempt  to  thaw  her  out,  hut  leave  her  to  the 
full  enjoyment  of  her  own  society.  I  would 
as  soon  be  alongside  of  an  iceberg/' 

"You  speak  bitterly.     Are  you  sure  you 
judge  her  charitably?" 

'*  I  will  give  you  one  or  two  examples,  then 
'judge  ye.* 

"  I  called  on  Mrs.  W a  few  weeks  since, 

reluctantly,  for  on  several  occasions  I  had  come 
to  feel  a  good  deal  ezaRperated  by  her  manner; 
although  until  this  call  I  had  seen  very  little 
of  her  except  in  company.  She  met  me  a  little 
coldly,  but  in  a  few  minutes  thawed  out — the 
stifihesfi  vanished,  and  no  one  could  have  been 
more  cordial  or  agreeable.  She  expressed  a 
widh  to  continue  the  acquaintance,  and  assured 
me  she  should  soon  return  my  courtesy.  I 
never  spent  a  more  delightful  half  hoar,  and 
anticipated  the  promised  visit  with  much 
pleasure. 

"  In  an  unusually  short  time,  if  she  was  act- 
ing only  in  accordance  with  the  demands  of 
etiquette,  she  returned  my  call,  and  was  so 
gentle,  so  bright,  and  entertaining,  that  I  was 
quite  ashamed  of  the  distrust  I  had  been  in- 
clined to  feeL  But  I  will  never  call  on  her 
again,  or  have  anything  more  to  say  to  her. 

"Laat  evening  we  met  at  a  party.  Truly 
glad  to  see  her,  I  approached  with  real  ear- 
nestness. It  makes  my  cheek  bum  now,  to 
think  of  my  folly  and  her  repulse.  8uch  a 
Biiff  bow,  and  chilly  *  good  evening*  as  I  re- 
ceived in  return  for  my  impulsive  greeting  1 
It  left  me  dumb  for  a  moment,  then,  rallying,  I 
made  a  few  tame  remarks  about  the  weather, 
probably — that's  what  every  one  talks  of  who 
has  nothing  to  say.  All  the  response  was  a 
cool  nod,  or  stupid  'yes,'  or  '  no,'  and  as  soon 
as  my  idea  of  civility  would  allow,  I  left  her — 
taking  good  care,  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing, to  keep  the  length  of  the  room  between 
me  and  such  an  uncertain  friend — 
•*'  Yes,  and  by  thus  doing,  grieved  as  warm 
(342) 


and  tru«  a  heart  as  yon  will  ever  find,  I  have 
just  been  at  her  house,  and  had  a  long  talk 
about  last  evening's  party,  which  I  think  I 
may  repeat  without  betraying  confidence,  not 
for  the  love  of  gossip,  but  to  explain  many 

things  which  all  of  Mrs.  W *s  acquaintances 

have  noticed,  without  arriving  at  a  just  condn- 
sion ;  and  this  explanation,  if  we  keep  It  in 
mind,  will  proteet  us  from  forming  unjost 
jodgmentir  of  others  equally  unfortunate. 
I  inquired  if  she  enjoyed  last  evenisg^i 
party,  which,  I  had  been  told,  was  quite 
brilliant' 

*'  *  Not  at  all.  I  am  never  happy  in  a  laii^ 
company,  I  think  no  one  was  ever  so  aveme 
to  society*— I  mean  society  as  seen  in  parties 
and  balls.  I  dearly  love  to  meet  friends-Hi 
few  at  a  time — aft^  the  first  awkwardnen  has 
worn  oC  I  can  never  foel  quite  at  ease  on 
meeting,  and  even  when  two  or  three  families 
meet  together,  however  dter  or  intimate,  the 
mmtkera  distress  me  and  make  me  long  to  hide. 
I  try  in  vain  to  overcome  this  miserable  sbrink- 
ing.  My  husband  likes  me  to  go  out  a  good 
deal.  He  never  understands  what  a  marty^ 
dom  it  is  to  me.  You  think  this  very  silly.  Bat 
I  know  not  what  to  do.  I  am  so  miserablf 
diflldent  in  company,  or  with  strangers,  I  can 
only  sit  still,  look  stupid,  or  it  may  be  cross, 
or  answer,  when  compelled,  in  monosyllables. 
If  any  one  turns  toward  me  to  bo  introdooed, 
I  shrink  away  and  long  to  hide  somewhere. 
By  ail  my  efibrts  to  overcome  this  real  trooble 
I  only  succeed  in  leaving  the  impression  that 
I  aiacold  and  haughty.  Last  evening  I  met 
Mrs.  (naming  you)  at  the  party.  '  She  is  to  me 
very  attractive ;  but  many  strangers  were  stand- 
ing near,  and  when  she  approached,  smilifig 
and  cheery,  I  could  not  talk  to  her.  I  wanted 
to,  but  had  not  courage.  I  know  of  no  one  I 
would  so  much  like  for  a  ftiend,  but  am  qnite 
sure  she  was  ofiended ;  and  who  can  wonder  if 
she  was?  From  early  childhood  this  weak- 
ness has  been  my  torment,  with  which  I  have 
striven,  since  old  enough  to  know  what  erro- 
neous impressions  it  left  on  those  who  did  not 
know  me  intimately,  but  in  vain !' 

'< '  I  am  surprised.  It  was  eaey  to  see  that 
yon  were  diffident;  but  it  so  soon  wears  oft, 
and  you  are  your  own  bright,  cheerfiil  self 
again,  that  it  has  seemed  to  me  but  a  passiDg 
clond.  But  then  I  have  seldom  seen  yoo  in 
parties  or  mixed  company.' 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


''COME    TO    MOTHEEr 


343 


"  *  No.  And,  fortunately,  we  have  met,  even 
then,  when  I  was  not  in  a  crowd  or  surrounded, 
and  you  never  seemed  towateh  me,  as  moat  peo- 
ple do.  Ah,  if  I  could  rise  above  this !  I  trust 
my  children  will  not  inherit  my  misfor^ 
tune  I'" 

Now  this  conversation  may  open  our  eyes  to 
understand  many  things  which  we  observe  in 
comparative  strangers  and  are  inclined  to  criti- 
cize severely.  We  know  this  distressing  diffi- 
dence is  a  sore  trial,  and  often  makes  the  sim- 
plest duties  a  torture,  because  the  performance 
of  them  necessitates  action  or  speech  h^ore 
strangers.  Some  shrink  from  all  efforts  that, 
by  any  possibility,  can  make  them  stand  fore- 
most or  as  director  in  some  enterprise  Which 
they  really  have  much  interest  in.  Others, 
when  duties  are  presented,  are  greatly  dis- 
tressed, and  hesitate,  till  forced  to  take  the  first 
step,  and  then  the  choice  between  taking  an- 
other or  suffering  defeat  holds  them  up  or  com- 
pels continuous  action — like  the  horse  in  a 
treadmill,  who  must  make  the  rounds  or  be 
maimed  and  brused  by  the  machinery.  Others, 
again,  endeavor  to  hide  from  all  observers;  but, 
once  caught  and  pressed  forward,  their  courage 
rises  with  the  effort,  and  they  are  soon  quite 
at  ease,  and  enjoy  the  work,  whatever  it 
may  be. 

But  very  many  more  are  never  able  to  over- 
come this  weakness,  and  through  life  sufi^r  and 
are  greatly  misunderstood. 

This  diffidence  springs  from  many  causes. 
Sometimes  it  is  constitutional,  or  from  ill 
health,  or  feebleness  in  early  childhood,  or  an 
inordinate  self-consciousness,  or  approbative- 
ness.  Whatever  the  cause,  it  is  more  a  wetik- 
new  than  a  favU,  and  is  greatly  to  be  de- 
plored. 

The  remedy  is  beyond  our  skill.  For  a 
trouble  springing  from  so  many  and  entirely 
different  causes  there  can  be  no  definite 
rule.  The  attempt  at  cure  must  begin  in  early 
youth;  and  of  one  thing  we  feel  confident, 
namely,  that  scolding,  teazing,  or,  worst  of  all, 
contemptuous  pity  Will  surely  aggravate  the 
&ult,  habit,  or  disease,  and  confirm  it  past  all 
hope  of  cure.  On  the  contrary,  if  anything 
can  brace  up  the  mind  or  body,  and  furnish 
strength  to  battle  with  and  overcome  the  foe, 
nothing  can  more  surely  do  it  than  the  strict 
observance  of  kindness,  gentleness,  and  genuine 
sympathy.  We  have  no  doubt  that  many  an- 
noyances, which  we  call  faults,  in  children  and 
servants,  are  but  the  overaction  of  this  same 
diffidence,  and  are  exaggerated  by  the  fear  of 
hlam^e. 


"COME  TO  MOTHER!" 

HOW  much  love  is  expressed  in  those  three 
little  words  1  Have  you  not  often  beheld 
the  young  mother  hasten  her  steps  as  she  en- 
tered the  nursery,  after  a  short  absence,  and 
holding  out  her  arms  to  her  unconscious  little 
one, murmur  fondlyi  "  Come  to  mother  ? '  And 
when  the  babe  first  begins  to  know  its  nurse, 
its  faintest  cry  will  call  forth  thoee  loving 
words;  no  matter  how  feeble  the  arms  may  be, 
they  will  always  be  willing  to  enfold  the  dar* 
ling,  and  ''Come  to. mother"  will  soon  sootlie 
it  to  rest.  By  and  by  the  little  feet  totter 
about  the  room;  the  slightest  obstacle  soon 
hringB  the  poor  head  bumping  on  the  floor; 
but,  ''Come  to  mother"  quickly  heals  the 
bruise,  and  smiles  take  the  place  of  tears  when 
tbe  little  head  rest*  on  the  mother's  breast. 
Now  see  the  mother  watching  her  baby  at 
play ;  does  a  thorn  wound  him,  or  a  bee  molest 
him,  "  Come  to  mother  "  is  the  only  salve  re- 
quired. Years  pass,  and  the  boy  must  leave 
his  home,  perhaps  for  school,  perhaps  to  labor 
fbr  bread ;  for  boys  must  sooner  or  later  leave 
the  sheltering  arms  that  still  long  to  inclose 
them  from  pain  and  danger.  But  let  sickness, 
or  trouble,  or  even  disgrace  threaten  him,  if 
that  mother  is  living,  and  has  a  crust  to  eat, 
she  will  soon  send  forth  those  dear  old  loving 
words^  "  Come  to  mother,"  and  he  comes,  and 
is  comforted.  Again  he  wanders  off,  far,  hx 
away ;  be  is  strong  now,  he  no  longer  needs  the 
protection  of  his  feeble,  loving  mother.  8he 
is  old,  lonely,  and  perhaps  in  want,  but  she 
must  not  trouble  him ;  she  will  suffer  in  silence, 
rather  thkn  interrupt  her  boy  in  his  pursuits. 
At  last  she  feels  that  she  is  dying,  and  longs 
once  more  to  look  upon  that  much-loved  form, 
and  with  trembling  fingers  she  writes  once 
more  the  words,  "  Come  to  mother."  Does  he 
oome  now?  Alas,  not  always;  the  mother's 
head  now  needs  a  resting-place  upon  his 
breast^  bat  the  arms  do  not  open  so  quickly  to 
receive  that  aged  form.  Oh,  young  man,  think 
of  it ;  fly  to  her  as  you  did  in  your  childhood ; 
the  words  are  the  same,  only  you  are  the  com- 
forter now.  Make  some  return  for  the  love 
and  devotion  of  past  years;  obey  that  last  lov- 
ing call  and  "Come  to  mother." 


Mental  pleasures  never  clog;  unlike  those 
of  the  body,  they  are  increased  by  repetition, 
improved  by  reflection,  and  strengthened  by 
enjoyment. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


PRAISE  AMONG  THE  MAERIED- 


BY  UBS,  X.  ▲.  DEKI80N. 


YES,  among  the  married.  Why  shoald  thef 
not  tpeak  kindljr  of  each  other?  The 
▼oice  of  oommendation  is  sweety  doablj  eweet 
from  the  lipe  of  those  we  loTe.  It  chills  the 
heet  feelings^  weakeoe  the  highest  aspiratioiMi 
when  oonlinaous  and  saorificing  effort  calls 
forth  no  kindly  retani^-^no  words  of  cheer,  of 
enooarageraent.  The  snow  is  ever  unimpressi- 
ble  in  the  deep,  hollow  recesses  of  the  moan* 
tain  diffi  where  no  straggling  beam  of  meny 
sunshine  melts  it  with  kisses ;  oold  and  white 
it  sleeps  in  perpetual  shadow,  till  its  soft  round- 
ness congeals  into  ice.  And  so  the  heart,  if 
forced  to  abide  in  the  shadow  of  frowns,  under 
the  continual  dropping  of  hard,  unkindly 
words,  will  assimilate  itself  to  its  mate,  and 
become  a  sad  and  listless  heart,  lying  heavily 
and  cold  in  the  bosom  that  should  be  all  filled 
with  glowing  sympathies. 

Husbands  often  do  not  know  with  what 
ceaseless  solicitude  the  duties  of  a  wife  and 
mother  are  accompanied.  They  leave  hetno 
early,  many  of  them ;  the  routine  of  business, 
the  same  as  it  was  yesterday,  and  will  be 
months  to  come,  is  so  thoroughly  digested  that 
the  performance  Is  measurably  without  annoy*' 
ance.  They  have  bo  heavy  or  wearing  house- 
hold work  to  do,  no  fretting  little  ones  hangiag 
on  to  their  garments,  now  to  nurse^  now  to  cor- 
rect, now  to  instruct,  while  still  the  dusting, 
and  the  deanslng,  and  the  preparing  of  food 
must  be  going  on,  and  the  little  garments  must 
be  nicely  fitted  and  made,  or  all  would  be  un*- 
tidiness  and  confusion.  Yet  how  many  an 
adroit  manager  contrives  to  get  through  with 
all  this,  willing — ^if  the  m  but  i^preeiaAed,  and 
her  valuable  services  esteemed— *to  endure 
calmly  the  trials  incident  to  her  lot,  keeping 
care  from  her  pleasant  face  by  a  merry  spirit 
and  cheerful  demeanor ! 

But  if  she  never  hears  the  kindly  "  I  thank 
you,"  or  beholds  the  beautiftil  smile  that  un- 
uttered  gratitude  spreads  upon  the  countenance 
of  him  for  whom  she  has  forsaken  all,  what 
immeasurable  anguish  will  she  not  experience  I 

We  have  often  thought  how  poignant  must 
be  the  grie(  how  heavy  the  disappointment  of 
the  young  wife,  when  she  first  learns  that  the 
husband  of  her  choice  is  totally  indifferent  to 
her  studied  efforts  to  please.  He  has  many 
times  ,in  former  days,  praised  the  glossy  beauty 
C344) 


of  her  sunny  hair,  and  curled  its  rings  of  gold 
around  his  fingers.  He  has  gazed  in  her  iaoe 
until  it  is  stamped  upon  the  tablets  of  his  heart, 
yet— through  utter  thoughtlessness — he  forgets 
now  that  it  has  been  such  a  talisman  of  good- 
ness and  purity  to  him,  or  old  associations 
have  made  him  too  much  their  own,  to  plaj 
the  lover  after  the  solemn  words  of  ceremonj 
are  spoken.  He  has  given  her  his  honor,  and 
a  home ;  his  name^  his  means ;  what  more  can 
she  want? 

Qayly  as  the  bird  upon  the  tree  by  her  door- 
side  does  she  go  carrolling  about  her  work. 
The  day  seems  one  long  year— but  still  twilight 
does  come,  and  she  awaits  the  return  of  her  hxur 
band.  He  has,  perhaps,  but  slender  resources; 
he  is  a  laboring  man,  and  their  cottage  is  hum- 
ble and  low-roofed.  How  light  is  her  step; 
how  happy  her  brow.  Like  a  skilful  painter 
she  has  touched  and  re-touched  all  the  slender 
luxuries  of  her  home,  till  they  seem  to  her  like 
the  adornings  of  a  paradise.  8he  has  taste,  re- 
finement, a  quick  perception  of  the  delicate 
and  beautiful,  though  mayhap  she  never  has 
plied  her  needle  at  worsted  tapestry,  traced  the 
outlines  of  a  single  tree  or  flower,  or  elicited 
sweet  sounds  from  harp  or  piano. 

The  hearth  is  bright  and  red — not  a  speck  of 
dust  is  visible.  She  has  brought  out  all  her 
hoarded  wealth ;  and  the  tables,  the  new-ra^ 
nished  bureau,  and  the  arm-chair  back,  shine 
in  snowy  garniture.  8he  has  placed  the  little 
pictures  in  the  best  light,  hung  up  the  wide 
sampler— her  child-work  at  school— made  all 
things  look  cheerful  and  bright,  placed  a  bou- 
quet of  brilliant  flowers  upon  the  neat  supper- 
Uble,  and  another  in  the  little  fireplace,  aod 
with  pleasant  anticipations  she  awaits  his  re- 
turn. 

"How  cheerful  everything  looks,"  she  lno^ 
murs;  "and  how  pleased  he  will  be!  he  will 
commend  my  care  and  taste." 

Presently  the  well-known  step  draws  near; 
she  flies  with  a  happy  smile  to  meet  him,  and 
together  they  enter  their  mutual  heme. 

What  I  no  sign  of  surprise — no  new  delight 
on  his  features  ? 

Does  he  receive  all  her  attention  as  a  matter 
of  course — something  looked  for,  expected, 
easily  done,  and  without  price  ?  Can  he  not 
pay  her  the  tribute  of  a  glad  smile  ?    Alas !  he 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


TEE    CARPENTER'S    DREAM. 


M5 


does  not  belieye  in  praiae;  his  wife  muet  be 
difiinterested ;  mast  look  upon  these  perform- 
ances as  stern  duties ;  if  he  praise  now,  and 
forget  to  praise  again,  they  may  be  diiCOB- 
tinned. 

She  is  disappointed,  chagrined ;  and  unless 
taste  and  perfect  neatness  are  indispensable  to 
her  own  comfort,  she  gradually  wearies  in  well 
doing,  when  a  little  kindly  encouragement^  a 
little  prais^  might  haye  stimnlaAed  her  to  con- 
stant exertion. 

Many  a  wife  beoomes  careless  of  her  appear- 
ance becanae  of  her  husband's  indifiereoee. 
Now  in  the  simple  matter  of  drese— not  so 
simple,  either — how  often  men  think  it  beneath 
their  notice  to  approre  the  choice  of  their  com* 
penlons.  "We  once  remarked  to  a  gentleman 
that  his  wife  displayed  most  admirable  taste  in 
her  attire,  and  what  think  you  was  his  answer  7 
With  a  sigh  we  record  it:  "Has  she?  Well 
now  I  should  hardly  know  whether  she  had  on 
a  wash  gown  or  a  satin  drees."  We  involun- 
tarily disliked  him,  and  thought  that  the  ez- 
ptession  upon  the  ooontenanoe  of  his  partner 
spoke  Yolomes. 

Now  we  do  like  to  see  a  hoaband  notice  such 
things,  even  to  pariioalarity.  We  like  to  hear 
him  give  his  opinion  as  to  whether  such  and 
such  a  thing  is  becoming  to  his  wife.  We  are 
pleased  to  see  a  father  interested  in  the  little 
porchaseB  of  his  children,  one  who  never  says 
with  a  frown,  "  Oh  I  go  away  ;  I  don't  care  for 
such  thiogs ;  suit  yourselves.'' 

And  In  household  concerns  the  husband 
should  express  his  approbation  of  neatness  and 
Qftfer;  he  should  be  grateful  for  any  litUe 
effi>rt  that  may  have  been  put  forth  to  add  to 
his  comfort  or  pleasure ;  he  shovld  commend 
the  good  graces  of  his  wife,  and  at  fitting  times 
make  m  ention  of  them.  Indeed  not  one  alone, 
but  both  should  reciprocate  the  good  offices  of  ( 
the  other.  We  never  esteemed  a  woman  the 
lees  on  hearing  her  say,  '*  I  have  a  good  hus- 
band;" we  never  thought  a  man  wanting  in 
dignity  who  spoke  of  his  wife  as  being  dear  to 
him,  or  quoted  her  amiability  or  industry  as 
worthy  of  example  before  others.  Who  does 
not  esteem  the  unaffected  praise  of  a  husband 
or  a  wife  above  that  of  all  others  ?  No  motive 
ibot  love  induces  either  to 

"  Speak  the  fcentle  words 
That  sink  into  the  heart." 

Solomon  says,  "H6r  husband  he  praiseth 
Iter;"  and  only  the  morose  and  reserved,  who 
oare  not  to  fill  the  fount  of  kindliness  by  pleas- 
ant words,  differ  from  the  sacred  writer. 

How  many  a  home  have  we  seen  glittering 


with  splendor;  where  glowing  marble  from 
Italia's  clime  gives  a  silent  welcome  to  the  en- 
tering guest;,  where  on  the  walls  hang  votive 
ofiMngs  of  s)rt  that  fill  the  whole  soul  whh 
their  beauty ;  where  the  carpets  yield  to  the 
lightest  pressure,  and  the  rich  hangings  crim- 
son the  palest  cheek.  Yet  amidst  all  this  show 
and  adorning  has  the  proud  wife  sat,  the 
choicest  piece  of  furniture  there — for  so  her 
husband  regards  her.  Formal  and  stern,  he 
has  thrown  avound  her  the  drapery  of  his  chill 
heart,  and  it  has  folded  about  her  like  marble. 
She  IB  "  my  lady,"  and  nothing  more.  No  out- 
bunts  of  affection,  in  the  form  of  sweet  praise^ 
fhll  upon  her  ears — ^;fet  pendants  of  diamonds 
drop  therefrom,  but  their  shining  is  like  his 
love,  costly  and  cold.  We  have  heard  such  a 
one  say,  in  times  gone  by,  *'  All  this  wealth,  all 
this  show  and  pride  of  station,  would  I  resign 
for  one  word  of  praise  from  my  husband.  He 
never  relaxes  from  the  loftiness  which  has 
made  him  feared  among  men ;  he  never  Bpeaks 
to  me  but  with  measured  accents,  though  he 
surrounds  me  with  luxuries." 

We  wendered  not  that  a  stiied  sob  dosed  the 
sentaooe;  who  had  not  rather  live  in  a  cottage, 
through  which  the  winds  revel  and  the  rain- 
drops fkll,  with  one  in  >vhose  heart  dwell  im* 
pulses,  the  holiest  in  our  nature,  one  who  is 
not  ashamed  or  afraid  to  give  fitting  commen- 
dation, than  in  the  most  gorgeous  of  earthly 
.  palaces  with  a  companion  whose  lips  are  sealed 
forever  to  the  expression  of  fondness,  sympathy, 
l^2d  praise? 


THE  CARPENTER'S  DREAM. 

A  POOR  man  was  a  carpenter;  and  he  often 
said  to  himself  and  to  others :  **  If  I  waa 
only  rich,  I  would  show  people  how  to  give." 
In  his  dream  he  saw  a  pyramid  of  silver  dol- 
lars— all  new,  bright,  and  beautiful.  Just  then 
a  voice  reached  him,  saying :  "  Now  is  your 
time.  You  are  rich  at  last ;  let  us  see  jouv 
generositjl"  Bo  he  rose  froaa  his  seat  and 
went  to  the  pile  to  take  some  money  for  char- 
itable purposes.  But  the  pyramid  was  so  per- 
fect that  he  oeold  not  bear  to  break  it  H» 
walked  all  around  it,  bat  foond  no  place  wheie 
he  could  take  a  dollar  without  spoiling  the 
heap.  So  he  decided  that  the  pyramid  should 
not  be  broken !  .  .  .  and  then  awoke.  He 
awoke  to  know  himself  and  to  see  that  he 
would  be  generous  only  while  comparatively 
poor. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


T^AJY   SERMONB. 


A  POOR  CRIPPLR 

"OTHAT  hope  ii  dead." 

X  The  Toioe  of  the  speaker  was  tender  and 
sorrowful. 

"  What  h«pe  f  ulktd  the  lady,  who  iat  hy  hii 
side. 

'*  The  hope  that  ovr  boy  would  gtoir  ap  a  itronf 
and  useful  man/'  wa«  answered.  **  But  now  he  is 
a  poor  cripple^a  weakling  to  be  oared  for;  a 
hindrance  in  the  world  instead  of  a  power.  Ohf 
it  is  a  bitter  disappointment  I  My  poor  bo^  I  It 
were  better  if  God  had  taken  him  to  Heaven." 

"  Do  not  say  that,  my  husband,"  spoke  out  the 
lady.  "I  thank  the  good  Father  that  he  has 
spared  us  our  precious  boy.  His  weakness  and 
helplessness  make  him  dearer  to  our  hearts.  Don't 
fear  but  that  God  will  give  him  a  place,  and  find 
work  for  him  to  do." 

But  the  father  shook  his  head,  and  would  not 
Udce  oomfort  into  his  heart.  After  this  he  did  not 
seem  to  care  mnoh  for  poor  little  Alfred,  vrhm  passed 
many  hours  of  each  day  in  bed,  suffering  great 
pain ;  but  gave  most  of  his  regard  to  Leon,  a  bright 
active  boy,  two  years  younger  than  Alfred.  It 
grieved  the  mother  to  see  this  partiality ;  the  more 
so  as  it  wa0  felt  by  Alfred,  who  loved  bis  father, 
and  often  turned  his  pale  face  to  the  wall  to  bide 
his  tears  when  he  saw  so  much  affection  given  to 
Leon,  while  he  was  scarcely  noticed. 

<<  Alfred  is  so  sweet  and  patient,"  the  mother 
would  often  say. 

"  Poor  child  I  I  am  glad  of  it  for  his  sake  and 
yours,"  the  father  would  answer.  "  There  is  noth- 
ing left  for  him  but  patience." 

And  then  he  would  begin  to  talk  of  Leon. 

<*  How  strong  and  manly  he  grows.  See  what  a 
step  be  has ;  and  how  finely  he  bears  himself. 
Then  be  is  so  true,  and  generous,  and  brave.  I 
grow  prouder  of  bim  every  day." 

"  Leon  is  good  and  noble ;  but  Alfred  is  so  pa- 
tient in  Bttffering,"  answered  the  mother. 

"Tes,  poor  child!  It  is  all  that  is  left  for 
him.  Patient— I  am  glad  that  it  is  so,"  the 
father  answered,  in  a  Toloe  that  showed  little  in- 
terest. 

One  evening  Leon  eame  home  tmm  aehool  in  a 
bad  state  of  mind.  He  had  quarrelled  with  a  play- 
mate, and  was  feeling  angry  and  ravengefaL 

'*  I'll  have  it  out  with  him  to-morrow  1"  his  father 
heard  him  say,  passionaiely,  and  with  something 
oruel  in  his  voice.  "  I'll  oatch  bim  as  be  goes  to 
school — see  if  I  don't !"  Leon  was  talking  to  Al- 
fred. 

Then  he  heard  Alfred  say,  in  a  gentle,  earnest 
tone: 

1846) 


«  Don't  hurt  him,  brother.  He  isn't  as  big  as 
you  are." 

**  Then  let  him  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  his  month," 
replied  Leon. 

**  He's  very  qniek,  yon  know,  Leon  ,^a&d  will  be 
sorry  for  what  be  has  done." 

"Sorry!    I'U  make  him  sorr  j  I" 

But  Leon's  voiee  was  losing  its  anger. 

**  Wait  for  him  to  get  sorry." 

"Oh,  bother  1"  ezolaimed  Leon,  in  retumisf 
good  humor;  "  I  oan't  stay  mad  where  you  are, 
But  never  mind;  if  he  troubles  me  a^ain,  I'll  have 
it  out  with  him  before  you  know  a  word  of  iL" 

And  he  ran  out  of  the  room. 

For  a  good  while  the  father  sat  thinking  over 
this  little  incident.  He  remembered  what  Alfred's 
mother  had  said-^"  God  will  give  him  a  place  and 
find  work  for  him  to  do." 

Then  a  flood  of  tenderness  oame  into  his  bear^ 
and  rising,  he  went  into  the  chamber  where  the 
patient  cripple  lay,  and  sitting  down  beside  bis 
bed,  took  his  thin  white  hand  and  spoke  to  him  in 
a  voice  so  new  and  sweet  that  Alfred's  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  Hav«  yon  had  any  pain  to-day  ?"  the  father 
asked.  . 

**  It  is  all  gone  now,"  the  boy  answwed.  "  I  am 
very  well,  and — and— happy !" 

Then  the  tears  ran  over  his  cheeks.  He  raised 
himself  slowly  and  with  an  eifort,  and  threw  him- 
self on  bis  father's  breast,  sobbing  and  trembliJig 
with  a  new  delight 

"My  peer,  dear  boyt"  exclaimed  the  father, 
deeply  moved. 

"Love  mo  ftihor!"  pleaded  the  chUd.  "Ob, 
love  mo!" 

"  I  love  you,"  answored  the  father. 

How  calm  and  happy  lay  the  boy  on  his  father's 
breast.    The  very  peace  of  Heaven  was  in  his  soul. 

And  now  a  love,  more  tender  than  that  felt  for 
any  of  bis  children,  was  born  for  Alfred  in  the 
father's  heart.  In  his  pity  was  mingled  less  ot 
regret  and  disappointment,  and  more  of  a  sweet 
compassion.  He  saw  a  beauty  in  the  thin,  coIo^ 
less  face,  and  t  depth  of  meaning  In  the  large, 
boavttfnl  eyes  that  ho  had  never  seen  before. 

"That  poor  body  holds  an  imprii>oned  angel,*' 
he  said,  to  the  mother  one  day.  He  had  come 
home  vexed  and  out  of  humor.  Many  things  had 
gone  wrong  with  h im.  U  is  heart  was  full  of  anger 
against  one  who  had  crossed  his  path  and  tried  to 
do  him  wrong;  and  the  tempter,  who  know*  his 
opportunity,  was  filling  bis  mind  wl(b  thoughts  of 
retaliation. 

But  when  he  looked  into  the  face  of  Alfred,  and 
saw  its  patient  sweetness,  angry  fvelings  and  eril 


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MOTMEMS'    1>EPABTMENT. 


S47 


thonglits  TaniBhcd  like  moniing-  misti  In  the  siiii- 
•hine.  H«  forgot  the  fk^ttiirg  trials  of  the  day, 
and  was  lifted  into  a  tranqnil  region. 

**  More  and  more,  erery  day,  de  I  ftel  ibis," 
answered  the  mother.  <'€k>d  is  good  to  our  dear 
boy,^  and  good  to  as  in  him." 

''  And  he  is  only  a  oripple — a  helpless  tufferer— a 
burden,  and  a  eare/'  said  the  father,  his  yoiee 
dropping  into  a  tender,  regretfal  tone. 

*'  Oh,  no !  Don't  say  a  burden  and  a  oare,"  was 
quickly  replied.  '*It  is  my  daily  delight  to  be 
with  him,  and  to  minister  to  his  needs.  Love  gets 
as  sweet  aretam  now  as  when  he  first  lay  a  babe 
upon  my  boeem." 

The  years  passed  on,  and  Alfred  found  his  work. 
Tt  was  a  good  and  a  great  work,  though  he  knew 
it  not. 

**  They  serre  the  Lord  who  only  stand  and  watt." 

He  did  more;  he  stood  waiting  with  a  svreet 
patience  that  diffused  itself  around  him  tn  a  sphere 
as  palpable  to  the  spiritual  sense  as  the  odor  of  a 
flowcor  is  to  the  natural  sense,  and  all  who  came 
near  him  felt  the  tranqnilliiing  power  of  this  hear- 
eniy  atmosphere.    Leon  grew  to  be  a  strong,  ear- 


nest man,  active  in  good  deeds.  There  was  a  time, 
as  the  self-reliant,  self-willed  boy  stood  on  the 
Terge  of  manhood,  when  passion  and  pride  threat- 
ened to  mar  the  Just  proportions  of  his  forming 
character;  but  the  power  of  another  life,  purer, 
sweeter,  more  loring  and  patient  than  his,  softened 
his  asperities,  lifted  him  Into  regions  of  clearer 
sight,  drew  him  away  from  self,  and  helped  him  to 
see  and  feel  the  beauty  of  goodness.  With  his 
own  weak  hands,  Alfred  oould  not  move  the  out- 
side world;  but  he  held  such  power  over  the  heart 
of  one  whose  hande  were  strong  to  do  tiie  bidding 
of  an  active  mind,  that  he  made  himself  widely 
felt,  and  always  on  the  side  of  right  and  beneft- 
eenee. 

And  not  alone  through  Leon  did  his  pure  life 
blossom  and  find  fruitage  In  the  world.  Virtne 
seemed  to  go  out  of  him,  whenever  a  human  soul 
came  near  enough  to  draw  f^om  his  fnll-charged 
inner  life  an  electric  current. 

Tee,  the  mother  was  right;  God  had  a  place  in 
the  worid  fer  tiie  poor  cripple,  and  work  for  him 
to  do,  and  the  world  was  better  because  of  his 
Ufe ;  poor,  inefieient,  and  cramped  as  It  seemed  in 
the  eyse  of  all.  *.  s.  ▲. 


MOTHERS'   DEI>A.IITMENT. 


BtJTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 

THB  following  beantiAil  and  tonohing  sketeh 
we  copy  from  a  reeent  number  .of  the  indepen- 
dent, it  having  appeared  there  under  the  eignatuM 
of  H.  B.: 

During  one  of  last  summer's  hottest  i$CfB.l  had 

the  good  fortune  to  be  sealed  in  a  railway  ear  nftar 

a  mother  and  four  children,  whose  relations  with 

each  other  were  singnlsrly  beautifuL    It  wm  plain 

that  they  were  poor.    The  moiher'a  bonnet  alone 

wonid  have  been  enough  to  have  cfModemned  the 

whole  in  any  one  of  the  world'a  thoronghfares, 

but  her  face  was  one  which  gave  a  sense  of  rest  to 

look  upon ;  it  was  earnest,  tender,  tru^  and  strong. 

The  children — ^two  boys  and  two  gurla-'— were  ail 

under  the  age  of  twelve,  and  the  youngest  oould 

not  speak  plainly.    They  had  had  a  rare  treat 

They  had  been  visiting  the  mountaias,  and  were 

talking  over  the  wonders  they  bad  seen  with  a 

'  glow  of  enthusiastic  delight  which  was  to  be  envied, 

and  the  mother  bore  her  part  all  the  while  with 

■nob  equal  interest  and  eagerness,  that  no  ene  not 

seeing  her  face,  would  dream  that  «he  was  any 

other  than  an  elder  sister.    In  the  course  of  the 

day  there  were  many  occasions  when  it  was  neees- 

lary  for  her  to  deny  requests  and  ask  services, 

•specially  f^m  the  eideet  boy,  but  no  yoang  girl, 

anxious  to  please  a  lover,  could  have  done  either 


wilh  a  more  tender  eowtesy.  She  had  her  reward, 
for  no  lover bouM  have  been  more  tender  or  manly 
than  was  the  boy  of  twelve.  Their  lunch  was 
simple  and  scanty,  but  it  bad  the  grace  of  a  royal 
banquet  At  the  last  the. mother  procured,  with 
much  glee,  three  apples  and  an  orange,  of  which 
the  children  had  not  known.  All  eyefe  fastened  on 
the  orange.  It  was  evidently  a  great  rarity.  I 
wanted  to  see  if  this  teat  woald  bring  out  selfish- 
ness. The  mother  said :  "  How  shall  I  divide  this  ? 
There  is  one  apple  for  each  of  you,  and  I  shall  be 
the  best  off  of  all,  for  I  expert  big  tastes  from  each 
of  you." 

<<0h,  give  Annie  the  orange!  Annie  loves  or- 
anges," spoke  out  the  eldeet  boy,  with  the  air  of  a 
conqueror,  at  the  same  time  taking  the  smalleet 
and  worst  apple  for  himself. 

**  Ob,  yes,,  let  Annie  have  the  orange,"  echoed 
the  second  boy,  nine  years  old. 

''.Tes,  Annie  may  liave  the  oraage,  beeaase  it  Is 
nicer  than  the  apple,  and  she  is  a  lady  and  hnr 
brothers  are  gentlemen,"  said  the  mother,  quietly. 
Then  there  was  n  merry  contest  as  to  who  should 
feed  the  mother  with  the.iargest  and  most  fireqnent 
mouthfhls.-  Then  Annie  pretended  to  want  apple, 
and  exchanged  thio^  golden  strips  of  orange  foir  bites 
out  of  the  cheeks  of  Baldwins ;  and  as  I  sat  wateh- 
.  ing  her  intently,  she  suddenly  faneisd  she  saw  a 
J  longing  in  my  face,  and  sprang  over  to  me,  saying : 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


846 


ARTHUR'S   lAVrS   SOME   MAGAZINE. 


'*  Do  yon  vaot  a  Utt«,  tooT' 

The  mother  sailed  nndersUBdingly,  when  I 
said :  **  Ko,  I  thank  you,  yoo  deajr,  generous  little 
girl ;  I  don't  oare  ahont  oranges. 

At  noon  we  had  a  tedions  interval  of  waiting  at 
a  dreary  station.  We  sat  for  two  hours  on  a  nar- 
row platform  which  the  sun  soorohed  till  it  smelt 
of  heat  The  eldest  boy,  the  little  lover,  held  the 
youngest  child  and  talked  to  her,  while  the. tired 
mother  closed  her  eyes  and  rested. 

The  other  two  children  were  toiling  up  and 
down  the  railroad  hanks,  piekiag  ox-eyed  <Ui8ies, 
buttercups,  and  sorrel.  They  worked  like  heaversy 
and  soon  the  bunches  were  almost  too  big  for  their 
little  hands.  They  came  running  to  give  them  to 
their  mother.  *'  Oh,  dear  I"  thought  I,  **  how  Ihat 
poor,  tired  woman  will  hate  to  open  her  eyes !  and 
■he  never  can  take  those  great  buaehes  of  wilting, 
worthless  lowers  In  addition  to  her  bundles  nnd 
bags."    I  was  mistaken. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  my  darlings!  How  kind  you 
were  I  Poor,  hot,  tired  littla  iowenrs,  how  thirsty 
they  look !  If  they  will  try  and  keep  alivo  ttU  we 
get  home,  we  will  make  them  veij  happy  in  scfme 
water,  wont  we  ?  And  yon  shall  put  ono  bnndh 
by  papa's  plate,  and  one  by  mine." 

Sweet  and  happy,  the  weary  and  flushed  little 
children  stood,  looking  up  in  her  face  while  she 
talked,  their  hearts  thrilling  with  compassion  for 
the  drooping  flowers  and  with  delight  in  giving 
their  gift  Then  she  took  great  trt»oh1e  to  get  a 
string  and  tie  up  the  flowers;  and  the  train  came 
and  we  were  whirling  along  sgain.  Soon  it  grew 
dark,  and  little  Annie^s  hmd  nodded.  Then  I 
heard  the  mother  say  to  the  eldest  boy,  "  Dear, 
are  you  too  tired  to  let  little  Annie  put  her  head 
on  your  shoulder  and  take  a  nap  f  We  ehall  get 
her  home  in  mueh  better  care  to  her  papa  if  we 
can  manage  to  give  her  a  Httle  sleep."  How  many 
little  boys  of  twelve  hear  sweb  words  as  these  frsfu 
tired,  over-burdened  mothers  ? 

Soon  came  tbe  city,  tlie  flnnl  station,  with  its 
bustle  and  noise.  I  lingered  to  watoh  my  happy 
family,  hoping  to  see  the  father.  '^Wby,  papa 
isn't  here  ?"  exclaimed  one  disappointed  little  Toice 
after  another.  "  Never  mind,"  said  the  mother, 
with  n  still  deeper  disappointment  in  her  tone; 
*'  perlinps  he  had  to  go  to  see  seme  poor  body  who 
is  siek."  In  the  hurry  of  picking  up  all  the  par- 
sels  and  sleepy  babies,  the  poor  daisies  and  bntter- 
onps  were  left  forgotten  in  the  ooner  of  the  rack. 
I  wondered  if  the  mother  had  not  intended  this. 
May  I  he  forgiven  for  the  iB||astice  1  A  few  min* 
ntes  after  I  had  paas^  tlie  little  group,  standing 
still  outside  the  sUtion^  I  heard  the  mother  say : 
**  Oh,  my  darlings,  I  hnve  forgotten  your  pretty 
bouquets.  I  na  so  soity  I  I  wonder  if  I  conld 
And  them  if  I  went  back  I  WUl  you  all  stand 
still  and  not  stit  firom  this  spot,  if  I  go  7" 

**  Oh,  mamma,  don't  go  i  We  will  gel  yon  some 
mom.    Don't  go  r  cried  aUthn  children. 


**  Here  «m  your  towers,  madasn,"  said  I.  "  I 
saw  yon  had  forgotten  them,  and  I  took  them  ai 
mementoes  of  you  and  your  sweet  ehildren."  Shs 
blushed  and  looked  diseoneerted.  She  was  eri- 
dently  unnsed  to  people  and  shy  with  all  bnt  hir 
children.  However,  she  thanked  mo  sweetly  sa4 
said:  **  I  was  very  sorry  about  thorn.  The  chil- 
dren took  such  tronble  to  get  them,  and  I  tkiak 
they  will  rev^ive  in  water.  They  eannet  iNTqaiis 
dead." 

«  They  wiU  nntr  die  1"  aaid  I,  with  an  emphssii 
which  went  firom  my  heart  to  hers.  Then  all  hw 
shyness  fled.  We  shook  hands,  and  smiled  bis 
each  others'  eyes  with  the  smile  of  kindred  ss  vt 
parted. 

As  I  followed  on,  I  heard  the  two  ohtldren,  wkt 
were  walking  behind,  saying  to  eaeh  other: 
"Wouldn't  that  have  been  too  bad?  Msnmt 
liked  them  so  much,  and  we  never  could  have  got 
so  many  all  nt  onoe  again." 

'*  Tes,  we  could,  too,  next  summer,"  said  tk 
hoy,  sturdily. 

They  are  sure  of  thoir  '<  next  summer,"  I  thlsk 
all  of  those  six  souls^-ebildrsn,  and  mother  ea4 
father.  They  may  never  raise  so  many  ox-sjsd 
daisies  and  butteroups  ''all  at  onoe."  Perbipi 
some  of  the  little  hands  have  already  picked  thsir 
last  ilowcrs.  Nevertheless,  their  summers  are  eer- 
tain  to  such  souls,  either  here  or  in  God's  longer 
country.  * 

GOVERN  WITH  LOVE  AND  REASOX, 

TO  FBOMOTfl  PHTglCiX  AKD  KSMTAI.  SUKALTB. 
BT  axtrtM  BOPtruL. 

ARB  all  parents  solioitous  for  the  physical  oois- 
fort  of  their  children?  What  parent  would 
he  willing  to  admit  that  this  was  not  his,  orbsr 
wish.  But  all  do  not  understand  how  phyiiesl 
oomfort  or  health  Is  best  promoted. 

The  human  being  is  composed  of  mind  and  bisI* 
tor.  The  mind  controls,  thinks,  and  impels  tbs 
aotions  of  the  body ;  and  to  do  this  aright,  tks 
mind  should  be  in  a  eahn  and  healthful  state. 

The  loving  mother  and  the  loving  father,  how 
happy  they  make  their  children ;  not  by  IndslgiBg 
them  in  their  every  wish,  but  by  the  kind  ai 
pleasant  way  in  which  they  reason  with  tbtn  is 
relaUen  theinto.  Even  very  small  ehildrsn  ea 
reason  mueh  better  than  many  suppose.  And  tk«y 
should  be  taught  to  reason,  and  should  bssos- 
trolled  by  rsason  and  love  in  the  parent,  isitc*' 
of  fear  and  superior  physical  power. 

That  parent  who  eontrols  his  children  witk  km 
and  reason,  will  always  be  beloved  in  retnrs ;  ^ 
sides  he  is  giving  the  mind  and  body  of  theobiM 
one  of  tho  most  needed  elements  of  health  sad 
strength. 

Young  childrsD  are  often  self-wiUed  and  Btu^ 
horn,  as  wall  as  older  ohildren.  Bat  thoss  vh« 
beet  undesstnad  human  nature  know  that  sosh  tf* 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


SMALTS  DEPARTMENT. 


U% 


often  easior  to  lend  with  a  ttrawthtti  todiir^with 
a  hoMerwblp.  IM  the  ttmws  of  lare  andiMiea 
ke  oftoner  used  to  goTorn  suob  eliildren. 

Do  noty  aa  yon  yalae  the  life  ud  health  of  your 
ehtldren,  threaten  them,  keeping  btfore  their 
minds  and  memories  the  eonstaot  fear  of  a  severe 
whipping ;  for  it  lo  affeots  their  system  If  they 
heed  it,  as  to  cause  an  nnhealthfal  cirealatlon  of 
Viood  and  nerrous  fluid. 

I>o  not  tease  them,  or  call  them  stieh  names  as 
to  make  tbem  thinlK  they  are  lightly  esteemed. 
Giro  them  sympathy  in  their  little  griefs  and  mi^ 
kaps,  and  you  will  be  snre  to  have  their  sympathy 
in  your  age  and  sorrow. 


Treat  them  as  yonr  friends  and  helpers,  and 
never  speak  or  aot  unkindly  to  them,  e«peoially  in 
the  presenoe  of  others. 

Children  should  never  earry  an  aching  or  sor- 
rowful heart.  It  is  injurious  to  their  health  of 
body  and  mind,  and  tends  to  shorten  their  lives. 

Parents  should  be  patient,  kind,  and  reasonable 
in  all  their  dealings  with  their  children,  no  less 
than  with  others.  Christ  took  the  weak  and  ten- 
der Iambs  in  His  arms  and  carried  them  in  His 
bosom.  Let  parents  learn  from  His  example  not 
to  exact  too  mueh  of  the  weak  and  feeble,  or  govern 
them  with  severity. 


HEALTH   I>EI>A.RTMENT. 


EGGS  V8.  MEATS. 

XTTTE  take  from  the  *' Herald  of  Health"  these 
\V  suggestions  about  food. 
Would  it  not  be  wise  to  substitute  more  eggs  fbr 
meat  in  our  daily  diet?  About  one-third  of  the 
weight  of  an  egg  is  solid  nu^^ment.  This  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  meat.  There  are  no  bones 
and  tough  pieces  that  have  to  be  laid  aside.  A 
good  egg  is  made  up  of  ten  parts  shell,  sixty  parts 
white,  and  thirty  parts  yelk.  The  white  of  an  egg 
contains  eighty-six  per  cent,  of  water;  the  yelk 
ifty-two  per  cent.  The  average  weight  of  an  egg 
is  about  two  ounces.  Practically  an  egg  is  animal 
food,  and  yet  there  is  none  of  the  disagreeable 
work  of  the  butcher  necessary  to  obtain  it  The 
vegetarians  of  England  use  eggs  freely,  and  many 
of  these  men  are  eighty  and  ninety  years  old,  and 
have  been  remarkably  free  from  illness.  A  good  egg 
is  alive.  The  shell  is  porous,  and  the  oxygen  of  the 
air  goes  through  the  shell  and  keeps  up  a  sort  of 
respiration.  An  egg  soon  becomes  stale  in  bad  air, 
or  in  air  charged  with  carbonic  acid.  Eggs  may 
be  dried  and  made  to  retain  their  goodness  for  a 
long  time,  or  the  shell  may  be  varnished,  which  ex- 
cludes the  air,  when,  if  kept  at  a  proper  tempera* 
ture,  they  may  be  kept  good  for  years.  The  French 
people  produce  more  eggs  than  any  other,  and  ship 
millions  of  them  to  England  annually.  Presh  eggs 
are  most  transparent  at  the  centre,  old  ones  on  the 
top.  Veiy  old  ones  are  not  transparent  in  either 
place.  In  water,  in  which  one-tenth  of  salt  has 
been  dissolved,  good  eggs  sink,  and  indifferent 
ones  swim.  Bad  eggs  float  in  pure  water.  The 
best  eggs  are  laid  by  young  healthy  hens.  If  they 
are  properly  fed  the  eggs  are  better  than  if  they 
are  allowed  to  eat  all  sorts  of  food. 

Eggs  are  best  when  cooked  about  four  minutes. 
This  takes  away  the  animal  taste  that  is  offensive 
to  some,  but  does  not  so  harden  the  white  or  yelk 
as  to   make  it  hard  to  digest.    An  egg  if  oooked 


very  hard  is  dil&enlt  of  digestion,  exoept  by  those 
with  stout  stomachs ;  such  eggs  Should  he  eaten 
with  bread,  and  masticated  very  finely.  An  ex- 
cellent sandwich  can  be  made  with  egg  and 
brown  bread.  An  egg  spread  on  toast  is  food  fit 
for  a  king.  If  kings  deserve  any  better  food  than 
anybody  else,  which  is  doubtful.  Fried  eggs  are 
less  wholesome  than  boiled  ones.  An  egg  dropped 
into  hot  water  and  left  till  properly  cooked,  is  not 
only  a  dean  and  handsome,  but  delicious  morsel. 
Most  people  spoil  the  taste  of  their  eggs  by  adding 
pepper  and  salt  A  little  sweet  butter  is  the  best 
dressing.  Eggs  contain  much  phosphorus,  which 
is  supposed  to  be  useful  to  those  who  use  their 
brains  much. 

Another  substitute  for  meat  is  cheese.  Good 
cheese  is  even  more  nutritious  than  eggs.  Cheese 
varies  wonderfully  in  its  oomposition,  but  when 
properly  made  it  contains  about  one-third  water, 
one-third  albuminous  material,  one-fourth  fat,  and 
about  five  per  cent,  of  mineral  matter,  One-b«df 
of  a  pound  of  good  cheese  contains  as  much  nitro« 
genons  matter  as  a  pound  of  the  beet  meat,  and 
one-third  of  a  pound  as  much  fat  as  a  pound  of 
average  meat  Old  cheese,  however,  is  not  whole  • 
some,  and  cannot  be  eaten  in  large-enough  quan- 
tities to  be  useful  as  a  food.  Very  nsw  cheese,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  less  easy  of  digestion.  Cheese  is 
difficult  to  keep  in  warm  climates,  and  easily  de- 
cays in  all  places  unless  properly  cared  for.  Moldy 
and  decayed  cheese  is  unwholesome  and  can  al- 
ways be  known  by  the  taste.  American  cheese  is 
not  so  good  as  English  and  Swiss,  still  the  best 
American  cheese  is  very  good.  The  Boglish  work- 
ing classes  use  bread  and  cheese  largely  at  an  arti- 
cle of  diet '  The  Americans  use  it  as  a  relish  and 
luxury,  but  rarely  as  an  article  of  nourishment 
We  believe  Americans  use  too  much  meat  Those 
who  wish  ftx  a  substitute  will  find  it  in  good  eggs 
and  cheese.  With  these  foods  they  need  rarely  or 
never  use  meat  at  alL 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


KO 


ARTHUR'S   LADT8   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


OONDENSED  MILK  FOB  BABIES. 

"  VETiil  you  pleMe  inform  aa  bow  properly  to  i^ 
duoe  condensed  milk  for  a  leren*  weeks-old  baby, 
and  whose  do  yon  consider  best?" 

Of  the  different  kinds  of  condensed  milk,  I  pre- 
fer that  of  "  The  American  Condensed  Milk  Com- 
pany." In  redacing  it,  I  should  use  six  parts  of 
water  to  one  of  milk.  Always  be  tare  to  have 
pare,  soft  water  with  which  to  dilute  it.  If  you 
ean  get  the  milk  undiluted  and  undefiled,  of  a  good 
new  milch  cow,  regularly,  I  should  by  all  means 
do  so,  in  preference  to  using  the  condensed  milk. 
About  one-third  water  should  be  added.  In  large 
cities,  where  it  is  difficult  to  get  pure  milk,  the 


aafcft  waj  is  to  ofe  tbe  eoftdenaed  mOk.    DobH 
■waa««ii  the  milk,  whatlier  eoadansed  or  »ot 


MILK  AND  DYSPEPSIA.      • 

"  Boee  milk-— <weet  or  soar — ^in  bread,  iojore  a 
dyspeptic  ?" 

I  oonsider  light,  uoleayened  bread,  made  with* 
oat  milk,  the  best  for  dyspeptics,  as  a  rale,al- 
though  the  use  of  a  little  sweet  milk  would  naks 
very  little  differenee.  The  ase  of  sour  milk  neces- 
sitates the  addition  of  saleratos,  or  other  slkali, 
which  is  injurious  to  healthy  stomaobSy  and  mo«h 
more  to  diseased  ones. 


BOYS'  A.]srr)  aiRLS'  tjie^sury. 


THE  NEGLECTED  TOAD. 

HE  was  Tory,  very  ugly ;  his  coat  was  mud- 
color,  his  form  ungainly,  and  bis  mouth 
fVightful.  He  knew  be  was  ugly,  and  the  fact 
preyed  on  bis  mind  night  and  day;  but  be  could 
not  help  it ;  do  what  be  would,  long  as  he  might, 
he  could  not  improve  his  figure,  or  his  complexion, 
or  his  features,  one  iota. 

Some  people  said,  that  inside  his  ugly  little  head 
there  was  something  bright  and  beautiful  and 
dazzling.  That  might  or  might  not  be  the  case  ; 
our  poor  little  Toad  did  not  trouble  himself  about 
it.  If  it  was  there,  what  was  the  use  of  it  ?  what 
pleasure  did  it  give  to  himself  or  any  one  else  ? 
Everybody  disliked  and  avoided  him  on  account 
of  bis  ugliness :  even  little  children,  who  petted  his 
cousins  the  frogs,  would  not  touch  him  on  any  con- 
sideration, and  sometimes  they  teased  him,  and 
threw  stones  at  him. 

Once  a  village  school-boy  gave  him  a  kick  which 
lamed  him  for  a  long  time,  saying,  "I'll  lam  ye 
to  be  a  To-ad." 

The  poor  Toad  did  not  resent  the  unkindness; 
he  only  limped  away,  saying  to  himself:  "Ah! 
that's  all  very  well,  and  very  natural ;  but  what  I 
want  to  know  is,  how  not  to  be  a  Toad.  If  any 
one  would  teach  me  that,  I  v^ould  bless  him  in- 
deed I" 

Then  be  gazed  at  his  own  reflection  in  a  puddle 
long  and  earnestly.  "  Tes,"  be  thought,  "  I  am 
perfectly  hideous  ;  no  wonder  the  school-boy  gave 
me  a  kick ;  who  could  resist  it  ?  I  look  as  if  I  were 
made  to  be  kicked  !" 

On  one  occasion  it  happened  that  he  was  stroll- 
ing along  a  lane  where  a  very  little  child  was 
playing;  ?he  crept  softly  toward  him  and  pointed 
to  him,  saying:  "  Pret^ !  pretty!"  The  Toad's 
heart  gave  a  grateful  throb  of  joy,  and  be  tried  to 
throw  a  kind  and  pleasing  expression  into  his  eyes 


as  he  looked  up  at  the  little  one ;  but  just  then  the 
child's  big  sister,  who  had  charge  of  her,  came  ep, 
and  seising  her  by  the  hand  pulled  her  away,  ex- 
olaiming:  "Don't  go  near  the  nasty  thing,  itil 
•pit  at  yon»  and  kill  you !"  and  the  ohild  began  to 
scream  and  cry  as  she  was  borne  off*. 

This  little  incident  'affected  the  poor  Toad  eves 
more  than  the  kick. 

*'  ^hji  I  would  not  hart  any  ono  if  I  eoold," 
he  thought ;  "  and  I  could  not  if  I  would  I  I  know 
I  am  ugly,  but  that  is  no  reason  I  should  be  ven- 
omous. I  wish  I  could  go  back  to  the  days  of  my 
childhood,  when  I  lived  in  the  pond,  and  never 
troubled  myself  about  how  I  looked,  or  what  was 
thought  of  me.  I  used  to  think  then  'what  a  fine 
thing  it  would  be  to  be  able  to  walk  as  well  si  to 
swim,  and  to  associate  with  human  beings;  bat 
it's  nothing  but  disappointment,  after  all !"  i^nd 
he  shuffled  disconsolately  back  to  the  garden 
where  be  lived.  ^ 

One  summer's  day,  as  be  was  taking  a  solitary, 
aimless  walk  along  a  gravel  path  in  the  shrubbery, 
his  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by  an  object 
which  fairly  dazzled  his  eyes  by  its  brilliancy,  and 
a  large  peacock  Butterfly  settled  on  a  carnation 
close  to  him. 

"Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatebable 
beauty !"  exclaimed  the  Toad,  unconsciously  quot- 
ing from  Shakspeare.  "  What  would  I  give  to  be 
like  you!" 

"You  are  really  too  polite,"  said  the  ButUrfly, 
turning  herself  a  little  round,  so  as  to  show  ber 
wings  to  more  advantage. 

"How  delightful  it  must  be,"  went  on  the 
Toad,  "  to  create  admiration  wherever  one 
goes!" 

"  Well,"  answered  the  Butterfly,  rather  super- 
ciliously, "  one  gets  a  little  tired  of  the  sort  of 
thing,  Every  child  that  sees  me  wants  to  catch 
me." 


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£078"    AND    GIBL8*    TREASURY. 


651 


'*  Ah!"  Mid  Um  Toad,  m^nmfiiUy,  '<  no  one  will 
OTor  want  to  oatch  mo  1" 

"Really?"  said  the  ButterBy,  affeeting  a  woU- 
bred  air  of  sarpriae.  **  Bat  yon  are  joking  per- 
haps ?" 

**  I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my  lifer"  an- 
swered the  Toady  and  he  crawled  a  step  nearer  the 
Butterfly,  and  looked  her  straight  in  the  face. 

The  Butterfly  reooiled  a  little.  **  Well,  to  he 
sure/'  she  said,  **  you  are  rather  plain  |  hut,  after 
all,  it  doesn't  signify  V* 

**  Of  course  it  doesn't  sijrnify  to  yon,"  replied 
the  Toad ;  "  but  to  me  it  signifies  very  mnoh,  rery 
much  indeed !" 

The  Butterfly  opened  and  shut  her  wings  gently 
in  the  sunshine,  and  considered  a  moment.  At 
last,  she  said :  **  fou  know  we  can't  all  be  beaati- 
fair 

"  No,"  said  the  Toad,  dreamily.  "I  suppose  we 
can't  all  be  beautiful.  But  why  should  yon  be 
beautiful  and  not  I  ?" 

.The  Butterfly*  was  incapable  of  following  the 
Toad's  train  of  thought.  To  her  heir  own  beauty 
seemed  a  natural  right,'  and  she  was  inclined  to 
take  his  remark  as  a  personal  affront  to  herself. 

''Well,  I'm  sure,"  she  began,  and  then  she 
couldn't  think  of  anything  else  to  say,  and  buried 
her  trunk  in  the  calyx  of  the  carnation,  though 
there  was  no  honey  there,  to  hide  her  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  I  dare  say  it's  all  right,"  went  on  the  Toad, 
"  only  t  don't  understand  it." 

"I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  to  under- 
stand," 8&id  the  Butterfly,  forgetting  her  breeding 
in  her  excitement;  ''it's  simple  encmgh.  I  am 
beautiful  because  my  wings  have  exquisitely- 
painted  peacock's  eyes  on  them^  and  you  are  ugly 
— I  mean  ordinary — because  your  coat  is  so  dingy, 
and  your  mouth  so  wide." 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  Toad.  "That  is  not 
what  I  naean  at  all.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  why 
is  this  tkiuB?" 

"  Well ,  I  must  he  off,'*  said  the  Batterfly>«who 
felt  that  the  oonTorsation  was  getting  beyond  her; 
"  I  have  so  many  engagements.  The  hdneysnckles 
are  expecting  me  every  minutOi  and  I  know  the 
tiger^liiy  feels  hurt  because  it  ia  so  long  sinoe  I 
visited  her.  I  promised  to  look  up  the  lavender- 
bed,  too,  if  I  had  time," 

"  Before  you  go,"  said  the  Toad,  hesitatingly, 
"  might  I  venture  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you  ?" 

"  Name  it,"  said  the  Butterfly,  graeionsly. 

"  You  are  mistress  of  the  art  of  faseination. 
Will  you  give  me  a  hint  how  to  make  myself  a 
little  less  uncouth — a  little  more  atlraetive  V* 

"  I  can  show  you  how  one  should  poise  one's* 
self,  if  you  like,"  answered  the  Bntterfly,  hovering 
daintily  oyer  the  eamation. 

"  It  is  a  most  elegant  perfomanee^"  saiid  the 
Toady  admiringly;  "but,  yon  see,  it  woald  be 
quite  useless  for  me  to  attempt  that  sort  of  thing." 


"  If  you  wish  to  pay  a  harried  visit,  and  yet  be 
gracious  and  graceful,"  continued  the  Butterfly, 
*  I  think  it  should  be  done  in  this  kind  of  way ;" 
and  she  darted  rapidly  to  a  neighboring  lily,  just 
kissed  her  pure  white  petals,  and  returned. 

"  Beautiful !"  exclaimed  the  Toad,  enthusiasti- 
cally ;  "  but  ask  yourself,  supposing  even  I  were 
able  to  accomplish  such  a  mancenvre,  how  would 
it  auit  my,  figure  ?" 

"Then,"  went  on  the  Butterfly,  pursuing  her 
own  train  of  ideas,  "when  you  want  to  alight,  this. 
is  the  best  way ;"  and  she  flattered  airily  down 
again  on  to  the  carnation's  crimson  cushion. 

"  That,  alas  !  would  be  equally  impossible,"  said 
the  Toad,  in  a  voice  of  deep  disappointment,  for 
he  began  to  suspeot  that  the  Butterfly  was  more 
intent  on  showing  off  her  own  accomplishments 
than  in  helping  him. 

"  I  am  afiald  I  have  nothing  more  to  suggest," 
•aid  the  Butterfly.  "The  honeysuckles  will  be  in 
despair^  and  I  never  expose  my  wings  to  the  even- 
ing dew.  The  sun  shines  as  long  as  he  can  to 
accommodate  me;  but  one  does  not  like  to  be  ex- 
^eanfc." 

Away  she  flew,  darting  hither  and  thither  in 
^e  sunlight,  greeting  now  one  sweet  flower  and 
now  another,  brilliant  and  beaucifu^  welcome 
everywhere.  The  Toad  meanwhile  crawled  drearily 
along  the  gravel-walk.  He  was  but  a  young  Toad, 
and  life  seemed  very  long  and  uninteresting  to 
him  at  that  momenL 

For  some  days  after  this  little  Interview  he  wan- 
dered listlessly  about  the  garden,  occasionally  catch- 
ing a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  Butterfly  as  she 
flittered  about,  and  looking  after  her  with  longing 
eyes ;  but  she  was  too  pre-oocupied  to  notice  him 
with  even  a  passing  salutation.  As  time  went  on, 
however,  he  began  to  crave  less  for  notice  and 
admiration;  he  occupied  himself  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  lived  chiefly  under  a  plank  in  the 
tool-house.  Bay  after  day  he  grew  more  accus- 
tomed to  his  life  of  solitude  and  satisfied  with  his 
own  resources.  His  neighbors  laughed  at  him  for 
what  they  oalled  his  ^  old-bachelor  ways ;"  some 
of  which  were  certainly  rather  peculiar.  For  in- 
stance, he  wae  very  orderly  and  regular  in  his 
habits,  \and  earned  his  love  of  tidiness  to  such  an 
extent  that  when  the  time  came  for  exchanging 
his  old  coat  for  a  new  one,  he  rolled  it  carefully 
into  a  small  ball  and  swallowed  it  out  of  the  way. 
He  cared  less  and  less  for  the  opinion  of  the  out- 
side world,  and  became  gradually  quite  contented 
with  his  lot. 

The  bright  Ittmmer  days  sped  away,  and  the 
flowers  ha  the  garden  grew  scarce.  The  green 
leaves  on  the  trees  tamed  scarlet  and  golden,  then 
dropped  firom  the  branches,  and  rustled  and 
danced  over  the  lawn  till  th^  were  swept  away  by 
the  gardener.  Then  the  snow  fell  thick  and  fasi^ 
till  lawn,  and  flower-beds,  and  gravel-walks  all 
looked  alike  in  their  smooth  white  coyerhig;    How 


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S52 


ABTHUR'8   LADY'S   HOME   MAGAZINE. 


cold  it  was  !  The  Toad  lay  snog  under  hit  plank 
in  the  tool-honse,  and  congratulated  himself. 

One  day  he  had  ventured  forth  from  his  hidiag- 
plaoe  for  a  moment  to  take  a  glimpse  at  the  white 
world  without  between  the  cracks  in  the  wail, 
when  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  melancholy 
little  voice  close  to  him,  saying,  "  Oh,  dear!  oh, 
dear!"  He  looked  np,  and  saw  in  a  dark  comer 
of  the  tool-house  what  he  would  have  taken  for 
the  form  of  a  dusky-looking  moth,  but  that  the 
•tone  of  the  voice  enabled  him  to  recognise  the 
object  of  his  admiration  and  enry  in  days  gone 
by — the  peacock  Butterfly  ! 

'<  Good  gracious  V*  exclaimed  the  Toad,  "  what 
on  earth  brings  yon  here  1"  He  did  not  mean  te 
be  discourteous,  but  living  alone  under  a  plank 
ia  the  tool* house  does  ni>t  improve  one's  manners. 

^*  I  have  been  here  for  a  long  time,"  answered 
the  Butterfly.  '*  I  was  foroed  to  seek  for  tbdlter, 
for  every  flower  in  the  garden,  and  even  the  enii 
himself,  has  deserted  me.  I  managed  to  find  my 
way  into  this  gloomy  plaoe,  and,  ah  me !  it  is  so 
deadly  dull !" 

"I  don't  find  it  dull/'  sai^  the  Toad.  "I  aa 
very  happy  here." 

"Ah!  very  likely,"  said  the  Butterfly.  "" You 
are  uied  to  it,  and  yon  have  not  been  accus- 
tomed to  sunshine  and  admiration  all  your  life  as 
I  have." 

"  True,"  replied  the  Toad. 

"But  what  depresses  me  most  of  all,''  went  on 
kls  companion,  "  is  •  growing  oonvietion  which  I  \ 


cannot  shake  off,  that  I  am  not  the  Butterfly  I  wai. 
I  feel  so  stiff  and  disinclined  to  move,  and  thtt 
must  destroy  graoe,  don't  you  think  so  V* 

"  I  B«ver  was  graceful  myself,"  taM  the  Toai 
"I  don't  know  anything  about  it" 

"Then,"  went  on  the  Butterfly,  "a  horrid 
thought  has  eom«  into  my  mind — that  the  pes- 
cock's  eyes  on  my  wings  are  not  so  brillisiitsi 
they  used  to  be.  Dear  old  Toad  !  I  beg  yon  to 
tell  me  if  this  is  really  the  ease,  or  merely  a  mor- 
bid faney." 

"  Oome  into  the  Kght,"  said  the  Toad,  "  and  FD 
tell  you." 

The  Butterfly  crawled  languidly  out  of  ber 
oomer,  and  stood  trembling  with  anxiety,  wsitiBg 
for  the  Toad's  verdiet.  "  Don't  deceive  me,"  An 
Said* 

Presently  the  Toad  spoke,  but  very  reluctaofly, 
for  he  had  in  truth  a  kind  heart. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  he  said,  ''that  I  eonsider 
your  wings  are  decidedly  faded." 

The  Butterfly  moved  sulkily  sway.  One  dou 
not  always  like  to  hear  (he  truth,  eyen  when  om 
has  begged  for  it.** 

The  Toad  retreated  to  his  snuggery,  and  poo- 
dered.  "After  all,"  be  thought,  ''I  belieTS  I 
have  the  be^t  of  it.  One  cannot  miss  what  dm 
has  never  enjoyed;  and  if  one  has  no  wings  with 
peacock's  eyes  on  them,  one  is  not  afraid  of  their 
fading." 

Fur  the  Toad,  yon  see,  had  become  a  phlloio- 
pher. 


THE  HOME   OmOLE. 


EDITED  BY  A  LADY. 


MURMURING. 

I  WAS  tired  of  washing  dishes;  I  was  tired  of 
drudgery.  It  had  aiways  been  so,  and  I  was 
dissatisfied.  I  never  eat  down  a  aonent  to  read 
that  Jamie  didn't  want  a  oake*  or  a  pieoe  of  pa#er 
to  scribble  on,  or  a  bit  of  soap  to  make  babbles., 
"  I'd  rather  he  in  prison,"  I  said,  one  day,  "  than 
have  my  life  teased  out  so,"  as  Jamie  knocked  ay 
elbow,  when  I  was  writing  to  a  friend. 

But  a  morning  cane  when  I  had  one  plata  leas 
to  wash,  one  chair  less  to  set  away  by  the  wall  is 
the  dining-room ;  when  Jamie's  little  crib  was  put 
away  into  the  ganet,  and  it  has  never.'cene  down 
since.  I  had  been  unasnally  fratful  and  discoA- 
teoted  with  him  that  damp  May  noming  that  he 
took  the  oronp.  Gloomy  weather  gave  me  the 
headache,  and  I  had  less  patience  tfaen  than  at 
any  other  time.  By  and  by  he  wae  siagii^^  in  aa- 
ether  room,  "  I  want  to  be  an. angel;"  and  piM- 
ently  rang  out  that  metallic*  croup.    I  never  hear 


that  hymn  since  that  it  don't  cut  me  to  the  heut, 
for  the  creup  cough  riirgs  out  with  it.  He  grev 
worse  toward  night,  and  when  ray  husband  eamt 
home  he  w«nt  for  the  doctor.  At  first  he  seemsd  to 
help  him,  but  it  merged  into  inflammatory  eroni^ 
and  was  soon  over. 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  called  in  eooner,"  said 
the  doctor. 

I  have  a  servant  to  wash  the  dishes  now;  and, 
when  a  visitor  comes,  I  can  sit  down  and  entertais 
her  withent  having  to  work  all  the  time.  Thera 
is  no  little  boy  worrying  me  to  open  his  jtck- 
knilb,  and  there  are  no  shavings  over  the/hwr. 
The  maga tines  are  not  soiled  with  looking  at  tbe 
pictures,  bnt  stand  prim  and  neat  on  the  readiog- 
tablaf  ^uat  as  I  leave  them. 

"  Yovr  carpet  never  looks  dirty,"  say  weaiy- 
worn  methere  to  «ie. 

"Ob,  no,"  I  mutter  to  myself,  "there  are  bo 
mnddy  little  boots  to  dirty  it  now." 

But  my  face  is  as  weary  as  theirs— wearj  wi^k 


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THE   HOME    CIRCLE. 


353 


littiog  in  mf  lonesome  parlor  at  twilight,  weary 
with  watobing  for  the  little  arms  that  used  to 
twine  around  my  neok,  for  the  curls  that  brnshed 
against  my  oheek,  for  the  yonng  laagb  which  rang 
ont  with  mine,  as  we  watched  the  blazing  coal-ftre, 
or  made  rabbits  with  the  shadow  on  the  wall,  wait- 
ing merrily  together  for  papa  coming  home.  I 
have  the  wealth  and  ease  I  longed  for,  bat  at  what 
price?  And  when  I  see  other  mothers  with  grown* 
up  sons  driving  to  town  or  church,  and  my  bair 
silTered  over  with  gray,  I  think  what  might  have 
been,  had  I  mttrmnred  less  at  the  providence  of 
God. 

Reader— yonng  mother  yon  may  be— had  yon 
heard  this  mother  tell  her  story,  yo«  wovld  have 
felt  disposed  to  say  with  the  writer,  **  I  will  be 
more  patient  with  my  little  ones — I  will  marmnr 
less." 


THE  NEWLY  ENGAGED  YOUNG.  MAN. 

"  Iff  Y  wife  and"  I,"  by  Mrs.  Harriet  Beeoher 
IVJ  8towe,  is  still  in  course  of  pqblication  in 
the  ChriHtian  Union.  It  sometimes  drags  a  little 
in  interest,  but  is  excellent  in  the  main.  Harry 
Henderson  has  jost  become  engaged  to  his  future 
wife,  and  thus  dilates  upon  the  event : 

**  I  wrote  all  about  it  to  my  mother,  who,  if  she 
judged  by  my  letters,  must  have  believed  '  Hes- 
perian fables '  trae  £or  the  flrst  time  in  the  world, 
and  that  a  woman  had  been  specially  made  and 
created  out  of  all  impossible  and  fabulous  ele- 
ments of  joy.  The  child -wife  of  my  early  days, 
the  dream -wife  of  my  youth,  were  both  liyiog, 
moving,  breathing  in  this  wonderful  reality.  I 
tried  to  disguise  my  good  fortune — to  walk  soberly 
and  behave  myself  among  men  as  if  I  were  sensi- 
ble and  rational,  and  not  dazed  and  enchanted.  I 
felt  myself  orbed  in  a  magieial  circle,  out  of  which 
I  looked  pityingly  on  everybody  that  was  not  /. 
A  spirit  of  universal  matohmakiag  benovolence 
possessed  me.  I  wmted  everybody  I  liked  to  be 
engaged.  I  pitied  and  made  allowances  for  eyery- 
body  that  was  not  How  could  they  be  happy  or 
good  that  had  not  my  fortune?  They  had  not,  they 
never  could  have,  an  Mva.  There  was  but  one 
Eva,  and  I  had  her ! 

"I  woke  eyery  morning  with  a  strasge,  new 
thrill  of  joy.  Was  it  so?  WaseheetHl  in  this 
world,  or  had  this  Imposaibla*  strange  mirage  of 
bliss  risen  like  a  mist  and  floated  heaystawwrd  ?  I 
trembled  when  I  thought  how  frail  a  thing  human 
life  is.  Was  it  possible  that  she  might  die?  Was 
it  possible  that  an  accident  in  a  railroad  car,  a 
waft  of  drapery  toward  an  evening  lamp,  a  thought- 
less false  step,  a  mistake  in  a  doctor's  prescription, 
might  cause  this  lorely  life  to  bre^k  like  a  babble, 
Mid  be  utterly  gone,  and  there  be  no  more  Evt, 
never,  nevermore  on  earth  ?  The  yery  kitetisity 
of  love  and  hope  miggeeted  the  possibility!,  of  the 
dreadlYil  tragedy  that  every  moment  underlies  life ; 
voim  xxxvin,— 24. 


that  with  every  joy  eonneets  the  possibility  of  a 
proportioned  pain.  Surely  love,  if  nothing  else, 
inclines  the  soul  .to  feel  its  helplessness  and  be 
prayerful,  to  plaoe  Its  treasures  in  k  Father's 
hand." 


AN  UNITED  INTEREST. 

<'  rpHB  tragedy  of  imi  married  life,"  says  a 
X  writer  In  the  RevoUttitm,  "eomea  from  the 
separation  of  husbands  and  wives.  They  live  two 
distinct  lives.  They  occupy  two  separate  spheres, 
as  removed  from  each  and  as  unlike  as  two  dif- 
ferent worlds.  All  their  oetmpatlons,  edmpaaion- 
ships,  habits,  hopM;  ambitions,  and  living,  force 
them  apart.  Nothing  less  than  a  miracle  of  grace, 
or  a  more  miraculous  love,  can  hold  them  happily 
and  helpfully  together  when  bufiness  and  fashion, 
like  two  stones  put  between  the  branches  of  a  tree, 
compel  them  asunder. 

"What  our  married  life  wants  to-dfiy,  more 
than  anything,  is  to  take  ont  thes4  artificial  and 
unnatural  separators,  and  bring  husband  and  wife 
together  in  natural  relatlohs.  Let  them  have  one 
interest,  iSne  work,  aeomnon  partnership,  a  com- 
mon companionship,  and  a  common  joy.  Let 
them  feel  each  other's  presepce  *  firom  dewy  mom 
till  dusky  eve,'  in  all  their  doings,  each  the  sun 
of  the  other's  world.  Let  them  labor  together  to 
build  up  the  home,  and  rear  children  to  intelli- 
gence, usefulness,  and  virtue,  and  together  strive 
to  realise  what  is  best  in  character  and  act,  and 
we  shall  have  few  unhappy  marriages,  and  still 
fewer  applications  for  divorce.  ,  The  solution 
of  our  marriage  dHBcuIty  lies  rery  largely  in 
unions  '  such  as  these.' " 


THE  FREEDOM  OP  MARRIAGE. 

MRS.  MARY  T.  DAVIS  writes  in  the  Oolden 
Age  that  "for  the  man  and  women  who 
purely   and    truly  love    each   other,    and    are 
guided  by  the  law  of  justice,  marriage   is-  not 
a  state  of  bondage.      Indeed,  it    is  only  when 
they    become,    by    this    outward    acknowledg- 
ment, publicly  avowed  lovers,  that  freedom    is 
realised  by  them  in  lu  full  significance.    There- 
after  they  can  be  openly  devoted  to  each  other's 
interests,    and    avowedly    chosen    and     intimate 
friends.    Together  they  can  plan  life's  battle,  and 
enter  upon   the  path'  of  progress  that  ends  not 
with  life's  eveatide.    Together  they  oan  seek  the 
charmed  avenoes  of  outtute^  and,  strengthened  by 
each  other,  eaa  brare-  the  world's  frown  in  the 
rugged  but  Heaven* lit  path  of  teform.    Home, 
with  all  that  ia  dearest  in  the  saered  name,  is  their 
peaceftil  aaA  dhetfiihed  retreat,  wiBiin  whose  sanc- 
tuary bloeea  the  yirtnes  that  mdie  it  a  temjile  of 
benefioenee." 


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EVENINGS  TVITH   THE  POETa 


0' 


OPEN  THE  DOOR  FOR  THE  CHILDREN. 

BT  KftS.  V,  ▲.  ICl]II>feA. 
\PEN  th«  door  for  ih«  ohildreiii 
Teod«rl  J  gather  th«in  in ; 
In  from  the  highways  end  hedget. 

In  frem  the  plaeeft  of  sin. 
Some  are  so  yonng  and  se  helplesf. 

Some  are  f  o  hungry  and  eoid ; 
Open  the  deor  for  the  children. 
Gather  them  into  tbe/eld  1 

Open  the  door  for  the  children  j 

See  1  they  are  coming  in  throngs ; 
Bid  them  sit  down  to  the  hanqne^ 

Teach  them  yoar  beautiful  songs; 
Open  the  door  to  the  ohildreii. 

Pray  you  that  grace  may  be  gircn  j 
Pray  yon  the  Father  to  bless  them ; 

'<  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven/' 

Open  the  door  fbr  the  children, 

Take  the  dear  Iambs  by  the  hand; 
Point  them  to  truth  and  to  goodness. 

Bend  them  te  Canaan'k  land. 
Borne  are  so  young  and  so  helpless. 

Some  are  so  hungry  and  cold ; 
Open  the  door  for  the  children, 

Gather  them  into  the  fold ! 

FOLLOW  THOU  ME. 

HAVE  ye  looked  for  sheep  in  the  desert, 
For  those  who  have  lost  their  way  f 
Have  ye  been  io  the  wild,  waste  places, 
Where  the  lost  and  waaderfaig  stray  7 
Have  you  trodden  the  lonely  highway. 

The  foul  and  darksome  etreet? 
It  may  be  you'd  see  In  the  gloaming 
The  print  of  Christ's  wounded  feet. 

Have  ye  folded  home  to  your  bosom 

The  trembling,  neglected  Iamb, 
And  taught  to  the  little  lost  one 

The  sound  of  the  Shepherd's  name? 
Have  ye  searched  for  the  poor  and  needy. 

With  no  clothing,  no  home,  no  bread  7 
The  Son  of  Man  was  among  them ; 

He  had  no  where  to  lay  His  head ! 

Have  ye  osrried  the  Uving  water. 

To  the  parched  and  thlnty  §•«!  f 
Have  ye  said  te  the  sick  and  wounded, 

«  Christ  Jesus  nakes  thee  whole?" 
Have  ye  told  my  fhintlng  ehUdren 

or  the  strength  of  the  Father's  head  f 
Have  ye  gnidad  the  tottering  fo<ltsleps 

To  the  shores  of  the  golden  land  ? 

(364) 


Have  ye  stood  by  the  sad  and  weary. 

To  smooth  the  pillow  of  death, 
To  comfort  the  sorrow-stricken. 

And  strengthen  the  feeble  faith  ? 
And  have  ye  felt,  when  the  gloiy 

Has  streamed  through  the  open  door. 
And  flitted  across  the  shadows. 

That  I  had  been  there  before? 

Hsnre  ye  wept  with  the  broken-lMMied, 

In  their  agony  of  woe? 
Te  might  hear  me  whispering  beride  yo^ 

'Tis  a  pathway  I  often  go. 
My  diseiples,  my  brethren,  my  iHends, 

Can  ye  dare  to  follow  me  ? 
Then,  wherever  the  Master  dwelleth. 

There  shall  the  servant  be. 

ART  AND  NATURE. 

BT  JAMBS  FRBBMAB  CLARKB. 

I  ENTERED  a  ducal  palace — 
A  palace  stately  and  old ; 
Its  vast  saloons  were  glowing 
With  marble,  and  rich  with  gold. 

On  the  tables,  la  tender  mesilOy 
Were  marvellons  fruits  and  flowers; 

On  the  walls  were  Ponssln's  landscapes, 
With  their  sunshine  and  shaded  bowers. 

And  in  the  vase  before  me 

Were  roses  white  and  red ; 
I  stooped  to  welcome  their  fragrance, 

But  found  them  waxen  and  dead. 

Then  fbrlh  firem  the  lofty  window, 

I  stepped  into  llvteg  green ; 
Where  the  stese-pines  stood  aTOvnd  ms^ 

With  towery  shmbs  between. 

And  I  said,  "  Take  the  costly  splendor^ 
Take  the  wonderful  triumphs  of  art; 

But  give  me  living  Mature, 
Which'  speaks  to  my  soul  and  heart 

^'ThcM  works  of  naa  an  nobie^ 

In  eaeh  lUr  Italian  town ; 
Bat  0od't  are  wherever  the  mh  gees  up, 

Or  the  shades  of  night  eome  down." 

Let  wise  men^  on  the  anvils 

Of  study,  fashion  out  truth ; 
But  religion  is  sent  to  each  humble  soul, 

With  its  word  for  age  and  youth. 

<iod  oemes  hi  silent  btesalBgs, 
Like  dew  and  rain  ftmn  abeve^ 

In  whatever  place  a  pvre  heait  longs 
For  goodness  and  tl|^t  md  love. 

OMae^Jfi*. 

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EVENINGB    WITH    THE   FOETB. 


365 


THE  LITTLE  FROCK. 

BY  BVILT  HKRVAHV. 

Is  hftnging  on  the  wall, 
Bat  no  one  in  the  honsehold  now 
€mi  wetf  a  dmMSO  tmftlL 

The  Bleeyes  are  both  turned  ipfide  oat, 

And  tell  of  snmmer  wear ; 
They  seem  to  wait  the  owner's  hands 

Whioh,  iMt  year,  hvng  timn  theret. 

Twas  at  the  children's  fesiivaU 
Hpr.  Bnadiiy  dress  was  «oiUd-n 

Xoii  need  not  turn  It  ftom  the  light-*' 
To  me  it  is  not  spoiled  I 

A  sad  and  yet  a  pleasant  thoaghi 

Is  to  the  spirit  told. 
By  this  dear  little  mmpled  thing. 

With  dost  in  e?ery  fold. 

Why  should  m^n  weep  that  to  their  home, 

An  angel's  love  is  given — 
Or  that,  before  them,  she  is  gone 

To  blessedness  in  Heaven  ? 


THE  ISLE  OF  SONG. 

BY  HB8TBR  ▲.  BlSirBDICT. 

I  KNOW  an  island,  serenely  bright, 
Una  wept  by  tempest,  and  storm,  and  strife. 
That  lieth—deluged  with  floods  of  lights 
Somtwhere  in  the  sea  of  our  restless  life ; 
And  oft,  when  the  billows  are  dark  and  high, 

The  oar  drops  down  from  my  nerveless  hand, 
And  I  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  golden  sky 
And  the  shining  shore  of  that  holy  land. 

'Tis  the  Isle  of  Song !    From  its  temples,  grand, 

Bweet  voices  come  in  the  night's  still  hoars. 
And  I  know— for  aye  with  that  minstrel  band 

Seraphim  walk  in  the  star- lit  bowers — 
I  know  they  are  there  with  their  radiant  brows, 

Whose  hearts'  deep  breathings  of  hope  and  trnst 
Have  lightened  the  weight  of  the  harsh  world's 
blows. 

And  lifted  my  spirit  from  gloom  and  dast 

Oh^  ebb  and  flew  of  the  snrging  tidel 

Oh,  oloads  that  ate  blaok  with  theeoming  atom  I 
Oh»  breath  of  the  biUows  wild  and  wide  1 

Aie  ye  bearing  thither  my  shrinking  form  ? 
The  kind  winds  waft  me  msny  a  etnrin 

Vffom  its  blossoming  valleys  fresh  and  fnir; 
Bnty  above  them,  I  hear  the  elank  of  the  ehain 

That  bladeth  my  semi  to  the  world  of  earei 

Oh,  beautiful  isle !— sweet  island  afar  I 
Oh,  murmuring  fountains  of  rosiest  wine  I 

Oh,  vy^Bf  shining  out  as  a  luminous  star 
On  my  frail  bark  shut  from  the  light  divine  1 


I  ean  hear,  I  oan  hear,  as  the  night  grows  deep, 

A  sound  as  of  song  iVom  the  passionless  pines ! 
^ut  phantoms  pf  gl9om  ftom  the  echoes  creep, 
«   <  Anl  clatigeron^darMneSfe  .vex  the  winds. 

Ah,  few  are  the  spirits  whose  own  true  home 
Is  the  ealm,  pure  islb  where  the  soft  skle^  glow 

And  few  are  the  feet  that  have  ti^t  to  roam 
Where  the  beaotifal  rivers  of  nectar  flow ; 

But  I  know,  I  knew  of  « l^trerlsle, 
Beyond  the  river  whose  name  ts  Death, 

Where  the  sad,  sisd  -eyes  i^ftll  forever  siAile, 

-    And  song  %ill  faatlow  ea»h  lloatiiig' breath. 

To  that  blossoming  isle  my  hark  glides  en 

Forever  away  o'er  the  stopmful  sea; 
Onward  through  darkness  that  knows  no  dawn, 

To  the  harbor  fair  as  the  fair  may  be. 
And  oft,  when  the  billowft  are  wild  and  high, 

And  the  oar  is  broken  nnder  my  hand, 
My  sad  eyes  catch  a  gleam  of  the  sky 

That  leaneth  low  to  the  Infinite  Land  I 

And  I  hear— or  seem  to  hear — as  I  list, 

Of  saintliest  raiment  a  summery  stir; 
And  light  on  my  Ibrehead  are  Hps  I  kissed 

In  the  delicate  dawning  of  dreams  that  were ! 
So  HtUe  I  seek  of  the  broken  oar— 

Tbs  strained  oai^— broken  under  my  hand ; 
Enoogh  that  I'm  Bearing  the  beautiful  shore — 

The  Uosfioming  shore  of  the  Infinite  Land ! 


LOVING  AND  FOEGIVING. 

BT  CHARLB8  SWAIV. 

OH !  loving  and  forgiving — 
Te  angel-words  of  earth, 
Years  were  not  worth  the  living 

If  ye,  too,  had  not  birth ! 
Oh !  loving  and  forbearing — 

How  sweet  your  mission  here; 
The  grief  that  ye  are  sharing 
Hath,  blessings  in  its  tear. 

Oh !  stem  and  unforgiving — 

Te  evil  words  of  life. 
That  mock  the  means  of  living 
-  With  never-ending  strife. 
Ob !  harsh  and  unrepenting 

How  would  ye  meet  the  grave. 
If  Heaven,  as  unrelenting. 

Forbore  not,  nor  forgave  7 

Oh !  loving  and  forgiving — 

Sweet  sisters  of  the  soul, 
In  whose  celestial  living 

The  passions  find  oontrol ! 
Still  breathe  your  influence  o'er  us 

Whene'er  by  passioa  erossed, 
And,  angel-like,  restore  us 

The  paradise  we  lost. 

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Two  GoLUOB  FuBVM.  Bj  Fred  W.  Loring,  «Dtlior  of 
the  *«Boiton  Pip  ana  other  Venee.*'  Boston: 
Loring, 

A  pleuant  and  pathetie  atory  of  a  friendship 
formed  at  oollege,  and  the  sahseqneiit  liyes  of  the 
two  friends,  one  of  whom  marries  the  Yadj  of  his 
choice,  and  the  other  lies  buried  ander  Vlisinia 
soil,  shot  by  command  of  Stonewall  Jackson.  For 
sale  in  Philadelphia  bj  Porter  A  Coatee. 

Stolut  Watiss.  By  Celia  £.  Gardner.  New  York: 
O.  W.  OarUton  d  Cb. 

A  story  told  in  bad  rhyme  and  inoulcaUng  a 
worse  morality,  partially  concealed  ander  a  weak, 
waahy  sentimeotality;  it  never  deserved  a  pab- 
lisher,  nor  should  it  obtain  readers.  Fer  sale  in 
Philadelphia  by  Claxton,  Remsen  A  Halfelfinger. 

PAETuaiTxoir  wiTBOOT  Payf:  a  Code  of  Dlreotionii  for 
escaping  from  the  Primal  Curse.  Edited  by  M.  L. 
Holbrook,  M.  D.,  editor  of  the  M^nUd  itf  BmUh, 

New  York ;  If'ood  dt  HoUtrook. 

This  most  exeelientwork  should  be  in  tho hands 
of  every  mother  and  prespeotire  mother.  It  treats 
of  sabjeets  of  vital  importanee  to  all  wonaa,  and 
gives  plain,  praotfteal,  and  certain  direetlone  for 
the  alleviation  of  mneh  of  the  suffering  incident 
to  their  sex. 

Ckinou  AW  Csoes-Tan;  or.  the  8^a-Swa»hee  of  a 
Sailor.    By  Oliver  Optic.    Boston :  Le^  <«  Shepard, 

Everybody  reads  Oliver  Optic's  stories.  They 
are  full  of  incident  and  adventure,  and  at  the  same 
time  correct  in  their  statements  and  reliable  in 
their  information.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  J. 
B.  Lippincott  k  Co. 

VioTOBT  DxAvx.  A  Novel.  By  Cecil  Oii&th.  Boston: 
Loring. 

There  is  more  than  ordinary  ability  displayed  in 
this  novel.  The  interest  and  mystery  of  the  plot 
are  maintained  with  almost  painful  intensity  to  the 
final  chapter.  Those  who  desire  to  read  a  touch- 
ing love  story,  in  which  the  sensational  element  Is 
discreetly  infused,  will,  perhaps,  be  abundantly 
satisfied  with  "  Victory  Deane."  For  sale  in  Phila- 
delphia by  Porter  h  Coates. 

Tri  Fau  Of  Mak  :  or,  The  Lives  of  the  Oorlllaa.  A 
Popular  Scientific  Lecture  upon  the  Darwinian 
Theory  of  Development  by  Sexual  Selection.  By  a 
Learned  Gorilla.  Edited  by  the  Author  of  '*  The 
New  Gospel  of  Peaee.'*    New  York ;  Oarkim  <«  Cb. 

In  this  pamphlet,  of  some  fifty  pa^es,  the  Dar- 
winian theory  is  put  to  the  test  of  ridicule.  The 
satire  is  caarse  and  humorous  rathar  than  forcible 
and  witty,  and,  being  so,  is  not  likely  to  do  much 
damage  to  Mr.  Darwin's  peculiar  theories,  though 
(356) 


they  might  not  ha  iaTvlMMbla  to  ane  more  dex- 
terous in  the  art  of  reducing  the  sublime  to  the 
ridiculous.  For  sale  in  Philadelphia  by  CUxtoo, 
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Tai  Rum  Fimr»Aii»< 
leigh.  New  York 
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National  TWnperance  Sxie^oad 


Tm  Cmnica  into  TumaAvet.  A  Sermon.  By  John 
W.  Meaiw,  D.  D..  Pnifeeaor  at  Bamflton  Coneg^ 
New  York.  New  York:  HaUamA  TtrnprnromM  nd 
PubUeation  HiMU€. 

The  former  of  these  two  pnblieatlons  eentifatf 
poems  of  considerable  ability,  calculated  to  do 
good  serviee  fn  the  temperance  cause.  The  irtt 
poem,  ft-om  which  the  pamphlet  takes  its  asms,  ii 
exceedingly  elTeotive,  and  with  a  kind  of  grin 
humor  about  it.  Dr.  Mears'  sermon  is  a  stirring 
appeal  to  Christians  to  take  up  the  temperuM 
cause  and  incorporate  it  with  Cbristiaaity,  as  bemg 
really  part  of  Christianity.  The  Reverend  Doctor 
says  in  oonolusion : 

**  Finally,  the  whole  Church  of  Christ  should  bs 
recognised  at  a  solid  pledgad  body  against  ths  us 
of  all  that  intoxicates.  She  alona  is  the  true  im- 
mortal order  fur  the  redemption  of  man,  sonl  and 
body.  Why  should  she  bold  a  lower  moral  posi- 
tion than  the  human  orders  around  her?  Shs 
ought  to  point  to  man  standing  on  the  slippery 
places  of  appetite,  the  true  path  of  entire  self- 
denial.  Crucified  herself  to  the  lusts  of  the  fleih, 
purified  from  carnal  and  worldly  compliance,  with 
the  light  of  a  saintly  heroism  on  her  brow,  she 
should  stretch  forth  her  band  to  rescue  the  porish- 
ing.  With  a  weary  sense  of  the  ioeificienoy  of  sU 
merely  human  means  of  staying  the  misery,  ths 
woe^  the  wretchedness,  the  heaven-daring  orims, 
and  the  frightful  waste  of  intemperance,  the 
orders  and  societies  and  public  men  and  press  of 
the  land  are  turuing  to  the  church.  Withhsrii 
the  residue  of  the  Spirit.  The  dreadful  hardnen 
of  men's  hearts,  the  immeasurable  power  of  their 
appetites,  the  cruel  tyranny  of  custom,  tbe  faissti- 
ableness  and  unscrupulousness  of  avarice  hare  de- 
fied all  lesser  assaultSi  The  moaatar  is  abroad 
again,  with  halfa  mUUon  yearly  viatims  in  our 
own  country  alona  Sn  hia  train.  The  asonrssd 
trafflo  is  thriving,  making  the  bard  earnings  of 
the  poor  into  a  laTa-stream  of  desolation.  Ike 
foundadona  of  oar  poUtioal  life  are  honeycombed 
by  the  sottlsbness  of  a  larga  part  of  oar  wire- 
pulling and  oifioaosaeking  politieians,  who  control 
the  situation.  Laws  regulating  the  traffio  are 
defied.  *  *  The  very  structure  of  society  treia- 
bles.  The  Church,  God's  chosen  InstmmeBt  fbr 
man's  regeneration,  must  take  order  to  meet  the 
emergency.    She  is  come  Ut  tha  kingdom  fbr  nek 

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iDITOAS*    DEPABTMENT. 


857 


ft  time  as  th!i.  'Wo«  iiBto  her  if  belp  ariset  from 
BO  other  quarter,  And  if'  the  vtibelleYing  world  can 
strengthen  iiseff  in  the  opinion  that  man  ean  get 
rid  of  his'  wor^t  evils  in  spite  of  the  indifference 
or  open  opposition  of  a  blind  and  oOnserrfttiTe 
ehnreh!  On  the  contrary,  we  beliere- that  all 
Christian  gmce  will  be  mnltiplied ;  aU  Christian 
life  will  he  animated,  Joyftil,  and  effeottv^ ;  and  all 
eonrerting  inHuenoes  will  be  granted,  in  tbose 
ehnrohes  which  throw  themselTes  with  generous 
enthusiasm  into  this  wide  and  needy  field  of  Ohris- 
iian  effort" 

Tux  Poetical  Works  op  Robkrt  BnHiis.  New  Edition 
with  Illastrations.    Boeton :  £m  tf  ShiifafA. 

A  beautiful  diamond  edition  of  Burns  will  be  an 
acceptable  addition  to  the  poetic  shelf  of  every 
library.     This  one  is  very  neat  and  attraotire. 

Thc  CinLDiuH's  Album  or  Prbttt  PicrtniBS  with  Shobt 
Stobxbs.    Boston:  Let d Skepard. 

Something  very  attractive  for  children.  It  is  a 
thick  volume  of  between  three  and  four  hundred 
pa^ee,  conteining  over  one  Ivindred  and  fifty  full- 
page  engraviaga,  It  cannot  fall  to  be  a  source  .of 
endless  delight  to  the. picture-loving  little  ones. 

Tbk  Childbxn's  Suvsat  Albvm,,  By  the  Author  of  "A 
Trap  to  Catch  n  Snnboam."  \^ith  upwards  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  engravlugs.  Boston:  LeedShep- 
mrd. 

A  book  illustrated  in  the  sapp^e  manner  sa  the 
preceding  and  the  s^me  in  style.    But  the  reading 


matter  is  religious*  k  cliaradter.  Ttie^e  are  as 
many  articles  in  ihe.  book  as  pictures,  and  each 
article  is  preceded  by  a'text  of  Scripture.  Both 
volumes  are  handsomely  bound  and  very  attrae- 
tlve. 

-■'  .;  •.       ••'•• 

HiLA  Dart:  A  Bom  Bomp.    By  Mary  E.  Mamftird. 
Philadelphia:  m.jB;  iStana  It  ai 

The  freshest,  raciest  Jurenile  book  of  the  sea- 
son; brimful  of  child-nature,  and  healthful  in 
tone;  a  book  to  laugh  and  to  cry  orer.  '  It  is  the 
accomplished  author's  first  literary  venture,  and 
we  are  very  sure,  if'a  warm  welcome  from  the 
public  has  in  it  any  stfmnlus  toi  new  efforts,  that  it 
will  nut  be  her  last. ' 

BooBBTOiVB.    By  Katheiine  Su  .Mseqnoid,  Author  of 
"  Forgotten  by  the  World,'*    Philadelphia :  /.  B, 
.  Lippineott  <f  Cb. 

We  have  received  from  Bichardson  &  Gould, 
New  Tork,  their  A^tumAl^l  Catologue  of  Bulbs 
and  Fluwerlng  Roots,  etc.  It  is  not  yet  too  late  to 
obtain  a  collection  of  bulbs  an4  roots  for  indoor 
and  outdoor  planting. .  The  yarieties  they  offer 
are  large  and  fine,  and  their  prices  reasonable. 
Messrs.  Richardson  A  Gould  offer,  besides  bulbs 
i^id  seeds,  all  kinds  of  small  fruits,  any  of  whifh 
can  be  set  out  in  the  fall  before  heary  frosts.  They 
advertise  every  yariety  of  strawberries,  and  f^ll 
lists  of  raspberries,  blackberries,  curraota,  and 
grapes.  Let  our  readers  send  fojr  the  catalogue 
and  examine  for  themselves.  Post-office  address, 
P.  0.  Bqx  5134,  New  York. 


EJDITORS'   DEI>A.RTMKI<rT. 


THB    DVTIBS   AlffD    O^VALiIFICATIONS 
OP  AK  ADITOR. 

Will  S.  Carlton,  a  young  poet,  who  has  bepome 
suddenly  and  deservedly  popular,  recently  read  a 
poem  before  fn  editorial  association,  in  which  be 
describes  the  duties  and  qualifications  of  an  editor. 
An  old  farmer  brings^  in  his  son,  and,  introducing 
him  to  the  editor,  expresses  his  desire  that 
the  lad  should  be  made  an  editor  of.  Says. the 
farmer : 

**His  bodySi  too  small  ft>r  *  fitfiner,  Ms  jQdgtheat  is 

rather  too  alim. 
But  I  thought  we  perhaps  «^ld  be  makin'  an  editor 

outen  o*  him." 

>  t  ' 

The  editor  rsplieiS : 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctuin,  and  looked  the  old 

man  in  the  eye, 
Then  glanced  at  the  grinning  young  hopefol,  and 

mournfully  made  his  reply : 


**  Is  your  son  a  small  nnbonnd  edition  of  Moses  and 
Solomon  botht 

Can  he  compase  his  spirit  with  meeknesst  and  stran- 
gle a  natural  oath?    . 

Oan  he  leave  air  his  wronga  to  the  future,  and  carry 
his  heart  In  his  cheek? 

Can  he  do  an  hoar's  work  in  a  minute,  and  live  on  a 
'  sixpence  a  week  T 

Can  be  courteously  talk  to  an  equsS,  and  browbeat  an 
impudent  dunce? 

G^  he  keep  thihgs  in  apiple-fie  orderi  and  do  luilf  a 
dosen  atonce?r      ,      , 

Can  he  press  all  the  springs  of  knowledge  with  quick 
and  reliable  touch, 

And  be  sore  that  he  knows  HoW  much  to  know,  and 
knom  how  to  not  know  too  mucK? 

Does  he  know  how  to  spur  up  his  virtue,  and  pat  a 
eheok-rein  on  his  pride  ? ,     .  : 

Can  he  carry  agentlemian's  mani^ers  within  a  rhino- 
ceros* hide? 

Can  he  know  all,  and  do  all,  and  be  all,  with  cheerful- 
ness, cotirage;  and  vim  r 

If  So,  we  perhaps  can  be  making  an  editor  *buten  ot 
him."* 


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ARTEUB'8   LADrS   EQ.MS   MAqAZINS. 


THB  AMBBICAir  "^qMAV  ABROAD. 

The  followiog  interestiog  sketch  of  onr  nnmur- 
rUd  American  wpmen,  as  tl^ej  ajppear,  and  as  they 
are  regarded  abroad,  from  the  pen  of  Alice  A.  Bart- 
lett,  we  cat  from  a  recent  number  of  Old  and  iVInp  ; 

"  Thofvomen  travellers  from  the  other  side  of  the 

"  Whence  do  they  oom«^  and  why,  thasa  iftnn- 
merable  women  ?.  TfJl^v^t  Is.  not  a  ta^€*d*h4i9  in 
Europe  at  which  they  do  not  sit  in  rows.  There  ia 
not  1^  picture-gallery  In  which  they  do  not  herd 
together  in  gi^^  fashionably -dressed  i^ronps;  nor 
«i  public  promenade  o^  ball  at  which  they  are  not 
the  prettieat  end  most  numerouA  of  young  people. 
They  travel  with  or  without  matrons;  they  have 
good  or  bad  manners,  as  the  case  may  be;  but 
they  an  there,  mfAiitakable,  national,  trrepresii- 
ble.  Some  are  invalids;  eome  mere  pleasure- 
seekers  ;  some  intent  on  art,  and  others  not ;  some 
make  you  ill  with  horror,  others  make  you  proud 
to  call  them  fellow  oeuntry-women.  There  is  no 
possible  kind  of  woman  which  cannot  be  found 
among  them;  and  yet  they  are  in  a  certain  tray^ 
alike,  at  least  in  not  resembling  the  women  of  any 
other  nation  in  such  a  way  as  to  deceive  an  intel- 
ligent foreigner.  In  Bwltterland,  last  summer,  a 
▼ery  clever  Polish  lady,  who  had  been  asking 
many  questions  about  America,  finally  posed  me 
by  saving,  'There  is  one  thing  I  oaonot  under- 
stand ;  perhaps  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  ex- 
pTain  it  to  me.  It  is  hi  dtmoitlU  Amiricafne, 
Where  are  the  men  of  America  and  the  married 
women?' 

"  Not  long  after,  a  French  lady,  almost  tht  most 
intelligent  woman  I  ever  met,  asked  me  the  same 
thing,  and  added  some  not  uxgnst  criticism  upon 
the  ways  and  manners  of  the  msjority  of  the  de- 
moiulUt  AmirieainM  she  had  seen. 

"  Agun,  I  happened  to  g9  f^r  a  fbw  mooienEts  to 
the  house  of  k  friend  in  Italy,  on  the  same  even- 
ing with  three  other  American  girls ;  and  this  is 
what  a  grQnde  dam0  who  bad  seen  much  of  many 
societies  said  of  us,  her  Germap  husbaAd  agreeing 
with  her.  She  said,  <  I  caniiot  believe  that  those 
were  unmarried  women.  It  is  not  possibla.  You 
are  fooling  me^  But  they  oome  into  the  roote  with 
perfect  oomposure,  they  walk  up  to  you  calmly  to 
say  good-evening,  they  converse  fluently  on  any 
subject  that  arises,  the^r  manners  prove  them  to  be 
married  women.' 

^*And  yet,'  said  my  friend,  'I  assure  you  that 
they  are,  one  and  all,  unmarried/ 

''The  oount«BS  shrugged  her  shoulders.  'Of 
Qourse,  since  yon  say  so,  I  must  believe,'  she  said ; 
'  but  I  do  not  nnderstaad  your  d€moi%tlU  AmSri- 


thpcQUUhlyrunderstocKL  Bv^  tbcwe  who  beh»ve 
nach  Uhe  oth^r  wgm Vk«  whet^r  O^eir  Uvea  be  gay 
or  iq^iet  qnesy  na^  ,^  .di«ting^i«he4  from  both  the 
EngHsh  imd  Cojptuiientaiy««««VW^e,  It  is  perfa^n 
•oo^wiH^ii)  Mie  .fJ^fW  of-  tl»«  Amerifsans  that  tbs 
,  difeien^if  <iotil4»  a^ivd  they  are  of  oQi^rse  received 
i  ,evec;ymhere  with  r^epeot  and  pl^amra.  No  women, 
jt;i|ioo^oeded».afa  more  truly  charming  and  d%. 
nU&edy-and  t)^y  do. much  to  nmove  the  badim- 
pimssion  oAvsad  by  another  olass  of  their  oouatiy- 
w<ini«n.''    .    .      • 


"  I  could  tell  a  dosen  similar  stories  out  of  my 
own  experience,  all  leading  to  the  same  general 
result;  namely,  th(^t  the  young  women  of  America 
have  made  a  certain  impression  in  Europe,  that 
they  are  regs,rded  as  a  class  apart,  and  that  eren 
when  they  are  accepted  as  all  right,  they  are  not 


lfVpMAN»8  WORK. 

Eliiaheth  Stuart  Fbelps,  in  an  artiele  in  the  h- 
depflndwt,  entitled  "  Rights  and  Reli^ivities,"  sayi: 

"I  think  a  little  reflection  will  convince  us  tlut 
many,  if  not  most,  of  the  directions  in  whkk 
women  now  expend  themseltee,  demand  as  much 
actual  strength  as  msjoy,  if  not  most,  of  the  de- 
partments of  what  is  called  'masculine  labor,' 
though  theoretically  the  light  'afternoon  work 'of 
the  Worid  falls  to  ihem."    She  says : 

"Take  a  single  instance  of  m  eonversaiion  I 
stumbled  upon  the  other  day;  He  that  hath  esn 
to  hear,  let  him  hear  its  counterpart  any  day.  The 
speakers  were  both  women. 

" '  I'm  trying  to  get  along  without  my  girl.  I 
had  engaged  her,  but  it  seems  like  murder  to  take 

her  away  from  Mrs.  B .   I  haven't  the  heart  to 

send  for  her.  She's  all  the  help  that  poor  oresp 
ture  can  get;  and  she  has  twenty  boarders  in  her 
Irouse  tb-day,  And  four  little  children  of  her  own 
besides.  One's  a  baby,  bom  last  May.  She  neret 
was  a  strong  woman.  She  looks  like  death  this 
summer.  I  believe  she  m  dying,  myself.  It'B 
enough  to  kill  any  woman.  I'm  sure  I  dont 
wonder.  Ton  never  saw  such  a  face.  It's  like  s 
ghost '  Phe  iniH  it  to  have  a  hoarder  across  her 
door- step;  but  she'i  anxious  to  do  and  veiy  am- 
bitious to  get  along,  and  they're  poor,  yon  see.' 

" '  But  where  is  hoc  hiuband  V 

" '  Oh !  he  keepa.  the  .tln-^hop  down  town.' 

"' yrhy  doesn't  he  support  the  family?' 

*''Well,  you  see,  he's  just  beginning;  and  he 
doesn't  make  it  very  fast,  and  it's  a  growing  family. 
She  feels  as  if  she  must  help,  any  how.' 

"  'Help  ?  It  seems  to  be  A«  that  only  "helpe." 
She  supporte  the  family.  Why  don't  they  change 
work,  if  she  is  killing  herself  with  hers?' 

'"Wkait* 

"'Why  doesn't  she  learn  the  tinsmith's  trade; 
and  hp  learn  how  to  keep  twenty  boarders,  and 
take  care  of  four  children,  with  one  ignorant 
assistant?  If  he  is  a  itrong  man  he  could  prob- 
ably bear  it  awhUe.  At  any  rate,  it  might  sare 
her  life,  if  it  is  not  too  late.' 

" '  Oh  I  well,'  with  a  pussled  Isngh,  hardly  ioe 
,  whether  the  speaker  expected  some  recognition  of 
an  original  joke,  'women  can't  do  much  unlets  iff 
housework,  you  know— ospeeiaUy  mothers;  thij^^ 
no4  ttrong  enouffh,  I  thinkl'" 

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■^■ 


JSPITOBS*    DEPABTItENT. 


359 


TUB  eitII.t>I|Stt«$  HOtJH. 

Onr  magasine  for  Chlldrea  will  b«  more  riolily 
illiutrated  during  th«  oomiog  yhtit  than  erer 
before.  We  may  be  pardoned  the  pride  and  pleas- 
ure natarally  folt  in  this  beaatifal  publtoation,  and 
in  the  praise  and  oommendation  it  everywhere 
reeeivea.  iSm  jm^p^ctut  in  thU  mumhero/Hom^ 
Magazine.  Ite  lew  price  render*  H  aeeeeaibhs  to 
all,  while  its  earefally  edited  reading  matter, 
which  is  firom  the  pens  of  many  of  the  best  writers 
in  the  country,  makes  it  one  of  the  movt  enter* 
taining,  instmetive,  and  desirable  pablicationB  in 
this  or  any  other  land.  If  yon  want  a  maga-  - 
line  for  your  little  ones,  send  for  <'Tbb  Cbil- 
drsn'b  Bona."  Pnoe  $1.25  a  year.  Both  the 
Hon  Maoazivi  and  Cbildbjbk's  Houb  will  be 
sant  one  year  for  $3.50. 


flnenoe  among  neighbors  aiid  friends.  Say  a  good 
wbrd  for  it  whenever  and  wherever  yon  can ;  and 
so  help  to  widen  its  circulation. 


ccOTHlBR  PBOPLA'S  'UrilffDOWS.'' 

Plpsisaiway  Potta  will  begin  a  new  series  of  her. 
rich  and  raey  papers  in  the  January  number. 
Everybody  is  taken  with  "  Pipsey''— ^asking  about 
her  and  writing  about  her.  Her  "Otbbr  People's 
Windows"  is  the  new  sensation  of  the  day.  Very 
certain  it  is  that  she  has  a  wonderful  faenlty  of 
not  only  looking  into  windows,  but  of  telling  what 
she  sees  in  strong  and  womanly  words.  The  readers 
of  the  "  HoBB  "  have  a  rare  treat  before  them  in 
the  coming  numbers. 

JLO€»KIVO  FOR-WARD. 

We  close  this  volume  with  a  rich  and  attractive 
BTtmber,  and  in  doing  so,  cannot  but  refer  to  the 
character  and  quality  of  the  ''  Home  Maqazine  " 
daring  the  past  year,  and  to  the  extent  and  ax- 
oallence  of  its  liberal  iIlastratioB%  which  do  not 
lose  their  interest  with  the  passing  fashion  of  the 
day.  They  are  of  a  high  artistic  order,  and  to 
readers  of  taste  and  onlture  cannot  but  have  given 
a  lasting  pleasure. 

Par  the  coming  year,  wa  have  made  arrange- 
ments for  new  and  more  desirable  attractions. 
Onr  Cartoon  illustrations,  which  have  been  so 
popular,  will  be  continued,  and  will  embrace  a 
wider  range  of  subjeots  than  heretofore. 

A  glance  at  ^nr  Prospf  9t«a  for  1872^  will  give 
the  reader  some  idea  of  what  the  Home  Maoazibb 
in  all  its  literary  departments  will  be.  While  we 
olaim  for  our  serial  atoriee  a  power  and  interest 
unrivalled  by  any  of  onr  eotemporariea,  we  hold 
oiar  magazine  to  be  in  advance  of  them  all  in  the 
moral  purpose  underlying  its  conduoL  The  thou- 
sands in  whose  hoipM  it  has  been  for  so  many 
years  a  visitor,  can  taatiiy  to  its  nntwerving 
loyalty  to  all  things  pore,  and  tme,  and  noble  In 
human  conduct.  The  frivolous,  the  prurient,  the 
mere  sensational  in  literature  has  never  had,  and 
never  oan  have  a  plaoe  in  its  pages. 

From  all  who  know  and  appreeiate  the  quality 
and  aims  of  oBr  aagaaine,  we  ask  a  ftivorable  in* 


rrcoijJLrctions  of  jbnnt  i^urp. 

Habs  Cbbistiab  Abdersbb,  in  his  "  Sto^y  of  raj 
Life^"  gives  the  following  pleasing  reminiscences 
of  Jenny  Lind  in  her.yonthfol  days: 

Jenny  Lind  made  her  first  appearance  in  Copen- 
hi^em  as  Alice,  in  "Robert  le  Diable."  It  was 
like  a  new  revelation  in  the  realms  of  art ;  the 
yonthfnlly  fresh  voice  forced  itself  in  every  heart; 
here  reigned  truth  and  nature;  everything  was 
full  of  meaning  and  intelligence.  Jenny  Lind 
was  the  first  singer  to  whom  the  Danish  students 
gave  a  serenade ;  torches  blazed  around  the  hos- 
pital villa  where  the  serenade  was  given ;  she  ex* 
pressed  ber  thanks  by  again  singing  some  Swedish 
songi^  and  I  then  saw  her  hasten  into  the  darkest 
comer  and  weep  for  emotion. 

"Tee,  yes,"  said  she,  "IwUl  exert  myself;  I 
will  endeavot;  I  will  be  better  qualified  than  I 
am,  when  I  again  come  to  Copenhagen." 

On  the  stage  she  was  the  great  artiste  who  rose 
above  all  those  around  her;  at  home,  in  her  own 
chamber,  a  sensitive  young  girl,  with  all  the  hn« 
mility  and  piety  of  a  child. 

**  There  will  not  in  a  whole  century,"  said  Men- 
delssohn, speaking  to  me  of  Jenny  Lind,  "be  bom 
another  being  so  gifted  as  she;"  and  his  words 
expressed  my  conviction. 

A  noble,  plons  disposition  like  hers  eannot  be 
spoiled  by  homage.  On  one  occasion  only  did  I 
hear  her  ei  press  her  Joy  in  her  talent  and  her 
self^consdoBsness.  It  was  during  her  last  resi- 
dence in  Copenhagen.  Almost  every  evening  she 
appeared  either  in  the  opera  or  at  concerts;  every 
hour  waa  in  requisition.  She  heard  of  a  society, 
the  object  of  which  was  to  Assist  unfortunate  ehil- 
dren,  and  to  take  them  out  of  the  hands  of  their 
parents  by  whom  they  were  misused  and  compelled 
either  to  beg  or  steal,  and  to  place  them  in  other 
and  better  oircnmstaneas.  Benevolent  people  sub- 
scribed annnedly  a  small  sdm  each  for  their  sup- 
port, nevertheless  the  means  for  this  excellent 
purpose  were  small. 

•  '^  Bat' have  I  netatUl  a  disengaged  evening  ?" 
said  she>  "let  me  glv*  a  nighCs  performance  foi^ 
the  benefit  of  these  poor  children;  but  we  will 
have  double  prices  1'^ 

Such  a  performanca  Vas  given,  and  returned 
large  proceeds.  When  she  was  informod  of  this, 
and  that  by  this  means  a  number  of  poor  children 
would  be  benafitad  Ibr  asvieral  years^  her  counte- 
nance beamed  and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Is  it  not  beautiAil,"  said  she,  "that  I  can 
sing  so  !"^ 

Thrpugh  her  I  first  became  aensible  of  the  hoH* 
BOSS  there  ,1a  in  art;  tht^gh  bar  I  leamed  that 
one  must*  forget  one's  self  la  the  service  of  the 


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r 


860 


ARTEUB^a  LADY'S   PQME   MA9AZ1NE. 


Sapreme.    No  books,  no  jnen,  kare  had  a  better  or 
more  ennobling  influenoe  upon  me  at  the  poet  than  ,( 
Jennj  Lind. 

•  on 

«CHBCK.» 

Oar  fine  Cartoon  in  t^ia  number  is  a  studj  for 
an  artist.  We  are  mach  pleased  to  be  able  to  pre- 
sent oar  readers  with  eo  lar^  and  admirable  a  pie- 
tare.  The  «eheek"  that  has  been  giren  to  the 
player  on  the  right  has  baAed,  but  not  obFtmeted 
him  Iktally.  Before  removing  the  **  eheok  "  he  is 
going  over  the  whole  game  as  it  stands,  and  de- 
termining its  tme  eon ditlon,  while  his  opponent  re- 
ealenlates  his  own  game,  and  prepares  for  the  next 
move  that  he  feels  very  sure  will  be  made.  The 
two  men  are  finely  ooatraeted. 

The  lesson  oonveyed  in  the  pietnre  is  fall  of  in" 
•tntetion.  Few  men  pats  through  life  withoat,  at 
some  point  in  their  progress,  saddealy  hearing  the 
word  **  eheok,"  and  Undlng  all  their  best  efforts  and 
wisest  ealeolations  sot  at  nenghu  What  then? 
A  <* check"  is  one  thing  and  a  "eheok male"  an- 
other.  Let  this  be  kept' in  mind;  and  also  let  it 
be  remembered  that  with  the  Hfo^player  as  with  the 
chess-player,  when  a  <'eheek"  ie  called,  the  cool 
haead  and  the  oomprehehsire  grasp  of  the  whole 
sitnation  are  the  only  sore  reliance— the  only  way 
of  escape  from  complete  disaster.  To  lose  heart 
and  hesd  is  certain  ruin.  Only  with  the  dear 
manly  thought  and  strong  brave  will  can  Provi- 
denoe  act  free  ot  all  impediment  in  human  affairs. 


PUBLI8HBBS'  DEPAPTMENT. 


«K]SPT  IH.'* 

This  is  the  title  of  o»e  of  oar  illnstrations.  It 
is  from  a  painting  by  an  Bnglish  artist,  B.  Ifiool, 
who  is  well  known  for  his  piotores  of  representa- 
tive cbaraotOFs  among  the  httm bier  classes  in  Ire* 
land,  and  stands  unrivalled  in  bis  pecnliarlineof  art. 

A  village  school,  peesided  over  by  an  Irish  peda- 
gogue of  the  birch  aad-femle  class,  has  broken  up 
for  the  d^ }  the  boys  have  aU  left,  or  are  prepar- 
ing to  leaver  bat  ovm  unhappy  •  wight,  who  has 
packed  his  satehel,  taken  his  cap  fn>m.  the  floor, 
and  is  about  making  bis  exit  with  the  rest,  when 
he  is  called  back  by  the  aathorltative  voice  of  the 
master,  who  looks  at  him  over  his  speotaoles,  as  if 
he  would  make  an  end  of  him  at  once.  Still,  there 
is  something  about  the  comer  of  that  "  parsed-«p ' 
mouth,  and  in. the  geneiNill  9»pf»Nsion  of  the  face, 
that  shows  he  intends  to  let  the  culprit  off.  It  isn 
capital  picture  of  im  kind. 

CLVBBIIf G  "WITH  OTHRB  MAOAZUIAS 
ANI^  PAPKRS. 

We  club,  at  reduced  rates,  with  "  0odbt's  Ladt's 
Book/'  and  "  Moorb'b'Kvral  Nkw  Youkur,"  one 
of  the  largest  and  besitllnstratad  agricultural  and 
family  weekly  papers  in  the  ouun^y,  as  follows: 
Home  Magazine  and  Godev's  Lady's  Book,  $4,00 
Children's  Uotar  and  Lady^s  Book.  .  .  .  3.60 
Home  Magaiine  and  Rural  New  Yorker,  .  8.50 
Children's  Hdixr  and  Rural  New  Yorker,  .  3.00 
<'  Home,"  *'  Hpar»r  and  '*  Iiady'a  Booh,"  .  6.00 
"Home,"" Hour," imd^Kural,"    .    ,    .    •    4.60 


COMMUHIGATIOW. 

SftringUtU;  WU,,  October  1871. 
Arthur's  Home  Maoazixb  : 

Dkar  Magazinr,  Arthur,  Pipst  Potts,  or  any 
one  and  all  who  have  done  So  much  for  me:  I 
want  to  thank  y«u  \  And  as  my  toogne  must  for- 
ever remain  ■ilent-^-^hoogh  the  swelling  heart  often 
bids  it  speak  such  woi^s  of  gratitude  as  only 
they  who  live  and  labor  for  the  good  of  others  can 
ever  merit — ptill  my  feeble  pen  is  my  only  resort, 
and  even  then  the  whispered  words  s^and  little 
chance  of  reaching  you.  But  I  shall,  at  least, 
have  relieved  my. heart  of  its  desire  to  speak  and 
tell  you  how  often  I  have  arisen  from  perusal 
of  the  "Home  Maoazixb/'  and  felt  comforted, 
strengthened,  better  fitted  to  fight  life's  battles,  to 
bear  iu  burdens  and  enjoy  its  sweets.  Are  you 
not  glad  to  learn  the  same  ?  I  know  you  are,  for 
this  is  the  intent  of  all  your  gifts«  Rare  treasures 
indeed  are  they,  fit  to  beauilfy  the  most  costly 
caektt,  but  fluiog  well  the  modest  pa^es  they  so 
gracefully  ad  urn.  "Rosella  Rice"  is  eupboni* 
oue  with  musie  peculiarly  her  own ;  but  /  love 
".PiPtT  Potts,"  and  no  time— only  the  loss  of  rea- 
son-^can  cause  me  to  forget  her  wise  peeps  into 
"  Other  PeopU*»  Window."  The  venerable  leader 
of  Ibis  gift,  T.  S.  A.,  may  God's  sweetest  blessings 
reward  him  for  his  precious  and  multitudinous 
labors  for  the  good  of  others. 
With  heartfelt  gfatUnde  I  bid  you  all  farewelL 
E.  f .  Miles. 

TAKB  JIOTICA. 

In  remitting,  if  you  send  a  draft,  see  that  it  is 
drawn  or  endorsed  to  order  of  T.  S.  Arthur  A  Son. 

Always  give  name  of  your  town,  eounty,  and 
state. 

When  yon  want  a  magazine  changed  from  one 
qIBcc  to  another,  be  sure  to  say  to  what  poat-offioe 
it  goes  at  the  time  yon  write. 

When  money  is  sent  for  any  other  publication 
than  our  own,  we  pay  It  over  to  the  publisher,  and 
there  our  re«ponsibility  euds. 

Let  the  names  of  the  subscribers  and  your  owe 
signature  be  written  plainly. 

In  making  up  a  dub,  the  subscribers  may  be  at 
different  post-offices. 

Canada  subscribeas  nrast  send  13  eents,  in  addi- 
tion to  suh»cription,  for  postage. 

Before  writing  us  a  letter  of  inquiry,  examine 
the  above  and  see  if  the  question  you  wish  to  ask 
is  not  answered. 


MOORB'S  RVRAi;  tTBlfir-TbRKKR. 

Among  the  weekly  family  papers,"  J/oore'« Hural 
KtW'  Yorker^  has  for  many  years  borne  justly  the 
reputation  of  being  one  of  the  very  best.  It  has 
always  been  edited  with  painataking  eaie  and 
high  social  and  moral  aims.  It  is,  besides,  hand- 
somely printed  and  liberally  illustrated.  As  a 
home  and  agricultural  paper  combined,  we  know 
of  none  so  desirable;  and  strongly  recommend  it 
to  all  who  wieh  to  get  a  aseftil,  entertalninj^  sad 
first-class  weekly.  lU  cost  is  $2.60  a  year.  See 
Prospectus  in  this  number  of  Home  Magaslne. 

We  have  arrangements  for  clubbing  this  excel- 
lent paper  with  our  magazines  at  very  low  rates. 
For $3.60  we  wflFsend  the  "Uovn'^and  "Rural" 
one  year.  Or,  for  $]kOf,  we  will  send  "  Tun  Cbil- 
dheh's  Houn"  and  "RuraIi''  onejraar. 


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